No Cotton-Candy That Saturday

Pretty much, all my friends are gay. Even by San Francisco standards, I'm a little off skew. I know more gay males intimately than straight males. In fact, I am two thirds fag. A top in attitude, so they say.

I'm not sure when it really started, this having so-many-gay-friends business. I think to begin with, I sought them out. Now, I think they find me. It just seems to happen that way. I don't wonder too much why though. It's quite clear: they make me feel good. They gloss over my insecurities to my face. And I love their company. There's no weirdness as dinner comes to a close. That point when I start thinking, "Ohhh no, his lips are all wet. I can't kiss them. I can't kiss him. He didn't open the door for me. His tie makes me feel nauseous. He wants to be my shrink. He's too nice. He's too geeky. He's too freaky. Get me outta here quickly." And then I start to panic and try to work out a speedy, awkward escape. Instead, with my gay friends, we kiss, I wipe the lipstick off their faces, we part company. And I get to slip into my creaseless sheets by myself.

I got thinking on a recent Saturday. I went out to a dinner party for my friend's birthday. Of course, he's gay. And so were all of the other 15 guests bar two other women. And I was supposed to go on to another gay friend's birthday party. And then off to Club Universe to meet them all, the prancing ground of all SF fags and their coterie. I love evenings like this. But I was exhausted that Saturday. Downright, pooped. Barely able to drag my body over to North Beach where we had dinner. So I said I was going to call it quits and walk home. As my friend pointed out, "You're exhausted but you're going to walk to the farthest corner of Pacific Heights yet you can't come out for a dance with us, ghurlie?"

It was a good point. But I wanted to test myself. And argue with myself. And sort some stuff out in my head. And if at the end of that and after crawling up and down the hills between Columbus and Pacific Heights I still wanted to go out for an evening on the town, then that was my prize. I was allowed.

I live on the wild side.

I got thinking. And I started to imagine David Harness and Michael Mangiaforte spinning their sounds and me dancing there, right there underneath the DJ's booth, and I got this funky feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about good music and dancing in my own world. It's that feeling where I think part of my tummy might just burst through my throat. I guess it's anticipation. Not many things make me feel like that. At all. But then I got to thinking how great it is when you wake up on a Sunday morning and it's sunny out and it's 7am and you're refreshed. And you spent the night sleeping in your bed rather than dancing in a corner. And I love that feeling. Those first few hours in the morning make me think I can and will conquer my worlds. Those mornings I think that I'll complete the New York Times puzzle.

But then it was back to Universe. And all my friends whom I hadn't seen in yonks. And, how, if I went to Universe, they'd all welcome me and make me laugh and make me feel warm inside and make me feel good. And we'd giggle and be silly and I'd have the time of my life. I always do. All of this while being on the stage which is a gay club. And something inside me told me that this wasn't all right. At least, not tonight. That I was really tired and that I should go to bed and not NEED to go to a gay club to make myself feel good. Because, surely I can see my friends off of the stage where the lights don't glare so brightly and the conversation is more for-real.

I ended up going to bed. And I felt good the next morning. I still haven't seen my friends that I had hoped to see on Saturday. But that's OK. Because they're more than mere cotton-candy club friends. You know, those friends that melt away under pressure. I'd rather see my real friends under the glare of day light. And off stage.

That's what I said a few Saturdays ago.

ANON

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