In a summer flashback moment, this Friday was a traditional Margarita Friday. Giving the evening a twist, the Russian, Business and I met at Two Lizards, a swanky Mexican Bar in my neighborhood instead of HK – a welcome relief from our usual haunts.
I was early of course, the Russian following and then Business, but Business came with an additional person. My memory can be shaky, not certain if I had previously met the guy, I assumed a standard hug greeting was appropriate, quickly halted as a hand jolted forward for a shake, giving me a slight jab in the gut. It may help to know that in order to receive the happy hour drink price we had to remain in the bar area. The four stools were taken by cougars, we were crammed against the wall between the bar and the kitchen. Aside from constantly being run over by the guacamole cart, it was hotter than the Sun and menopause combined. Had we been in a normal spacing circumstance my failed greeting would have been visible to all [embarrassing] and the jolt would have likely been avoided.
The new Business BF is a decent guy, points for keeping up with our inappropriate commentary and highly offensive humor. My reason for referencing him is based on my question to Business regarding the length of time they had been dating. “Two weeks.” Mathematically insignificant, but in terms of concrete definition and gay dating it’s highly significant. The two of them can say that they’re dating after only two weeks, this to me is impressive. I love structure, rules and control; being the dictator of some small island country would be an ideal job. However, when it comes to my personal life there’s no structure or rules around anything. It’s maddening.
The evening began on the Upper East Side, but of course we wound up in HK; it’s gay catnip. Once at Industry, the five of us [Salvation arrived at some point], had a great time. The best of the 90’s were playing and the gays were standing around like lifeless, personality free, statues just as gay culture intended. The Russian and I had a fantastic time dancing with ourselves as bitter glances came and people tried to pretend nothing was happening. It’s a bar, what’s the point of not having fun?
Once I reached just the right level of drunk, I was willing to ignore the rational voices in my head and listen to the fun voices telling me to text, Late Night. It wasn’t a booty text, I was really just in the mood to dance with him. Sadly, he was out and about and couldn’t come play. The night ended shortly after, probably a good thing as the rain was coming down hard and as much as I enjoyed the run to the subway [without my glasses it was an adventure], I’d probably have ended up sick if we stayed out wet and cold much longer.
Home early and still feeling the joyful effects of intoxication, the fun voices in my head started an internal debate. Things with Late Night are fine, he’s not doing anything wrong, though in my head I’m going a bit nuts because there’s no structure. Business has some sort of dating structure after two weeks. I’m not in need of the commitment, but it’s odd that after months of sleeping with someone there is zero definition around anything. In a sick twist, I would probably be satisfied just by the idea of a set booty text schedule, at least then it becomes predictable and fits into a box that can properly be filed away in my head.