We’ve all had the moment where you meet someone and really hit it off, becoming instant friends. Sometimes this is as short lived as a night out at the bar together when friends ditch you for someone they’re looking to bed. And there’s the life-long version where you end up sharing a death bed. The exact opposite also exists. Sometimes you meet someone and you can’t stand them. Not necessarily hate for the person, but a distaste so strong you think of jabbing sharp objects into their eye.
The Russian hosted an end of summer barbecue, bringing together the usual gays with one new addition. Phil, an old friend of the Russian’s, but a new person to Larrymore and I. Once the newcomer arrived to the party, our little group was already one or two bottles of wine in and having a pleasant time on the Russian’s patio.
As the conversation progressed I realized the newcomer was a bit of an exaggerater, or at least trying to impress us all to some degree. He works, and has worked, for multiple gay dating/hook-up sites/applications. It was as this conversation was coming to a close that he called me unattractive and Larrymore old. Aside from just being an ass, he’s the gay version of the straight guy, who goes to a bar, finds a hot girl and tells her he think she’s fat. All in an effort to lower her self-esteem and screw her before literally moving onto the next victim. Sadly, the tactic is lost on us as no one at the table is interested in daddies, nor bears.
As I listened to the lips flapping on this non-gentleman I realized his stories didn’t add up. For example, after making the old comment he mentioned graduating college in 1991. Previously he shared his age, which must be false, unless he graduated from college around age thirteen. But, who’s paying attention to such silly details.
The real nail in the coffin for me was when he called me a liar. Asking about my Brooklyn Bridge tattoo earlier in the evening, I jokingly teased I was planning to jump from it one day, end of story. Later, he brought it up and asked for the story as to why I would put it on my flesh. Partly going for the shock, and really wanting to shut him up, I told him the why. The bridge is there to remember my mom. She killed herself. It’s a living memorial. This is where the liar portion came in – telling me it can’t be true as people don’t speak candidly of such situations. So I elaborated, something to the effect of lips wrapping around the barrel of a gun. Even suggesting he corroborate my tale with any of the individuals sitting beside me. Be it to say, the subject died there. But honestly, what a jerk.
The barbecue was a great way to end summer, even with it being the hottest day of the year, but I hope the new company won’t be frequenting future events.