Dear Annie,
When I first began attending church again, I was dating a Lutheran named Paul. He was a "good kid" from Illinois: smart, accomplished, conservative, and he liked athletic things. He was a private pilot, advanced SCUBA diving instructor, and enjoyed monthly trips to the shooting range. It goes without saying that Paul was not a thinker, nor did he care for theological discussions. I didn't much care at the time, either. All that mattered to me is that we generally believed in the same God, and felt it right and proper to someday live on a farm, vote republican and keep a loaded rifle under the bed.
Paul came from a culture in which you just don't talk about things... anything really. It is okay to discuss the weather, but only if the weather channel is on, (which it is, of course). I didn't get along with Paul's friends, really. Somehow I would always manage to embarrass him around them. I could do no right in his eyes. I'd spend a whole day of socializing with them, being on my best behavior, and on the ride home, I'd receive heaps of criticism for the littlest mistake. I had to really fight to fit in with his crowd.
Near the end of our relationship, his long-time friend Sarah flew out to visit. I desperately wanted to make a good impression. She had some other friends in West LA, and Paul told me they were spending that Friday night hanging out at a local bar on the Westside. I had to be at church that night.
All through the sermon, all I could think about was Paul and his female friend in West LA without me... having fun... drinking just a little too much. Who was this Sarah person and why was she with my boyfriend!? By the end of the service, I had resolved to leave the safety of my church group and join the dark side.
Paul was quite surprised to hear from me:
"Helloooo?"
"Want me to come hang out with you guys?"
"Oh... no, you don't have t-"
"I'M ON MY WAY."
Luckily Paul had been foolish enough to tell me they were at the Cabo Cantina on Wilshire. I drove home, exited my church clothes, and put on my best representation of what I thought "clubbing attire" might be. I got in my car, sped down the 405, parked a mile away, and made it to the bar about five minutes before they were ready to leave. "Good," I thought. I was relieved to be away from the loud music and drunkards. We went back to Sarah's friend's apartment, about three blocks away.
Sarah's friends included some hotshot wealthy business entrepreneur who lived in a swanky high rise apartment building, and a Latin pop singer (who we'll call "Rico"). I felt glad that the night was over, content to be sitting on the couch chatting over a cup of tea, but to Rico and Sarah, the night was still young.
I've learned over the years that it is simply not wise to go places with "friends of friends." I know it seems entirely logical that a decent person would have decent friends. This just isn't the case. Often times I've found myself held hostage in a car with one of these semi-strangers, being completely at his mercy and too polite to protest whatever wild adventure he has in store.
Rico was a friend of a friend of a friend. He had a delightful personality: magnetic and quite charming. He was smart, cute, ambitious, talented, and, well... gay. I was happy to have made his acquaintance until he suggested that we should all go over to West Hollywood and check out the gay scene. At this point I would have been happy to walk the mile back to my car alone and call it a night, but the thought of my boyfriend gallivanting around West Hollywood at 2 am irked me. I felt compelled to join the fun.
By the time we parked in West Hollywood, I had to go to the bathroom rather badly. Paul and the boys took the liberty of peeing in some dark alley. That was rather interesting. Women, of course, do not have that ability. When we reached the first bar, Sarah and I immediately ran to the bathroom. It was occupied. We waited several minutes, and whoever was in there simply would not come out. Sarah knocked on the door. Someone knocked back!
Now, there are stories you hear of certain communities that you just categorize under stereotype or urban legend. You never imagine that they could possibly be true. As we stood there, hopping up and down with our legs crossed, to our shock and horror the door finally did open and I kid you not, three men emerged. They took great pleasure in insulting us on the way out. Let's just say it was offensive.
We hesitated for a minute, afraid to look inside and see what these men had left behind. I was finally brave enough to crack the door, and what I encountered is an image forever ingrained upon my mind. Seriously Ann, a completely wet floor, flooded toilet, used condoms, syringes, a pile of used toilet paper at least a foot high... it was dark, dank, festering... worse than my worst nightmare. I'd rather rot away in a Mexican jail cell than spend 30 seconds in that bathroom. Sarah agreed. We decided holding it in was a better option for the time being.
Upon returning to the boys, Rico assured us that "not all gay men behave that way, just the insecure ones." This was mildly reassuring. It was fun to watch him flit and frolic about the room. He knew people, so it seemed. We eventually did find a bathroom in the next bar that was not quite so bad. By that time I had no choice but to use it. The night ended around 4am with Rico throwing himself at a very good looking man who simply wasn't interested.
Ultimately, I suffered through this West Hollywood night(mare) in vain. Paul dumped me a month or so later, and I really wish I had a more exciting denouement... it is amazing the things we do to impress the ones we think we love.
I talked to Paul a couple months ago. He's now a Master Mason, and has taken up sailing.
Love,
Taintedsky
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