I am a whore.

I’m certain that lots of people without much money have fun and interesting parties.  They just don’t have fabulous ones.  Let’s face it, there is a certain truth when it comes to throwing parties:  fabulous parties cost money.  Fabulous wine, fabulous food and flawless service don’t come cheap and you can’t get them with your club card at Safeway.  I know this to be true. 

Oh, I love to entertain, and I have a little money, not a lot, and I throw a decent dinner party at which people have been said to have fun.  But, when it comes to parties you talk about a year later, it requires some serious cash.  And that’s just the way it is.

And Republicans have cash.

Hence, Republicans often have fabulous parties.

Or at least the ones I’ve attended.

The first time David, my Log-Cabin (which most of us read as gay Uncle-Tom) Republican friend asked me to a party, I snorted (albeit somewhat quietly and only after he left and after I said I had to check my calendar).  They just don’t come must more liberal than me, and if they do, you’ll only find them under glass in Moscow.  If there wasn’t this whole embargo thing, Fidel would probably have me over for dinner at least once a month.  So, how could I go to a REPUBLICAN party? 

They were having that new boy band perform, and well, I just couldn’t miss that, could I?

And so I went.  I put on my best suit and went.  And I had fun, even when I was gobbling down the fare paid for by oil profits and exploitive labor practices.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t make a habit out of attending right-wing shin dings and hoo-has.  I just go occasionally.  Okay, I go every time David asks me.  And he asks me occasionally.

And he asked me for New Year’s Eve.

So, there I am, with one hand holding my second imported beer and my other hand grasping some delightful cheese and bread confection from one of the best caterers in town, and I turn to one of the other guest and say “So which one is George?”

“Pardon?” replied the twenty-something in a very expensive suit.

“Which one is George?” I asked again. “David said that Gerald was having this party as a celebration for George.”

The twenty-something with a beaming smile and said “I think he meant for our friend, GW!”

The beer suddenly was flat, the cheese tasteless.  How could I be so stupid?  What planet had I been on for the past three months?  It was one thing to go to a Republican party, it was quite something different to go to one that celebrated the presidential victory of THE Republican Party.  Fabulous party or no, I simply could not stay and take part in this. 

I was headed for the door when I spotted the dessert cart. 

And I thought, well, as long as I’m here….

9 January 2001

You may remember Jerry.  He’s sleeping with my best friend.

Okay, they say they are in love, and by all means, it’s true.  I have all the evidence I need, and I gathered it in a single event:  Jerry remembered Winston’s birthday…and planned for it, too.

Shortly after our little outing to Union Square a month ago, Jerry called.  When I heard his voice on the answering machine, I secretly hoped he was calling to arrange a “side thing”, a little “tryst”, to come over and fuck like rabbits.  Okay, I’ve never actually seen a rabbit fuck, but it’s a useful cliché to describe what I was thinking at that moment.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t the reason for his call.  In fact, if Jerry has any idea I want to tear off his clothes and spend hours licking his beautiful ass, he doesn’t show it all.  Even in the smallest amount.  I think I wasn’t Winston’s pal, Jerry wouldn’t even look at me on the street.

Anyway, you get the point.  Jerry didn’t call for sex.  He called to enroll me in the plans he was hatching for Winston’s birthday.  I’ll spare you the gory details.  They involved a limousine, flowers, a bunch of friends in the limousine when it surprised Winston and dinner at a restaurant I would never pay for on my own unless I could get sex afterwards, which as I’ve covered, isn’t happening.

All this planning was taking place not one week in advance, not two weeks in advance, but an entire month in advance.  Jerry must truly love Winston.  It’s the only explanation for such plotting.

It’s my secret fantasy to have a lover who will remember my birthday.  He doesn’t have to plan for it – or at least he doesn’t have to plan very much – but he has to remember it.  My fantasy lover wouldn’t ask after six months of dating “just when is your birthday again?” or be caught sneaking through my wallet for a look at my driver’s license.  He would know.  He would know it cold.  Walk up to him on the street, ask him without warning and he’d spit it out as easily as he could recall who played Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.  That would be true love.

I know all of my lover’s birthdays.  I ask up front in the first date, or no later than the second.  And then I lie in wait for months, planning a celebration appropriate for the length of our relationship (less than six months:  dinner for the two of us;  more than six months: surprise parties, a short vacation or an extravagant dinner).  But they never get the hint:  I make an effort to celebrate your birthday, you make an effort to remember mine. 

Maybe it’s a genetic thing for men, not being able to remember important dates.  Whatever the reason, the first man who remembers my birthday will be with me forever.  I know this to be true.

In the mean time, I’ll continue to dream about sleeping with my best friend’s lover.

15 January 2001

China just grunts.

No more swearing, just grunts.

“Hey China, wanna go get some lunch?” I ask on the telephone.

“Ugh,” she replies.

“How about that burrito joint down the street from your shop?”

“Ugh.”

“Twelve then?”

“Ugh.”

I wish my love life were so easy.  

I was downtown in the morning, meeting with someone who is a friend of David, and therefore, a conservative bore.  I sat through the meeting wondering how many holes there are in an average ceiling tile.  I even started to count.  I fantasized about standing up and saying “You’re a helpless bore and I have better things to do with my time.”  However, this fantasy would have ruled out paying rent this month; I need the client more than I needed the fantasy.

China works at a shop over in the Mission, and BART offers the quickest and cleanest way to get there.  A braver soul might try Muni, but if I’m late China might start swearing again and I’m enjoying the change.

Only the unemployed and students ride BART at midday, and the car is nearly empty.  I sit near the back, plug in my headphones and start the Spanish-language tape that is my feeble attempt at learning a second language.  “May-gusta mucho!”  “May-gusta!”  “Lay-Gusta!”  Et cetera.  Et cetera.

And then I see Jerry.  He’s sitting several seats in front of me facing the other direction.  I’d recognize the back of his head anywhere, sitting just above those perfectly proportioned shoulders.  I feel my heart race.  Seated across from him is one of his entirely-too-handsome friends who I have never seen before.  Why do attractive people roam in packs?

I wonder if he noticed me get on the train, he must have, I walked right by him.  What is he doing on the train this time of day, anyway?  He works on the other side of the bay and he’s traveling away from work.  The entirely-too-handsome friend is talking animatedly now, and I see Jerry nodding.  I can picture the smile on his handsome face.

If he saw me get on the train, why didn’t he say hello?  Did I already have my earphones in?  Maybe he said hello and I didn’t hear him.  Or maybe he didn’t say hello, which if he saw me, would just be plain rude.

I decide to sit back and watch.  Maybe he’ll turn around and wave.  

“Kwanto kwesta?  Para yavar?”  What the hell is the tape saying?  I’ve lost my place and I might as well be listening to the radio.  I rewind and try to find some words I recognize, somewhere on the tape I have been before. 

Then it’s my stop and there he is, just up ahead of me.  If he knows I’m here, and I don’t say hello, which one of us is being rude?  He must not know I’m here.  I walk up the aisle, heading for the door, and as I get to his seat, I lean down, and whisper:

“I love your butt.”

“Excuse me?” replies the complete stranger staring back at me.

I run from the train and vow to start riding Muni.