It's Always A Straight Man That Ruins The Gay Bar

My weekend SUCKED. And it sucked hard. 

To be honest, I don't even really remember what I did this weekend, up until Sunday... But it wasn't good. LET ME tell YOU.

I did play the Kinect sport game at my sister's house though, and that was pretty badass. I scored about 3 World Records, so you can all bow down and accept that I'm the greatest that ever was and will be. It played that awesome 'Special Olympics Music' when it showed the replay, too. So that was pretty intense. And don't get your panties all jacked up your ass because I said Special Olympic Music... That's how I remember it. Always played during really intense, emotional scenes in movies where there is some type of competition going. Oh? You don't know what I'm talking about? Let me enlighten you...  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xEF4zH6XHCk Vangelis. Chariots of Fire. You're welcome. Tell me you don't immediately think of the Special Olympics. Maybe I'm just an asshole.

So then I get dragged to a Valentine's Day party at the gay club. I LOVE gay clubs. I do. The people are awesome. I have tons of fun. I meet new people I never would have ever met otherwise. Sometimes that is for the best, but that's neither here nor there...

I also know how odd it is that I, in all my Valentine and lovey dovey bullshit hatred, attended a Valentine's Day party. I did. And I ate Conversation Hearts. Because I was starving and hadn't eaten all day. You shouldn't do that, you know. Eat nothing, and then drink. Drinking on an empty stomach can end very poorly. Just so you know. 

Everything was going pretty damn good... I was having a beer, talking a lot, because that's what I do. I entertain. I sang. A lot. I actually didn't sing a lot. I sang twice? Three times? Wait, nope... It was four times. It was four. 

This adorable gay couple kept asking me to sing songs for them... Which was pretty wonderful. I mean, they're obviously tone deaf, possibly mentally handicapped, but they looked like they weren't aiming to kill me, so I went with it. "Walkin' After Midnight" pretty much sealed the awesome deal for me, I won't lie. They wanted me to sing Adele, but even I know my limits.

You know what I love most about gay bars? The obvious lack of straight men. I mean, there were quite a few straight men at the gay bar that night. Straight men I really kind of think are totally adorable. Straight men that make me smile. Straight men that make me happy. Straight men that don't make me want to stab them in the face with a spork. But you didn't come here to hear about THEM. Well, there was only 5 of those good ones. There were 2 of the others. TWO!

First one, I've met before. No bigs. Just didn't do anything for me, certainly not from my standpoint of being twice as tall as he was. 

The second one? Yeah. The bastard. I don't like this person. I dislike him rather intensely. But don't take my word for it. Let me tell you a story of how a seemingly regular kind of man ruined a perfectly good beer buzz. (And that, my friends, is the true tragedy here.)

I know who he is. I've seen him in the store. Do I talk to him? No. Are we friends? No. No, we are not. Do we chat? Never. Do I smile and wave? Nuh-uh. Sure don't. Might make me seem a bit snobbish, but who gives a fuck? Not this girl. I know how the crazies are- give them a little attention, and they latch on like leeches, eager to suck the life force from you. Bastards. 

This guy walks up to the table, sits down across from me, and starts conversing with people. No big deal. And then I happen to turn to talk to someone else, and the mother fucker eyes the girls like they're an oasis in the Sahara. DON'T eye the boobs of someone you've never formally been introduced to, or that is trying to be polite and NOT blatantly ignore your existence. I was ignoring your presence, but I wasn't being an asshole about it. That doesn't signal interest, in case you're wondering.

He butted his way into more than a couple of my conversations, and would ask me odd things... I asked C what I should sing, and he says- "You should sing GLORIA... G. L. O. R. I. A.... Gloooooooria!" Thanks. Thanks for that. And you should go eff yourself. 

Then I get done singing "Shameless" because, well, frankly, I LOVE singing that song, and he corners me at the table with the karaoke book and he starts in with the heavy hitting conversation-

Him:"You sing. WOW. I mean, you sing great. You just knocked me out. And I don't say that lightly. I mean, ask anyone, if I give a compliment, I mean it. I really do. You are wonderful."

Me:"Oh, well that's sweet, thank you."<---I HATE compliments. I hate them. I don't know why, but they turn me into a blathering idiot who looks like a condescending asshole. And I'm completely uncomfortable with them. He wouldn't let it go.

Him:"No, really, you're great. I just think you should know. You really did good.(I did well, motherfucker. I did WELL!)"

And I broke free... the song requesting couple came and rescued me for a second. And I was safe for a minute. Or seven. Until I sang some Patsy Cline, and I walk back to the table, which I skirt around so I can avoid him as much as possible, and out he pops like a goddamn jack-in-the-box.

Him: "Hey, Deb.(how do you know my fucking name?) That was really good. You sang that so well."

Me: "Um, well thanks. I'm gonna sit down now."

Him: "Wow, you're tall. Like, REALLY tall."

Me: "Yeah... I know."

Him:"Well, my grandma was really tall, just like you. And my grandpa, he was short, like me. He only came up to her chin."

Me:"Oh yeah? That's cool. I could never do that. I don't date short guys. I don't like having to look down. It would drive me nuts."

Him: "Well, it worked for THEM FOR FORTY YEARS."

Yes. He SHOUTED the last half of that sentence at me, like I should feel bad for rejecting him and his quest for love. Not here, buddy. Keep that train moving. 

So then, he sat across the table from me and continued to stare awkwardly across the table at me... Specifically my boobs, and throw random statements into the conversation as though I needed his input in any way, shape, or form. And if I wasn't looking in his direction, he would stare at them intensely. INTENSELY. I had to hide my beer so he wouldn't try to slip something into it. I was afraid. VERY afraid. 

I had to hide behind another friend so he'd stop staring. I'm also pretty certain that at one moment... He was grinding in his chair. Trust me. I didn't want to be responsible for that. It also made me want to kick him so hard in the head that it straightened out his eyes so he could see me junk punch him. Doucheprechaun.

Let me take this moment to recognize that men(and women, because we all compare boobies) look at my boobs. Men admire my boobs. Men desire boobs. Men LIKE my boobs. I know this. I know they look, I know they see, I know they think dirty things to themselves. Know what else I know? That they usually do it kind of sneaky-like. There are some really good casual observers out there. I don't even know they're doing it sometimes! I really, really appreciate the casual observers, not the intensely studying stare.  

Well, that little scene didn't really make my desire to celebrate Valentine's Day any stronger... If anything, that romance killed it. Seriously, folks.

BOOBS.