QColumn: A Gay In The Life: Blame It On Britney

Call it hypnosis or brainwashing, but it looks like Steve Prince has gone crazy. Hey, it’s not his fault.
Blame It On Britney
By Steve Prince
July 2008
I’m sick. I’m coughing, wheezing and something is coming out of my nose that looks like something from Ghostbusters. It has been three days now that I have had this bug. I can’t remember the last time I was sick like this—oh wait, yes I do…
December 2003
“Bye sugar”, I said as Jenny got into to her car. “Have a good time.”
I walked back into my apartment and shut the door and locked it. Ah, a night alone. I loved my roommate Jenny but I was glad she was going away for the night. I had not lived in Los Angeles that long and I was glad Jenny was from Orange County. She knew tons of people in LA. Basically her friends were my friends and I hung out with her and her friends all the time. This was great; I loved Jenny and her friends, but I missed my alone time. I mean, I’m a Pisces. It was going to be nice to have some peace and quiet by myself. I’d have the night to clean my room, maybe watch a movie, and catch up on reading—amazing.
I decided cleaning first would be best, especially since I love cleaning. I know it’s weird, but it’s very cathartic for me. Being on my hands and knees scrubbing my kitchen floor is like scrubbing away past emotions, past resentments, and old fears. I dunno. Cleaning is just like a good emotional douche for me and I really can’t explain it. I also wanted to listen to the new CD I got. Yes, it was Britney’s In The Zone.
Say what you want about Britney Spears, I’m not here to debate her mothering skills, her state of mind, or even her weave. You know why? In 2003 none of that was important. It was Toxic, and Her Against the Music. It was truly Britney bitch and I have to say I love the album still to this day.
Cleaning and listening to Britney of course involves occasional dance breaks in which I would dance/clean into a sweaty frenzy and then sit on my couch and admire my beautifully decorated Christmas Tree. Yes I’m gay people—thank God. Or in this case, thank Britney.
I had just finished scouring the stove top and I was about to bleach the sink, which is my favorite chore. A song came on that I wasn’t acquainted with. I had only gotten the Britney CD the day before so I hand only really listened to Toxic so I could learn all the words. But this song, this song was different. A low base thumped from my CD player and then came Britney’s manipulated, raspy sorority-girl sounding voice:
Ooooohhh, it’s so hot, and I need some air.
You’re right Britney it is hot. Maybe I’ll open a window. I put down my bleach and then I was stopped by the next lyric:
And boy, don’t stop ’cause I’m halfway there.
Britney, halfway to what—?
It’s not complicated, we’re just syncopated
We can read each other’s minds.
Well, Miss Britney I think you’re growing up. Am I to believe you’re talking about—
One love united
Two bodies synchronizing
Britney oh my goodness. What would Justin say?
Don’t even need to touch me
Baby, just
And then it happened. In that moment I lost myself to Britney. Her song “Breathe On Me” took control of my senses. I felt powerful. I felt seductive. I felt hornier than a cat in heat. I ran to my CD player and pressed “Repeat Song”.

I went to my computer to look at porn. I sat down to enjoy one of my favorites—Blake Harper. I pulled down my pants and pressed play. Heck, I didn’t even stop for lube; I just spit in my hand. About two minutes in, I stopped. This wasn’t enough. As I listened to Britney in the background I needed more. Gimme gimme more Britney, because porn isn’t enough. I needed some man loving. Momma had an itch that needed a good scratching.
Ten minutes later, I was out the door—showered, shaved, and hair quaffed to perfection. For the first time in my life, I was going out by myself. I was on the prowl. I felt like Michelle Phieffer as Catwoman. Of course, I brought my Britney CD and was blaring all the way to the motherland—West Hollywood, California. A land where clear streams of lube run a plenty, where men can fill every orifice of their body with some man’s dick, and where Steve Prince was about to get slutty—no make that, Steve Prince was about to get Britney.
I drove with my windows down and Britney blaring. My gas light flickered; I was almost out of gas. Fuck it, I didn’t care. I was living on the edge. I was a girl that had been penned into child stardom and now I wanted to spread my wings and live a little. I was a brave new girl tonight, all right, tonight. But I did stop and grab a pack of cigarettes at a 7-11. No I didn’t usually smoke, but tonight I was wild. After fucking with my ashtray light for ten minutes, I lit my cigarette and puffed as I drove back onto Santa Monica Boulevard. I inhaled. Holy shit, it burned, but that’s all right. Pain is sexy right? It should burn… like my body. I took in another puff. Mother that burns! I began coughing, actually it was more like a coughing seizure. Tears streamed down my face. My body shook so badly that I dropped my cigarette on my car floor.
“OH GOD!” I squealed in my thirteen-year-old girl voice. A vision of my car catching on fire flashed before my eyes and I panicked. Okay, correction… I queened the fuck out. I swerved trying to pick up my cigarette. The car to my right honked and veered out of my way. I grabbed for the cigarette.
“Ouch!” Wrong end, Steve you dumbass.
I corrected the car and reached down slowly while trying to look at the road. I gingerly picked up the cigarette like a bomb squad member diffusing an explosive. I threw it out of my car window. Okay, so I wouldn’t smoke. Things would be fine. As if on cue, Britney’s voice whispered, “It’s so hot in here…” and the song began again resetting my mood and telling me just to begin again.
The air became cooler and rainbow flags that lined the streets seemed to greet my arrival. I was in WeHo, the music in my car competing with the clubs that surrounded me. I looked at my clock. 10:37. Ugh. No way I’d find street parking now–I’d have to pay. And then I saw it right in front of me. A car was pulling out. I gunned it and grabbed the space. Ha ha! Luck was on my side, no make that Britney was on my side. I got out of my car and smiled when I realized I was parked in front of the bar I wanted to go to… Mickey’s.
As I tell this story I must say that unfortunately Mickey’s was gutted in a fire and is now being rebuilt. However in it’s gay-day, Mickey’s was the bar to get slutty. Guys of all types thronged there for one reason. They played the best, gayest music and they had the hottest male dancers in WeHo. I walked into Mickey’s and walked straight to the bar. Since I was driving, I figured I’d have one shot for the night and then be done. It would just calm my nerves.
“Patron,” I told the bartender. I purposely didn’t say please— I’m a rebel, God dammit!
I downed the shot and headed to the dance floor. Pink’s I’m Coming Out began blaring and hands went up in the air, including mine. I began dancing, closing my eyes, and letting myself succumb to the music and queerness that surrounded me. Two songs later, I felt someone brush up behind me. I kept dancing. He brushed up against me again. I turned around. He was a cute stocky Latin boy and was about four inches shorter than me. He had gorgeous lips. I looked away. Britney would be a tease, right?
My shirt was beginning to stick to my body. The inside of the club was so humid it felt like Miami in June. He brushed up against me again, but this time he slipped his hand around my pelvic bone and pushed me into his groin. We danced for two more songs, and finally I turned around to face him. He tried to kiss me but I turned letting him kiss my neck. Not yet. I knew once I let the slut monster out, it would be no good for anyone. He led me to the bar and before I could object he bought me a shot and a beer. I paused because I was driving, and right there I decided I wasn’t going home anyway.
“Hey, I’m Jose,” he said with a Spanish accent.
“Good to know.” I replied smiling.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” I replied with a devilish grin. We both smiled into our mutual understanding and took our shots. Who am I?
It wasn’t until thirty minutes and several shots later than the true debauchery began. By this time I was tipsy, okay, drunk. I had been dancing with Jose and I was waiting for the right moment. At the same time I was eyeing another guy across the dance floor. He was a beautiful Asian boy and he was eye raping Jose and me like nobody’s business.
Suddenly Britney’s Toxic came on. It was time. I turned to Jose, grabbed him by his shirt collar and kissed him. He moved his hands down my back, down my pants, and began playing with my ass. We both didn’t come up for air; we made out all through Toxic. Then the DJ began playing Britney’s Boys—oh no, it was a Britney mix-a-thon—I was in trouble. As Jose and I kissed, I felt someone grind up against me. It was the hot Asian guy. I turned to him and kissed. He was an okay kisser, but I didn’t care. From behind Jose reached around hand put his hands down the front of my pants.
I felt like my body was being fondled by a million pairs of hands and my neck was being kissed by hundred pairs of lips. I was on sensory overload. It was like a drug. I came up for air, and it was then that I noticed I was being fondled by someone else. This time it was as older looking blonde man. He looked at me and I hesitated. Really Steve? You’re gonna do this? And then I made out with him too. I’m glad I did because the boy could kiss. By this point Jose had his hands stroking my lil’ guy and the cute Asian boy was fondling my ass, while blond boy was kissing me with his hand up my shirt pinching my nipple. This went on for an hour at least, in front of everyone.
Finally, Jose whispered in my ear, “I wanna fuck you.”
“Me too”, said the cute blonde man, who squeezed my cock.
The hot Asian guy nodded his head and bit his lip.
Hmmmm. I closed my eyes and sighed. I was at a crossroads. I hope this turns out better than Britney’s did…
The next morning… kinda…
“Usted es tan caliente. Amo el besar de usted.”
Huh? What…who…where am I?
I opened my eyes in the dim light. My mouth was dry and tasted terrible. I smacked it trying to wet my tongue. I blinked taking in my surroundings. The cushion that I thought was my pillow was actually the backseat of my car. I felt like my car was moving back and forth and back and forth. Oh God, why did I drink so much and how in the hell did I get&mdash
“Quiero montarle.”
“What?” I utter indistinctly. Is someone talking to me? With a groan I raise my head and immediately I notice that my right peripheral view is shadowed. I turn. Someone is leaning against my car. I blink again and focus. It looks like two people are having sex up against my car. What the heck?
“Hey!” I yell while banging on my car window. Easy Steve, not so loud; that’s hurting my head. The two shadows freeze and then turn to peer in the car window.
“Hi.” I say conversationally with a wave. With a shock they both flit away; one of them laughs while in the distance I hear one call back, “Whatever.”
I lean back on the seat of my car and took a deep breath to gather myself. I looked at my watch; it was 5:46am. Wow, I surprised myself that night. No, I was not surprised that I was the fondling toy for the three muskaqueers, but I was surprised that I ended up not sleeping with anyone of them. Yep you heard me. All that hullabaloo and I chickened out.
As I stood there in Mickey’s with the music blaring, my shirt up to my neck, and my pants unbuttoned I realized that even I was in over my head. Yeah, maybe I wimped out, but I decided it would be better to go sleep in my car until morning since I couldn’t drive home. Seriously, where is my friggin’ shoe? I opened the car door and there it was, covered in vomit. All right, I’m just gonna call that a loss.
Like a squirrel crawling into its nest, I inched my way into the driver’s seat and started the car.
Oooohh, it’s so hot that I need some air…
NO! I shut my radio off. No more Britney!. As I drove home I wasn’t paying attention and I ran out of gas. Jeeesuhs, why didn’t I fill up earlier? Damn you, Britney.
I called Triple A. Forty minutes later, I was on my way home. I drove in silence replacing the night’s events in my mind, trying to fit together bits and pieces of the puzzle. Why did I go hog wild? It was like Britney created some type of conditioned response in me like Pavlov’s bell. As dirty as I was that night, I actually was glad I did it. I realized that it was the attention I craved, not the sex. It had been so long since I had been admired. It was nice, even if it was from someone who didn’t know my name, but knew that I was cut. Names are just formalitites, right? That night was desire in its most pure form. Britney had resurrected a part of me that had been dormant for about a year; yeah it had been that long.
Epilogue
You’re probably wondering what the hell this has to do with me being sick. Well, two days later I went to the doctor because I was feeling a tickle in my throat.
She told me I had strep throat. Really? Only I have my first crazy, sexy, cool night at a bar and I get strep throat. I told her what happened and she said I have to be careful or I could develop mono. Great. The next morning, I woke up in more pain than I had been in the longest time. Hence, I have now deemed strep throat, The Deathplague, because I actually thought I was going to die.
Was it worth it? Maybe. But should I be held responsible for something beyond my control? Wait… Is that Britney I hear in the background? I gotta go.
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Years after moving from Oklahoma, Steve Prince is still acclimating to the gay scene in Los Angeles-he’s a slow learner. By trial and error and a lot of sex, his mission is to make the uncomfortable, comfortable. Also it should be known that he is gayer than butt sex.
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Previously, on A Gay In The Life:
The Birds and The Birds
Lyin’, & Twinks, & Bears — Oh My!
Going Public
Christmas in July
Luck Be A Lady Tonight
I Left My Heart In Oklahoma
As Luck Would Have It
Shock & Awe