QColumn: A Gay In The Life: Bullets and Bracelets… and Lube

Steve Prince is a jet setter with music on his mind. Too bad for him, that’s not all.
Bullets and Bracelets… and Lube
By Steve Prince
I didn’t want to roll over. I didn’t want to see it… taunting me. I sighed, finally deciding to turn over and look.
There it was… 2:37am. Dammit.
I’d been laying in bed for two hours now but just couldn’t fall asleep, and of course I had to get up early the next morning. I didn’t want to keep looking at the clock, but I had to. Unfortunately, it was getting later and later.
Finally, I decided to call it a loss. I turned on my bedside lamp and threw back my covers. I walked to my desk and grabbed my MacBook. I figured I’d bore myself on the Internet until I lulled myself to sleep. Okay, let’s be honest—I was gonna look at porn and beat off.
I opened my computer, greeted by the familiar glow of my desktop. Much like a mood ring, my computer desktop usually embodies my current loves or obsessions. Sometimes it’s Justin Timberlake, or sometimes it’s a picture of me with my friends, or sometimes it’s something that makes me laugh. I usually change it once every month or so… except for my Christian Bale phase. That was when I first moved to Los Angeles, way before Batman Begins. I happened to meet him while working at a makeup counter; I sold his wife bronzer. I remember talking to him and thinking, “On my computer desktop right now, I have a picture of you from American Psycho where you’re in the shower, naked!” I left that picture up for about a year. Hey, come on… it’s Christian Bale.
I looked at my clock (glowing 2:45), then back at my screen saver—Wonder Woman. Y’all already know that I love Wonder Woman. She’s an Amazon princess cum super-heroine, and the fact that my last name is Prince is even more serendipitous. But not only do I love Wonder Woman, I specifically love Lynda Carter. I remember every Saturday afternoon at 6pm re-runs would air. Often, I’d be outside playing in the later afternoon, but when 5:59 hit, I’d haul ass into the house, jump in the air, and land on the couch—just in time to sing the theme song.
I moved my computer cursor to my Internet icon and paused. Hmm… I wondered what Lynda Carter was up to these days. I decided to Google her.
The first site that came up said Lynda Carter had a cabaret show. What? I knew Lynda Carter could sing, but I thought she hadn’t in years (for those of you who own her album Patience, I love you). I clicked on the site and as it came up, I gasped so loud that I worried I’d wake my roommate. I blinked in the dark, focusing to see if I was dreaming.
Lynda Carter was doing a cabaret show in San Francisco next week. Shit the bed.
Sometimes things happen in life and you just act without thinking. Jumping in front of car to save a wandering child’s life, donating money to starving children in Africa, doing the jock’s homework just so you can suck him off in the high school locker room—these are all reasonable acts of instinct. However, I’m so gay that in four minutes flat, I’d bought my Lynda Carter cabaret ticket, booked a hotel room, and bought a flight without even realizing that I’d have to work that day. All I can say is thank God my boss is Jay Day, because she understands such matters. A week later, I was busily trying to get my work finished so I could get my ass to LAX and catch my 45-minute flight to San Francisco.
The plan was this:
My flight got into Oakland at 6pm, and then I’d take the train to San Francisco. From there I’d take a cab to my hotel, which happened to be the same place where Lynda Carter was performing at 8pm. Perfect.
Or not. I think my favorite part of the trip was sitting on the runway at LAX for 45 minutes because the plane had too much luggage. What kind of a fuckin’ excuse is that? Too much luggage? Come on Southwest, be prepared! Ugh. By the time we touched down in Oakland it was 7pm. I had an hour to get to the theatre. I ran through the airport like Catherine O’Hara in that scene from Home Alone. I had to get to my Lynda on time—I didn’t want to be late. I ran past a McDonalds and my stomached lurched. I was starving. Work was so busy that I didn’t have time to eat. I made a mental note to stop and eat at the hotel.

I arrived at the hotel at 7:45. I wanted to take a shower, but screw that. I ran up to my room, splashed some water on my face, fixed my hair, changed clothes, and sprayed on some smell good. The hostess led me to my seat at an empty round table for three. I looked at my watch. It was exactly 7:55. All right, I did it. I looked around the club. It was actually quite beautiful. The place was called THE RAZZ ROOM, and it looked like an original room from the 1940’s. The dark carpeted floor was dotted with round tables and red tufted booths lined the walls. Blood red curtains draped along the walls and there was a small stage set up with a piano, drum set, and bass. An antique chandelier hung from the low ceiling and gave the place a cozy, speakeasy feel. It was the perfect place to see cabaret.
A cute young twink in a fauxhawk walked up to me with a tray in his hand.
“What can I get you to drink, sir?” he asked through pursed lips.
“Can I actually get a menu?” I asked politely. My fat girl was ravenous.
He made a face like I’d said a nasty word. From the looks of it, he hadn’t eaten in about three weeks. Skinny bitch.
“Oh, we don’t serve food and there’s a two-drink minimum,” he said with a fake smile.
What? Jesus. I had no choice, so I ordered a beer. I didn’t want to get tipsy; I wanted to experience Lynda in all her glory. At eight o’clock, I looked at the door. There was still a line of people buying tickets, so I assumed the show would start late. Right then, the hostess led a tall, beautiful, blonde woman through the crowd. They both snaked in between the crowded tables like a meandering stream. I saw the waitress look at me. Great. Only I go to San Francisco, the City of Queers, to be sat with a beautiful woman. Well, maybe she’s a lesbian. I love lesbians. The two women veered right and it was then that I noticed that the waitress was actually leading a party of two. The man accompanying the blonde woman was a cute fella with light caramel skin and short thick black hair. He instinctively licked his full Latino lips. I uncrossed my legs and took a swing of my beer. No Steve, tonight was about Lynda and the music. It was not about wanting to rim some guy like a taco. Focus, sugar.
“Here you are,” the hostess said in her monotone voice while she pointed to my table.
Jeeezus. The pair sat down with the man sitting closest to me.
“Hi!” the blond woman said bubbly. “I’m Rachel.”
I reached for her hand. “Hi, I’m Steve.”
The cute Latin guy grabbed my hand firmly. “Hello, I’m Francisco.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand politely.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I was in trouble. He had an accent. And if my calculations were correct, it was a Brazilian one at that. Dammit. I did not want to be distracted by dick. I was here for Wonder Woman, yet it seemed like the fates were trying to interest me in other things. First, I have to drink my dinner with absolutely nothing in my stomach. Then, this beautiful Brazilian man is sitting beside me. Well, hopefully he won’t be into me.
“Oh no,” Francisco said, playing with the lilt of his accent, “this pleasure will be all mine.” I love it when foreign people fuck up English; I mean it, it’s so hot to me. I always appreciate the effort. As he said this, he reached under the table and rubbed my inner thigh.
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!
As if to save me, the lights began to dim and soon Lynda took the stage.
Now I know I may disappoint some of you, but you know where I’m going. This article is not going to be about Wonder Woman; therefore, I won’t focus on Miss Carter too long. But I will say this: she was delightful. Her voice is actually well suited for cabaret and she looks gorgeous, even better than before. She had her husband and her son in the show as well. I’m not gonna lie — her son was real cute. Yes, he was in high school, but for a high school kid, he was cute. Or maybe I just wanted Wonder Woman to be my mother-in-law. Whatever… yes, I have issues.
The first half of the concert went great. Francisco and I didn’t say a word; we both just watched the show. As the lights came up for intermission, the prissy waiter scuttled to our table.
“Can I get you something else?” he asked in a bossy tone.
“No thanks,” I replied. I’d already drunk my two beers.
“What?” Francisco said, “But the show is not even half done? Please let me buy you a drink.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “I couldn’t.” Now I’m being offered free booze? What’s happening?
“Come on,” Rachel chimed in. “It’s a cabaret! You’re supposed to drink.”
Francisco reached his hand under the table and up my leg. “It will help us get to know one another.”
Why was he pretty? Why were his eyelashes so long? Why did I have a hard on? And why did I say ‘yes’?
Five minutes later, the waiter brought me a glass for the bottle of wine Francisco bought.
Francisco and Rachel raised their glasses. “To tonight,” Francisco said.
Rachel and I echoed, “To tonight.” Our glasses clinked. I lowered the glass and pressed it to my lips. I hesitated, as did Francisco. Raising an eyebrow, he smiled and drank. I tipped my glass back and took a long swig, preparing for the night ahead.
You really thought I was going to give this away in one article? Please! To be concluded next week, promise…
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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
Blame It On Britney
The Unending Journey
Makin’ Copies