QColumn: A Gay In The Life: Stars Aren’t Blind

Stars Aren’t Blind
By Steve Prince
“I feel weird. Like something is just different about me.”
It seemed uncomfortable to say it. I quickly drank from my Diet Coke as I waited to hear my friend Carrie’s response. She made a face that looked like she had a tickle on the end of her nose.
“Well,” Carrie paused thoughtfully, “has anything happened to you recently that would make you feel different?”
“No, not really,” I answered.
It was the truth. Lately, I’d just been feeling odd. Y’know, where you just don’t feel like yourself, but you can’t describe it? I wasn’t depressed, anxious, or sad. I just knew that my body felt not like me—it was unsettling.
Carrie and I ate at our usual pizza joint on Larchmont Boulevard—it was quickly becoming our meeting spot. For some reason, we felt like we could talk about anything there. I think the last time, we discussed felching. It was a beautiful Los Angeles day. It doesn’t really turn fall in LA, but you can tell when the summer afternoon heat begins to embrace the chill of the Southern California night. In a month, it’d truly be autumn—well for Los Angeles. I couldn’t wait; I was already scouring candle catalogs to check out my new fall scents. Yes, I’m that type of queer.
“How old are you again?” Carrie asked, stuffing her mouth with pizza.
Ugh. Thanks for reminding me. “Twenty-nine,” I said flatly. I wasn’t thirty yet, but it was fast approaching. I still hadn’t finished my “Things To Do By Thirty” list. I still was chubbier than I wanted to be, didn’t own a house, my career hadn’t really taken off yet, and—all right, let’s cut the bullshit…
I was thirty and didn’t have a boyfriend.

Yes, I know this thinking goes against everything I stand for today. I like to think of myself as an idealist and a non-judgmental person—except I was judging myself big-time. See, you have to remember I was raised in the South. So even though I’ve lived in California for almost five years, my silly little brain forgets that success is measured differently here. Honestly, I feel very fulfilled in my life now, but it isn’t very fun when I call my mother and she goes on and on about all my friend’s kids who are getting married and having babies. And now that gays can get married in California—forget about it! She’s all over me on that one. My father even asked when I was going to have kids.
“Stayven,” he said in his thick Oklahoma twang, “all yuh gotta dew is jist put it in a girl jist once.” He said it like he was giving instructions for a science fair project. “Son, it’ll be real quick. Hell, just ‘magine it’s Burt Reynolds.”
Really, Burt Reynolds?
“Oooohhhh!” Carried slapped her forehead with her palm, like a fifth grader missing the final word in a spelling bee. “Saturn returns! You’re just going through Saturn returns.”
“Saturn what?” I asked, “Are you telling me I need a new car?”
“No,” Carrie said wiping her smile with a napkin. She leaned in. “Saturn returns is a point in one’s astrological life when change begins occurring. Basically, the planet Saturn takes, like, 29 years to revolve around the earth or something like that. Anyway, Saturn is approaching where it was when you were born. So know you’re supposed to experience some type of rebirth or something awe inspiring, blah, blah, blah…” She took a bite of her pizza.
“Hmm, maybe,” I pondered.
“So help me decide my new ringtone. Star Wars or Battlestar Galatica? Which one is nerdier?” Carrie asked, and on and on she went. The rest of our dinner was fairly uneventful.
Later that night, I was still thinking about what Carrie said. Saturn returns… hmm. I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I lay there thinking about Saturn circling around me with a magic wand. Poof! Now my life is changing. Poof! Now I have a boyfriend. Poof! Now my boyfriend and I are getting married in Cape Cod. Poof! Shit, I have three kids and I’m fat and bald. Poof! I don’t know what happened to my life anymore. Poof!
BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP!
Huh? What? I opened my eyes. It was morning and I was dreaming. Thank God. Forcefully, I slammed my hand on my alarm clock. I turned to check the time.
“Shit the bed!” I said aloud. I had forgotten to set the alarm last night. I was late to work.
Seven minutes later, I was out the door and on my way to work, or should I say stuck in traffic. An hour later, I finally got there. The work morning was uneventful. It’s a law office and I don’t want to be a lawyer; hence, not that exciting. I was just waiting until lunch so I could grab a Dr. Pepper, a magazine, and chill the fuck out.
“Oh, Miss Stevie!” Jay Day said as he sashayed down the hallway.
“Yes, sugar?” I said, trying to sound perky for my boss.
“Can you take this to the office down the hall?” he said handing me an envelope. “You’d think that postmaster would know which suite we are by now.”
I got up from my desk and exited the office. Our office building is pretty damn boring. It’s an old building, so nothing really happens there. All the cute boys in business suits seem to be more attracted to the glitzier, taller buildings of Century City. I turned the corner and saw this cute gay that never seemed to pay me any attention, even when I smiled politely. Whatever… snob.
He looked up and I instinctively smiled as I walked by. DAMMIT! Why did I do that? He’s was so not interested in me. However, he smiled back and in fact, if my eyes did not decieve me, he did a double take. And then he started talking to me!!!
“Hi, I’ve seen you before,” he said politely. “You’re in suite 423, right?”
“Hi,” I responded, immediately sucking in to look svelte. “Yep, 423. I’m Steve.”
“Hi,” he said extending his hand, “I’m Shannon.”
I giggled inside because I immediately thought of Shannon from Planet Unicorn (if you don’t know what Planet Unicorn is, go directly to it now). Anyway, Shannon and I had about a three-minute conversation and then his straight boss came into the lobby and completely bulldozed our conversation. I hate cock-blockers. As I walked away, Shannon said he’d see me around.
Thankfully, thirty minutes later, I was finally on my lunch break. I immediately went to the grocery store to get a Dr. Pepper. I was a girl on a mission; I headed directly to the soda section and was walking to the checkout when I felt myself being watched. I turned.
A tall beefy-looking man was looking at me. Our glances caught one another; he smiled. He was cute. He looked around forty and his chin bore an impeccably groomed black goatee. I glanced away to be coy and then looked back. He was completely eye raping me. For a second, I didn’t know what to do. As I started to think maybe I’ll talk to this guy, a woman walks up and slides her arm behind his back. He looks away immediately. They’re obviously together. All right, not my thing, but hey—I enjoyed the compliment.
So by now, I’m completely like what’s happening to me? Was this what Carrie was talking about? I decided to go to the bookstore to clear my head. There are two sections I immediately head to in a bookstore: the gay section or the comic books section (yes, I’m a nerd). That day, I remembered a friend asking me a lot of questions about gay history, so I thought I’d get him a book about it.
So I’m in the gay section of Border’s, which is terrible—I hate their gay section almost as much as I hated the movie August Rush. Oh God! That movie was terrible. I think I’d rather pass a kidney stone than to even see a 30-second trailer of that complete pile of horse shit. It took part of my soul. I’m serious. I’d rather Phyllis Diller tickle the end of my nose with her vagina lips, and I love Phyllis Diller.
Anyway, I’m looking at a gay history book… that’s not true. I actually meant to look at a gay history book, but got sidetracked looking at a gay sex manual, which by the way, had some real good tips to help one get plowed like sheep in an Irish fraternity. So while I’m reading about butt plugs, I hear, “Hey, I think we’ve met before.”
I look up. Either an imaginary butt plug in my head was speaking or this tall guy with dark hair just started talking to me.
“Yeah,” he says, “I know you.”
“Um,” I say. “You do? I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, yeah you do,” he grins. “We had talked for a while at a bar in Weho.”
“Oh yeah,” I say nodding to assure him. “I remember now.”
I have no idea. I don’t remember this guy for shit, ladies… not for shit on a shingle.
“Remember, at Mother Load? It’s me, Eric.”
It’s all coming back, all coming back to me now, there were moments of cold and there were flashes of light… yes yes, like Celine or Meatloaf (your preference). It all was coming back to me now.
So about two months ago, I briefly talked to this guy by the bathroom when I went out with Alex, Troy, Cody, and Omar. The only thing I did remember is that we talked for literally one minute. He had to go because his friends were leaving. If I can recount my state of being that night, I must recall that I was so drunk I could have humped the Queen of England’s pillbox hat thought it was just a fat dog with a small dick and bad breath.
Eric and I had a short conversation in the middle of Border’s, and then he asked for my number; so I gave it to him. He was cute enough for what I wanted. Yeah, I said it.
So I’m feeling pretty damn good about myself. I go home, then I go to the gym at 8. After I had run for about 45 minutes, I get into my car to go home. My blackberry light is on. Oh, I have a message!
“Hey Steve, this is Eric. I know that this seems a little soon, but there’s a coffee place about a block from my house if you wanted to come grab a drink or I have a bar at my house if you wanted to just come over and hang out.”
I would like to say that I hesitated, my dear friends. I would like to say that I pondered my next actions… I would like to tell you that, but I can’t. I listened to the message and under my breath uttered, “Well, holy shit!” I dialed his number with the speed of
a hummingbird. I think I even hit some fat bitch in the parking of Gold’s Gym as I was leaving. And let’s be honest, when I talked to him, I politely indicated there was no need for the coffee shop. I would meet him at his place.
So I showed up at his house at ten, and I left at 1:30am.
We had sex, twice, and it was good. We bumped and grinded all over his house. When we finished, there were clothes and condoms scattered all over the room. I had so much lube all over my body you could have slid me between Rosie O’Donnell’s asscrack quicker than a stolen credit card swiped at Forever 21. As 1:30am approached, I kissed his neck and said I had to go, got up, put my clothes on, got into my car, and drove home. I crept into my house, took a quick shower to clean the slutty off, and crawled into bed, slipping into a dreamless sleep.
This morning at work I got a text: “Had a lot of fun last night. I can barely walk today. :)”
Hmm…Saturn returns. I think I’m gonna like this.