Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, our B-T-B was caught off-guard by his stunning announcement of being "scary and damaged." He was really knocked out of his size 10.5 Pradas when his new bachelor was willing to become a bachelor-no-more, sealing the deal with an orchestral kiss...
If there was one thing that our Bridezilla knew how to do, it was plan ahead. After the devastating mistake of not grabbing the phone number upon our first meeting, I was not going to allow Trevor the opportunity of making different plans with another gentleman. I had, at the end of our previous evening together, fortified our next rendez-vous with an invitation to Club Diesel for the next evening's Halloween party. Let us never forget that I have a long history of doing Halloween big and in style. And by big and in style, I mean in Drag. In the past ten years, I had gone as Britney Spears, Marilyn Monroe, Supergirl, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Batgirl, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, Daphne from Scooby Doo, and a couple of other ladies of luxury. This year's chosen outfit was: Little Red Riding Ho...The slutty version of a childhood fairy tale character.
Let it be known, I have never half-assed a drag experience. We're talking beautiful wigs, shaved legs, and boyshort underwear from Victoria' s Secret that I ironed on hot pink letter to spell out "SLUT" on the ass...The process of getting ready took at least two full hours. Three, if I'd be taking smoke breaks at regular intervals, which I was. Here, however, is where our night gets a little tricky. I generally do a group theme for this special occasion, and this year was to be no different. You see, my friends and I were all going as storybook characters: there was "slutty miss muffet", with a rather large tuffet I might add. We also had Hansel and Gretel, so on and so forth they went. My Ex and I were still, to a degree, involved at this point. Bob was the "Hansel" of the group going, his best friend was "Gretel."
A bit of backstory is required for our tale to continue: For the previous seven years Bob and I had a difficult-at-best relationship. On my end, the frustrations were many, including and at times most certainly limited to, Gretel. I had a long standing suspicion the Hansel and Gretel had hooked up in the duration of my seven years with Bob. Though it was never confirmed, in the end it wasn't denied either. So, being forced to spend my favorite holiday, amongst other gay festivities, with the pair of them was not only mind-numbingly dull, but also extremely irritating. This occasion, however, it was welcome. You see, Gretel provided me the one essential tool that I was going to need if my ex and my new were going to be in the same gay bar on the same gay night: a distraction. Yes! Gretel was going to have to distract Hansel, Muffet, and the rest of the storybook crew long enough for me to bounce back and forth like a godforsaken beachball...in a wig...
So, let us start this festive day at 2:00pm. I was still dressed in standard gay male civilian clothes headed to a then-popular, now-closed restaurant by the name of Po' Boys...Not nearly as trashtastic as it sounds, I promise you. We were going to be throwing back a few drinks with a few of Bob's closest friends, err... co-workers; my former boss and co-workers to be exact. Let me set the record straight. I very much enjoyed the company of my former mates. They were fun gals who knew how to party the right way: get as smashed as possible in the shortest amount of time, say inappropriate things to all the right people, do daring and explicit actions to gain awestruck reactions, and go home by 7pm to pass out for the evening. Yes ladies and gentlemen, they were middle-aged.
While I was at Po'Boys enjoying the nonsense of these ladies in their natural habitat, I decided that I would have a few beverages to get the day started as well...5 BudLights and two Red-Headed-Sluts later, I found myself lit up like a Mirrorball at Studio 54. Now, anyone who has ever witnessed the beauty that is me intoxicated can attest: the very small communication filter that I have normally, begins to disintegrate at an alarming rate. Today wouldn't be out of the ordinary. As I witnessed the tragedies that were unfolding before me, I started hearing comments like, "If thish big bitch hugs me one mo' time, Ima gonn' take my fisht and bonk that bitch on the head." It was only after everyone turned and looked at me that I realized I had made the comment. And that I was slurring at 5pm. Clearly the night was off to one hell of a start. At this, Bob decided it was time to head back to my house so I could begin the getting ready ritual that would land us at an ETA of 9:00 pm to Sparky's.
Once I was home, I started the transformation of gay man to slutty fairy tale chick. On schedule, about two hours later the guests began to congregate. Gretel and Muppet had arrived donning their costumes and cheery dispostitions. With that, I started drinking. Heavily. Before we could go, I had to clip in a weave for Muffet so she didn't look like Dykes-Gone-Tuffet 2008. As I held the human hair attachments in one hand, smashing and clipping them into the back of her head with the other, I continued to partake of yet another alcoholic beverage: my nightly Pinot Grigio consumption was well under way.
With the last swallow of the bottle finished, we grabbed our baskets, cameras, and cigarettes and flew out the door across the street. Carrie D was also partaking of the festivities, as she, her girlfriend, roommate, and some other friends were getting ready for their Halloween showing as well. A couple of pictures, a couple of beers, and a couple of bongs, we were off once again. This time we were on our way to Sparky's for some pre-Diesel excitement.
Sparky's is always a sight to behold as there is a very unusual mix of clientele that gathers at this particular locale. Now, Peoria has its' beautiful homes and neighborhoods with beautiful views and beautiful lawns. Sparky's was smack-dab in the middle of just the opposite. Let's see. To the left, is the bar that has had 4 shootings in two years, to the right you have the bar where my friends were held-up at gunpoint in the rear, and across the street you have the local Ministries services that will tow your car should you park in their lot after 9 pm. Class, with a capital ASS, but nonetheless, it is where all the gays commune prior to the ride down the hill for more debautchery. We had everything. There was the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling, drag queens doing "I Put A Spell On You" and then there was me, socializing amongst my acquaintances, gathering compliments on my fabulous choice of costume.
After about an hour of playing nice with the potpourri of people, I retreated to the bathroom to reapply, piss, and text Trevor inconspicuously. It had been nearly a whole day since I had spoken to him so I wanted to ensure that he would still be making an appearance.
HEY. WHAT TIME WILL YOU BE AT DIESEL?
> ALREADY HERE. WHERE'S YOU?
(BANG! BANG! BANG!) "Hurry up, Red. A bitch has to urinate!"
One of our drag queens was obviously tired of waiting for me to unoccupy the bathroom so her own urination could commence. I took it upon myself to politely respond, "Ok, Bitch! Hold on to your Gold L'Amy Stillettos!" I exited at my leisure as I quickly texted Trevor back.
BE THERE IN A SEC
> OKIE DOKIE
As we hadn't been at this establishment very long, I needed a reason to get my group to vacate and head down to Diesel without looking like there was an agenda. As a fairly logical person, I generally do not find myself looking for signs. However, on this night, I received a spiritual cue that was unmistakeable. Just as I was beginning to frantically search for an excuse to leave, my good friend Troy began fighting with his on again, off again beau. While I wasn't overly involved in the situation, what I can tell you is this...A shiny, glimmer flew passed my head and the next thing I know there was a shattering sound immediately to my right. It seems the beau of my Troy had had enough and hurled a shot glass across the room that managed to catch Troy across the temple. The glass then shattered all over Troy, the vending machine, and the ground. You may be asking yourself how this was a sign. Well, Troy and beau were escorted out of the bar. Carrie D was his ride, leaving with him and the rest of my party wanted to follow her downtown. Not proof enough? Here's the kicker...Troy was less than 3 feet away from me when a full shot glass collided with his skull, and not a single drop of liquor splattered on my cape, my basket, or my toule...God wanted me to meet Trevor that evening and still look fabulous! See, it was a sign. Best of all, I didn't have to concoct an excuse to depart the lovely bar known as Sparky's. It happened all on its' own.
This is where the story gets interesting. Trevor knew that I'd be dressed as Li'l Red. What he didn't know was that Bob would be with me, along with the rest of my usual entourage. Upon entering the dance club, Muffet and I immediately walked on the dance floor and began to "dance it out." We wanted to get lost in the music and in the upcoming hours, we both knew that there was definitely going to be some pent up energy. Li'l Miss Muffet had know about Trevor from the moment that the tryst began. She had been there for all of the sordid details of my affairs and was well-aware that it was her mission to keep Bob and Trevor as far away from one another as possible. Not only did she accept her mission, she ensured its success. After about 15 minutes of dancing it out, Trevor texted me once again.
> I SEE YOU.
WHERE?
> AT THE BAR.
Sure enough, he was sitting at the bar with a lady sailor. I sauntered up and greeted them both. Trevor had come as a fratboy, which really ment that he magic-markered some greek letter on a white tee shirt and threw on some jeans. Amanda, who I'd come to find was another breed of faggis haggis from his repertoir, was a delightful lady full of witty jokes and vodka. She and I got along marvelously. We all talked for about twenty minutes before heading out to the back porch for the remainder of the evening.
We'd all been having a solid conversation when the need for renewed drinks occurred. We went inside to order new ones when the twin, Taylor, back from school, walked in the bar. Seeing that the twins would be occupied with one another for at least ten minutes, I took my opportunity to hijack myself back out to the deck where Muffet, Gretel, and the rest of the crew were stationed. As expected, Gretel was keeping Bob so busy in conversation, he hadn't had time to notice the twins that were occupying my attention. With that, I checked into a boring conversation about shaved chests, the latest A*Teens CD, and Muffet's pseudo-crush on a local lesbian. After a few ridiculously cheap excuses, I left the group and made my way down twenty feet to where Trevor, Taylor, Amanda, and a new friend, Katie were chatting.
Making sure to keep one eye on Trevor and one eye on Bob, I was driving myself a bit batty. I had to come up with a way to get one of the two parties out of there...ASAP...It hit me: Muffet was the key! I grabbed her tuffet and dragged her down to meet the boys and their hags. After a quick and stifled introduction, I sequestered her into the bar where I told her she was hungry. She told Bob this information and that in-turn made Hansel and Gretel hungry. From that would spawn a trip to the local Steak-n-Shake for some late night snacking. Being a marionette puppeteer was simply exhausting. Another quick coat of lip plumper in the mirror and I ran back to Trevor to watch the masterpiece unfold. It was like organized crime, or gay theatre, whatever.
As my plan went down, all was unfolding completely as expected, until the snag. After all, what's being gay without some dramatic snag in the fishnets? It might have been the liquor that was slowing my synapses here, but it, in my scheming, had never occurred to me that Bob would expect me to leave with him, as I had arrived with him. DAMN!
I saw his head begin to turn looking for the disappearing red cape. I took off the cape, threw it in my basket and bolted into the bar in hopes that he'd simply forget I'd been with them at all. Because that never works, he found me and informed me that we were leaving. That was it. At this request, my satin hand gloves came off.
"Just go. You're hungry. I'm not. Nor am I nearly drunk enough to leave with you!"
Harsh. I admit that now. Looking back on the evening, it could have probably played out a lot more smoothly, albeit less story worthy, had I pre-planned some of the nights events. Po'Boys liquors were however, catching up with me and the shear exhaustion of being a tennis ball caught between the two was winding me down.
With that awful display in front of a bar full of queens savoring the taste of a public outburst, Hansel, Gretel, and Miss Muffet found their way to the nearest trough for some late night munching.
As the night wore on, 2am hit and I was waiting for my opportunity to make out with Trevor. It came in the form of an invitation to drive me home. I stumbled out to his shiny red pick-up truck and directed his vehicle to my house. We parked out front and the making out commenced. Now, bare in mind, to the casual observer, this was simply the "hot-n-heavy" going on between a fratboy and a slutty college girl. The reality was that a newly-gay hot boy was making out with the self-proclaimed queen of Peoria, in drag. It never dawned on my that my SLUT-Emblazened panties could, at any moment, be caught down around my knees as Bob had yet to arrive home. Luckily, I had fate on my side. You see, I lived across the street from one of the foremost after-hours party throwers in all of Peoria. It wasn't unusual to see random people making out in trucks outside of our house, which is what Bob must have thought when he arrived home and went to bed.
With our final kiss goodnight, I got out of the truck and bid him farewell, just like in the fairy tales...Sort of...
Here is where the mood of our story goes a little dark: the next day, I informed Bob that it was completely over with no hope of a reconciliation. He said he knew that it was coming, and asked me who I was leaving him for. I told him I was leaving him for me. And that's the truth. I was. The reality was that I had broken up with Bob in my heart a long time ago. It wasn't his fault. It was mine. To his credit, he was exactly the same person that he was when we had begun dating all those years ago. I was not. I had changed. Somewhere between bottles of Pinot Grigio and tabs of EXTASY, I had discovered a real life person who wasn't long for this world if he continued on this path. Never for a second did I jump from one relationship to the next. I cannot allow anyone to think this as it is not true. Trevor was not the cause, not even the catalyst, for my break up. He was simply a gift for doing what was right. Right for me, and right for Bob. I picked myself up off of the dirty floor of which I had been living. I brushed the dirt from my clothes, and I reached for the hand rail that had always been there for me to pull myself up out of these depths that I had fallen in so many years ago. The light that greeted me upon my realization was bright and harsh and unforgiving. It needed to be. It needed to be the hardest thing I'd ever done. If it were easy then it would not have been momentous, or even memorable. That was the day I stood on my own two feet. I realize, now, how unfortunate that was for Bob, how sad it must have been to be sacrificed so that I could get better. But I couldn't die for him to live. In the end, he is better off without me. And I am better off without the person I became with him, because of him. For the life we shared together, I say thank you. But mostly I say goodbye.
After it was over, I stepped out onto my porch. I inhaled the exceptionally warm November morning air, and I thought to myself: Finally... I can breathe.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
A Lady Doesn't Kiss and Tell...Good Thing I'm a Queen...
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, our future bride found himself with a new dilemma. In the aftermath of many, many tequila shooters, a kiss shared with a beautiful man, and a newly forming concussion, it seems our bridezilla had forgotten the one essential rule to dating: get a phone number before you coyly disappear into the smoky bar.
The next morning I had a raging hangover. It was the kind of hangover where you make false promises to God, whether you believe in Him or not. After hours of water, Ibuprofen, and Marlboro Lights 100's in a box, I found myself wishing that I had the good foresight to grab a pen and paper the previous evening so that I might be able to capture the phone number of this gentlemen. As it turns out, I did not. Instead, I retreated to the bar in hopes of him desperately seeking me out for a midnight tryst. Yes, coyness has never been my strength. And let's be realistic for second: what the hell was I thinking trying to be coy? What am I, a sixteen year old school girl looking for her first time with her soccer coach behind the school gym while the marching band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In"? I mean really. Why on Earth did I employ such a childish tactic?
The lesson was clearly learned the next day as I called about thirty-five homosexuals that infest the Peoria area. You see, as it turns out, Trevor was what one might classify as a "new gay" and not a single one of the Diesel Club Kids that I knew had any idea of whom I was speaking. I tried all manners of description. Everything from pierced lip to glasses, and it seemed nothing was going to get me his number. So, in the grand old tradition of faggotry, I turned to the Internet a surfed him out. To my surprise, I found him with little difficulty.
I searched through the rooms of gay.com looking for the screen name which I had been stalking for the past six months. Let us not forget that I had had to overcome some major idiocy to get this ball rolling, and for it to be well-received by the object of my affection; there was the drug-induced introduction, the awkward online conversations, for God's sake there was "nothin no g!" Now was not the time to go losing this prize fish off my line. A fishing metaphor? Seriously?
After a couple of days scouring the rooms, I finally found him. It was the following Tuesday evening. He was online while he was at Bradley working on a class assignment. As he had been there for hours, he had gotten bored and begun to divert his attention to the Internet for a late evening break.
HEY YOU. I TOLD YOU I WAS GOING TO KISS YOU THEN GO INTO THE BAR AND YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW ME.
> I DID.
NO YOU DID NOT.
> I DID TOO. I LOOKED FOR YOU AND YOU WERE GONE SO I LEFT.
SHUT UP!
After a few minutes of this back and forth nonsense, it was determined that he had, in fact, followed me in, but that I had picked that moment to retreat to the bathroom, to sooth the pain of one of the local lesbians having a bad evening. A lesbian having a bad night at the bar. That's a shocker. So we chatted for a while, ending with a date invitation. Sort of. He invited me to bring him coffee and a cigarette to Bradley while he worked. I was a little unnerved at his audacity and a little intrigued that he thought I'd bring it. Clearly, he had zero idea that he had just made out with Queen of Peoria. So I employed my sixteen year old coyness again and refused the invitation, but I did promise to meet him online again the next evening.
Just as I was about to sign off:
HEY! WAIT! WHAT'S YOUR NUMBER?
And with seven keystrokes I was in possession of a new means with which to converse with Trevor.
The next day the text messaging began and the same style of invitation to me occurred again. The refusal was also to be in sequel form, but like any good story there was a twist. I turned around and asked him to join me at Diesel for an evening out, and to my luck, he agreed. At around eleven o'clock that night, he met me for what would now be considered our first date.
Let me start by saying there were absolutely no frills on this date. It was a basic meet and greet. I found out about his very large tight knit family, and he discovered my love for Britney Spears. We both liked Mexican food and Margaritas were amongst our favorite alcoholic beverages. In total, the date lasted about an hour. Just long enough for me to become even more self-conscious, thereby becoming even more smitten than I already was. The next evening we decided we'd meet again. Only this time, he'd be armed. Yes, ladies and gents, he would be bringing his hag. Now, to the casual observer, one could say that this was a nice pleasant way to integrate our circles. To any self-respecting mo, however, this was a test. It was pass or fail, no gray areas. When a gay man, new to the community or not, brings his hag along for a date he is clearly interested, but looking for any fault that you might have to not only be pointed out but dissected into original parts.
I did not make a good first impression. In my defense, I had just run out of new contact lenses, and I think I look terrible in glasses. So I prettied myself up and I headed down to Diesel in nothing. Now, my eyesight isn't terrible in daylight, but in a smoky murky bar, its a little dodgy. So I walked in, past the people sitting at the bar and out to the back porch. He wasn't there. I had purposefully been a little late, so as not to seem so eager. So, either he had stood me up, or he was being fashionably late, and if he was trying to be late, I was going to be pissed for stealing my idea. I whipped out my phone and furiously began T9 wording his ass to find out where he was:
IM HERE. WHERE R U?
>AT THE BAR.
NO U ARNT. I WAS JUST THERE.
>U WALKED PAST ME.
Fanfuckintastic. In my sightlessness, I had totally flown past him and his hag without so much as a wink, nod, or hello.
SRRY. BE THERE IN A SEC.
I walked back in and greeted them. Peggy was the hag's name and we all had a good laugh over the carelessness I displayed for not wearing some eyewear, and we watched something that resembled a rather sad drag show. Amidst the recreation of some hideous Beyonce' song, something fantastic happened. We had, for the first time, good conversation that came with ease. We laughed. We talked. We judged unfortunate souls. It was by and by, the best date ever. Hag, notwithstanding.
Once again in my desperate attempt to not seem so eager, I bid them farewell and told him to call me the next day. I downed my V&C and flew out onto Main St. I had been outside of the bar for about two seconds when the texting for me to come back began. Finally, coyness had paid off...
But, I resisted. I got in my car and immediately went to Carrie D's house to tell the tale of what I had, until this point, been concealing. As I reminisced with her about the the past week, Trevor continued his texting pursuit.
> COME BACK. I DIDN'T GIVE YOU MY GIFT.
WHAT GIFT?
> I'M NOT TELLING.
TELL ME!
> COME AND GET IT.
It was two o'clock in the morning. There was no way that I was going to be pathetic and go back to the bar...alone...Then it hit me. Enlist Carrie D and Troy to come back to the bar with me for three important reasons: 1. I would look popular. 2. I would be armed with my hag and let's face it, hag on hag warfare was the only way to play the game, and 3. I would collect my gift.
So, newly armed with friends and confidence we hopped in the Carrie D's Jeep and headed down to the bar listening to Kelis' "Milkshake" on the radio. Once there, we walked in to find Trevor and Peggy still sitting at the bar where they'd been left. I hadn't told him I was returning, and I knew from the expression on his face that the surprise was worth it. We got more intoxicated, throwing back Capt'n-N-Coke and V&C's, laughing hysterically and making fun of the moronic things people do when they think no one is watching...especially in a dark bar. All was perfect, until the one thing that could ruin any night occurred: the "ugly lights" lit up our cove. You know the lights. Those harsh, not-fluorescent, but almost lights that reveal all of the leftovers from the evening. Every wrinkle, every gapped tooth, every dirty fingernail would now be shown. Luckily enough that wasn't the case. Up until this point, you see, I had not seen Trevor by the light of day. But, he passed inspection with flying colors. Right around the time his passing of inspection occurred, it dawned on me. HE HAD YET TO SEE ME IN THE LIGHT OF DAY! EEK!
I quickly ushered him out of the bar and back to his truck for what I would envision to be a quick farewell.
How wrong I was.
He unlocked his doors and told me he was going to give me his gift. It wasn't nearly as dirty as it sounds. He leaned in to give me a sweet little kiss. Right as our lips were about to meet, I throw my hand in the air and say "Wait! I'm scary and damaged!" In the tradition of self-sabotage, here I was pouring out all of this bile all over a perfect evening. He looked shocked in that this-bitch-is-crazy sort of way, but he must have rationalized that he was stronger than my need to accurately self-fulfill my prophecy, because he smiled, leaned in kissed me, and said, "It's ok. I like scary and damaged."
This time I heard the orchestra stringing and the trumpets blowing. I got out of his truck, made a date with him on Halloween, and drove, for the second time that evening, home.
That was the moment it happened. That was the moment I realized that I was in love...
The next morning I had a raging hangover. It was the kind of hangover where you make false promises to God, whether you believe in Him or not. After hours of water, Ibuprofen, and Marlboro Lights 100's in a box, I found myself wishing that I had the good foresight to grab a pen and paper the previous evening so that I might be able to capture the phone number of this gentlemen. As it turns out, I did not. Instead, I retreated to the bar in hopes of him desperately seeking me out for a midnight tryst. Yes, coyness has never been my strength. And let's be realistic for second: what the hell was I thinking trying to be coy? What am I, a sixteen year old school girl looking for her first time with her soccer coach behind the school gym while the marching band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In"? I mean really. Why on Earth did I employ such a childish tactic?
The lesson was clearly learned the next day as I called about thirty-five homosexuals that infest the Peoria area. You see, as it turns out, Trevor was what one might classify as a "new gay" and not a single one of the Diesel Club Kids that I knew had any idea of whom I was speaking. I tried all manners of description. Everything from pierced lip to glasses, and it seemed nothing was going to get me his number. So, in the grand old tradition of faggotry, I turned to the Internet a surfed him out. To my surprise, I found him with little difficulty.
I searched through the rooms of gay.com looking for the screen name which I had been stalking for the past six months. Let us not forget that I had had to overcome some major idiocy to get this ball rolling, and for it to be well-received by the object of my affection; there was the drug-induced introduction, the awkward online conversations, for God's sake there was "nothin no g!" Now was not the time to go losing this prize fish off my line. A fishing metaphor? Seriously?
After a couple of days scouring the rooms, I finally found him. It was the following Tuesday evening. He was online while he was at Bradley working on a class assignment. As he had been there for hours, he had gotten bored and begun to divert his attention to the Internet for a late evening break.
HEY YOU. I TOLD YOU I WAS GOING TO KISS YOU THEN GO INTO THE BAR AND YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW ME.
> I DID.
NO YOU DID NOT.
> I DID TOO. I LOOKED FOR YOU AND YOU WERE GONE SO I LEFT.
SHUT UP!
After a few minutes of this back and forth nonsense, it was determined that he had, in fact, followed me in, but that I had picked that moment to retreat to the bathroom, to sooth the pain of one of the local lesbians having a bad evening. A lesbian having a bad night at the bar. That's a shocker. So we chatted for a while, ending with a date invitation. Sort of. He invited me to bring him coffee and a cigarette to Bradley while he worked. I was a little unnerved at his audacity and a little intrigued that he thought I'd bring it. Clearly, he had zero idea that he had just made out with Queen of Peoria. So I employed my sixteen year old coyness again and refused the invitation, but I did promise to meet him online again the next evening.
Just as I was about to sign off:
HEY! WAIT! WHAT'S YOUR NUMBER?
And with seven keystrokes I was in possession of a new means with which to converse with Trevor.
The next day the text messaging began and the same style of invitation to me occurred again. The refusal was also to be in sequel form, but like any good story there was a twist. I turned around and asked him to join me at Diesel for an evening out, and to my luck, he agreed. At around eleven o'clock that night, he met me for what would now be considered our first date.
Let me start by saying there were absolutely no frills on this date. It was a basic meet and greet. I found out about his very large tight knit family, and he discovered my love for Britney Spears. We both liked Mexican food and Margaritas were amongst our favorite alcoholic beverages. In total, the date lasted about an hour. Just long enough for me to become even more self-conscious, thereby becoming even more smitten than I already was. The next evening we decided we'd meet again. Only this time, he'd be armed. Yes, ladies and gents, he would be bringing his hag. Now, to the casual observer, one could say that this was a nice pleasant way to integrate our circles. To any self-respecting mo, however, this was a test. It was pass or fail, no gray areas. When a gay man, new to the community or not, brings his hag along for a date he is clearly interested, but looking for any fault that you might have to not only be pointed out but dissected into original parts.
I did not make a good first impression. In my defense, I had just run out of new contact lenses, and I think I look terrible in glasses. So I prettied myself up and I headed down to Diesel in nothing. Now, my eyesight isn't terrible in daylight, but in a smoky murky bar, its a little dodgy. So I walked in, past the people sitting at the bar and out to the back porch. He wasn't there. I had purposefully been a little late, so as not to seem so eager. So, either he had stood me up, or he was being fashionably late, and if he was trying to be late, I was going to be pissed for stealing my idea. I whipped out my phone and furiously began T9 wording his ass to find out where he was:
IM HERE. WHERE R U?
>AT THE BAR.
NO U ARNT. I WAS JUST THERE.
>U WALKED PAST ME.
Fanfuckintastic. In my sightlessness, I had totally flown past him and his hag without so much as a wink, nod, or hello.
SRRY. BE THERE IN A SEC.
I walked back in and greeted them. Peggy was the hag's name and we all had a good laugh over the carelessness I displayed for not wearing some eyewear, and we watched something that resembled a rather sad drag show. Amidst the recreation of some hideous Beyonce' song, something fantastic happened. We had, for the first time, good conversation that came with ease. We laughed. We talked. We judged unfortunate souls. It was by and by, the best date ever. Hag, notwithstanding.
Once again in my desperate attempt to not seem so eager, I bid them farewell and told him to call me the next day. I downed my V&C and flew out onto Main St. I had been outside of the bar for about two seconds when the texting for me to come back began. Finally, coyness had paid off...
But, I resisted. I got in my car and immediately went to Carrie D's house to tell the tale of what I had, until this point, been concealing. As I reminisced with her about the the past week, Trevor continued his texting pursuit.
> COME BACK. I DIDN'T GIVE YOU MY GIFT.
WHAT GIFT?
> I'M NOT TELLING.
TELL ME!
> COME AND GET IT.
It was two o'clock in the morning. There was no way that I was going to be pathetic and go back to the bar...alone...Then it hit me. Enlist Carrie D and Troy to come back to the bar with me for three important reasons: 1. I would look popular. 2. I would be armed with my hag and let's face it, hag on hag warfare was the only way to play the game, and 3. I would collect my gift.
So, newly armed with friends and confidence we hopped in the Carrie D's Jeep and headed down to the bar listening to Kelis' "Milkshake" on the radio. Once there, we walked in to find Trevor and Peggy still sitting at the bar where they'd been left. I hadn't told him I was returning, and I knew from the expression on his face that the surprise was worth it. We got more intoxicated, throwing back Capt'n-N-Coke and V&C's, laughing hysterically and making fun of the moronic things people do when they think no one is watching...especially in a dark bar. All was perfect, until the one thing that could ruin any night occurred: the "ugly lights" lit up our cove. You know the lights. Those harsh, not-fluorescent, but almost lights that reveal all of the leftovers from the evening. Every wrinkle, every gapped tooth, every dirty fingernail would now be shown. Luckily enough that wasn't the case. Up until this point, you see, I had not seen Trevor by the light of day. But, he passed inspection with flying colors. Right around the time his passing of inspection occurred, it dawned on me. HE HAD YET TO SEE ME IN THE LIGHT OF DAY! EEK!
I quickly ushered him out of the bar and back to his truck for what I would envision to be a quick farewell.
How wrong I was.
He unlocked his doors and told me he was going to give me his gift. It wasn't nearly as dirty as it sounds. He leaned in to give me a sweet little kiss. Right as our lips were about to meet, I throw my hand in the air and say "Wait! I'm scary and damaged!" In the tradition of self-sabotage, here I was pouring out all of this bile all over a perfect evening. He looked shocked in that this-bitch-is-crazy sort of way, but he must have rationalized that he was stronger than my need to accurately self-fulfill my prophecy, because he smiled, leaned in kissed me, and said, "It's ok. I like scary and damaged."
This time I heard the orchestra stringing and the trumpets blowing. I got out of his truck, made a date with him on Halloween, and drove, for the second time that evening, home.
That was the moment it happened. That was the moment I realized that I was in love...
Friday, July 10, 2009
Someday My Prince Will Come
I do not believe in fairytales. I believe in fairies and I believe in tales, but in my mind, neither the twain shall meet. So imagine my surprise when Trevor actually rescued me from distress, thus beginning the ride of my life.
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, we saw a good-time gay meet the man he would eventually call husband. Through a haze of smoky air, the shiny discoball-esque lighting, and the blurred vision from the aftermath of drugs, he saunterred, slumped, and embarrassed himself in front of the twin hotties. In the next chapter, we see the chase. First, let me not lead you to think for a second, that there was any remarkable gesture on my part to get Trevor to notice me. Perhaps a little tomfoolery, a little trickery if you will. But, grand gestures are for a man, and let there be no mistake here: I am a fucking lady...Er, sort of...
Two months or so after the initial contact, I was perusing the lush and plentiful garden of gays that congregated to their local server in search of quickies, so-called relationships, and my favorite: "friends" on www.gay.com. After watching the mindless banter betweeen "bb4life" and "jockcock69" for ten minutes or so, I began clicking on the screennames to view the mini-profiles of the men in the "Peoria-Bloomington" chatroom. About a third of the way down there was charming young fellow with the screenname EIUstudent who looked vaguely familiar. I brought up the full profile and EUREKA! Well, actually it was more like CHARLESTON! At any rate I had found Taylor. He was attending Eastern Illinois University and had just begun his final year there. Now, mind you, Taylor wasn't the subject of my dreams, but he was close enough and if I were a betting man, and let's face it, I am, I knew that he, if persuaded properly, could provide me with some clues as to how I might find the other one.
So, I clicked on my chat icon and said,
HEY
To which I received nothing in return. Ok, Ok, this one was a princess so clearly it was going to take more than a quick schmooze.
HI. I REMEMBER YOU. YOUR FAVE COLOR IS GREEN.
This illicited a bit more of a response:
LOL.
Clearly I was dying here. Normally, I would have just bellied up and asked for the screenname of the twin, but I felt like this might be more of a sensitive topic. I mean really, how would it look for me to be like "Hey, your twin brother is hot, can I get his screenname?" I knew that would land me face-down-ass-up in the hunt for Twin Two. So, I did what I loathe the most. I small-talked. After spending much time with Taylor since this initial contact, I have learned that he hates small talk as much as I do...I should have just asked for the name and been done with it. Instead, I carried on the charade of coyness. Amidst the coy parade, it dawns on me that they might be talking online to each other as we typed. So I began to search for the other one's picture in the list of chatters. Sure enough, I found him. trevClay1985, had at some point in my conversation with Twin One, logged on. That was all it took:
IS YOUR BROTHER ON HERE TOO?
>YES
TREVCLAY1985?
>THAT'S HIM.
COOL. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT.
(New window open for Trevor's conversation now)
HHEY. (I'm fairly certain i misspelled the first word of our introduction so not only do I look like a drug addict without a clue, but now I also look like an illiterrate dumbass) REMEMBER ME?
>YES. WHAT'S UP'?
So he finally gives me the opportunity to make my move. To really jump on that train. To finally seal the deal with my extreme coolness. My response:
NOTHIN.
Nothin? Seriously? Seriously! My fricking response was Nothin. No g. Forever in his mind I am going to be "nothin no g" the loser who scouted him out through his twin who has inevitably told him about my lame ass chat with him. Luckily, as fate would have it, my nightly debautchery was about to begin as Carrie D, a friend, lesbian, and premier faghag, had just texted me "Going to Sparks. Get here now." With that I bid both twins farewell and went to begin the nights festivities.
As pathetic as this sounds, let me tell you that it was only the tip of the pathetic iceburg. I would have five or six more conversations like this with Trevor before the night of our second encounter. This night is where the tale truly begins.
October 24, 2008 I went out to our local gay dive. We, and by we I mean me, were drinking heavily. Carrie D and I had decided it was going to be a Tequila night, though it was not Monday. So it started: Shot after shot, laugh after laugh, judgement after judgement. Unbeknownst to me, Trevor would be located on the back porch smoking cigarettes and drinking Capt'n-n-Coke. I sidled up to the bar and ordered two Tequila Shooters. As the total came to $7.50, I grabbed a ten dollar bill out of my pocket. Of course, nothing can go smoothly in my world, so I dropped my cash. Paper money, being paper, did what it does: it flutters and floats. It did that up against the base of the bar. I bent over to pick it up and stood back up: WHAM! BLACKOUT!
It seems that I had concussed myself by slamming the back of my head into the corner lip of the bar. As opposed to going to the hospital like a normal individual, I slammed my shooter and stumbled out onto the back porch for some air, and by air I mean Marlboro Ultra Light. I tripped up the stairs and fell right onto a bench and a boy. That boy was Trevor Thompson. I literally fell in his lap. We chitchatted a bit about nothing. Keep in mind this is a little fuzzy as I was not only three sheets to the wind, but now I was also concussed. Here is what I do remember. I told him that I was going to kiss him and that I was going into the bar. I told him I really hoped he would follow.
I did it.
I kissed him. I didn't hear orchestras stringing, or bells ringing, but I did know that I just kissed the one person in the world that I should be kissing. It wasn't magical. It was quite the opposite. It was real. It was the tender, soul-reaching kiss that you can't describe, but will spend the rest of your life trying to. It was in a word: perfect. And, it hurt to stop. But it did.
As promised, I got up, tripped back into the bar and immediately went to the bathroom. After I emerged, I couldn't find him. I checked out back. I looked inside and he was no where. So, I left. I went home. At that moment, I wasn't lonely anymore. I was saved. And he didn't even know it. So, as I said, I don't believe in fairytales, but the tale told by this fairy about that night is absolutely true. That was the day my prince came and rescued me.
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, we saw a good-time gay meet the man he would eventually call husband. Through a haze of smoky air, the shiny discoball-esque lighting, and the blurred vision from the aftermath of drugs, he saunterred, slumped, and embarrassed himself in front of the twin hotties. In the next chapter, we see the chase. First, let me not lead you to think for a second, that there was any remarkable gesture on my part to get Trevor to notice me. Perhaps a little tomfoolery, a little trickery if you will. But, grand gestures are for a man, and let there be no mistake here: I am a fucking lady...Er, sort of...
Two months or so after the initial contact, I was perusing the lush and plentiful garden of gays that congregated to their local server in search of quickies, so-called relationships, and my favorite: "friends" on www.gay.com. After watching the mindless banter betweeen "bb4life" and "jockcock69" for ten minutes or so, I began clicking on the screennames to view the mini-profiles of the men in the "Peoria-Bloomington" chatroom. About a third of the way down there was charming young fellow with the screenname EIUstudent who looked vaguely familiar. I brought up the full profile and EUREKA! Well, actually it was more like CHARLESTON! At any rate I had found Taylor. He was attending Eastern Illinois University and had just begun his final year there. Now, mind you, Taylor wasn't the subject of my dreams, but he was close enough and if I were a betting man, and let's face it, I am, I knew that he, if persuaded properly, could provide me with some clues as to how I might find the other one.
So, I clicked on my chat icon and said,
HEY
To which I received nothing in return. Ok, Ok, this one was a princess so clearly it was going to take more than a quick schmooze.
HI. I REMEMBER YOU. YOUR FAVE COLOR IS GREEN.
This illicited a bit more of a response:
LOL.
Clearly I was dying here. Normally, I would have just bellied up and asked for the screenname of the twin, but I felt like this might be more of a sensitive topic. I mean really, how would it look for me to be like "Hey, your twin brother is hot, can I get his screenname?" I knew that would land me face-down-ass-up in the hunt for Twin Two. So, I did what I loathe the most. I small-talked. After spending much time with Taylor since this initial contact, I have learned that he hates small talk as much as I do...I should have just asked for the name and been done with it. Instead, I carried on the charade of coyness. Amidst the coy parade, it dawns on me that they might be talking online to each other as we typed. So I began to search for the other one's picture in the list of chatters. Sure enough, I found him. trevClay1985, had at some point in my conversation with Twin One, logged on. That was all it took:
IS YOUR BROTHER ON HERE TOO?
>YES
TREVCLAY1985?
>THAT'S HIM.
COOL. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT.
(New window open for Trevor's conversation now)
HHEY. (I'm fairly certain i misspelled the first word of our introduction so not only do I look like a drug addict without a clue, but now I also look like an illiterrate dumbass) REMEMBER ME?
>YES. WHAT'S UP'?
So he finally gives me the opportunity to make my move. To really jump on that train. To finally seal the deal with my extreme coolness. My response:
NOTHIN.
Nothin? Seriously? Seriously! My fricking response was Nothin. No g. Forever in his mind I am going to be "nothin no g" the loser who scouted him out through his twin who has inevitably told him about my lame ass chat with him. Luckily, as fate would have it, my nightly debautchery was about to begin as Carrie D, a friend, lesbian, and premier faghag, had just texted me "Going to Sparks. Get here now." With that I bid both twins farewell and went to begin the nights festivities.
As pathetic as this sounds, let me tell you that it was only the tip of the pathetic iceburg. I would have five or six more conversations like this with Trevor before the night of our second encounter. This night is where the tale truly begins.
October 24, 2008 I went out to our local gay dive. We, and by we I mean me, were drinking heavily. Carrie D and I had decided it was going to be a Tequila night, though it was not Monday. So it started: Shot after shot, laugh after laugh, judgement after judgement. Unbeknownst to me, Trevor would be located on the back porch smoking cigarettes and drinking Capt'n-n-Coke. I sidled up to the bar and ordered two Tequila Shooters. As the total came to $7.50, I grabbed a ten dollar bill out of my pocket. Of course, nothing can go smoothly in my world, so I dropped my cash. Paper money, being paper, did what it does: it flutters and floats. It did that up against the base of the bar. I bent over to pick it up and stood back up: WHAM! BLACKOUT!
It seems that I had concussed myself by slamming the back of my head into the corner lip of the bar. As opposed to going to the hospital like a normal individual, I slammed my shooter and stumbled out onto the back porch for some air, and by air I mean Marlboro Ultra Light. I tripped up the stairs and fell right onto a bench and a boy. That boy was Trevor Thompson. I literally fell in his lap. We chitchatted a bit about nothing. Keep in mind this is a little fuzzy as I was not only three sheets to the wind, but now I was also concussed. Here is what I do remember. I told him that I was going to kiss him and that I was going into the bar. I told him I really hoped he would follow.
I did it.
I kissed him. I didn't hear orchestras stringing, or bells ringing, but I did know that I just kissed the one person in the world that I should be kissing. It wasn't magical. It was quite the opposite. It was real. It was the tender, soul-reaching kiss that you can't describe, but will spend the rest of your life trying to. It was in a word: perfect. And, it hurt to stop. But it did.
As promised, I got up, tripped back into the bar and immediately went to the bathroom. After I emerged, I couldn't find him. I checked out back. I looked inside and he was no where. So, I left. I went home. At that moment, I wasn't lonely anymore. I was saved. And he didn't even know it. So, as I said, I don't believe in fairytales, but the tale told by this fairy about that night is absolutely true. That was the day my prince came and rescued me.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Beginning of CJ McBridezilla...
First and foremost, let me just state that I am normally a logical, well-rounded individual. I would also like to go on record having said that this is entirely the fault of one Mr. Trevor Clayton Thompson. I liked my little world. I loved going out at-will with my friends, slinking off to unseen nooks and crannies at the local gay bar to make out with some random, albeit hot boy whose name would never be of any importance in my life. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a fag, and I loved it. After-hours parties across the street until 7am, Britney Spears club-edit-remixes, self-proclaimed titles like the Queen of Peoria, and oh, the drugs: Extasy, Pot, Cocaine, Oh My!
Ok, so not all parts of my life were fagtastic. Perhaps, not even half of my life was as perfect as I wanted everyone to believe. The truth? I was circling the drain. In the giant tub of life, someone had pulled the stopper and I was being pulled under at a rate to which no one could stop me. This is not the stuff I'm proud of, mind you, but it is absolutely pertinent to the story of my, "Bridezilla Becoming."
It starts with an X. And also an EX. In June of 2008, I was living the life of a desperate housewife by day, and by night, my inner-Britney shown through. In the AM, I would get dressed in my Optical-best attire. I would slump into work anywhere between 8:00 and 8:15 and begin the tasks of customer service, employee dispute resolutions, and rearranging fantastic frames for purchase. Between the period of 4:00 to 4:30, I would then venture home. As my then boyfriend and I hadn't had sex in 11 months, I would retire to the Internet world of amateur porn. Don't get me wrong, I never placated my urges to porn. That's is a HUGE GAY CLICHE'. I did, however, enjoy the knowledge that at least somebody was getting it regular. Besides, most of those clips were funny on a level I can't even make up.
After an hour or two of the old Xtube, I would feed the dog, and watch episodes of "The Golden Girls" or "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" from my DVD collection. About 7:30, the dreaded ex would arrive home to entice me with the same on-schedule-every-week-meal for my enjoyment. Mondays, we'd have fettucini alfredo while watching DVR'd episodes of "Desperate Housewives". Tuesdays would be a homebake by Betty Crocker while we were entertained by "American Idol", and then for the results show on Wednesday there would be hamburgers. Thursdays over "Bones" and "Grey's Anatomy", we'd feast on Tyson pre-made chicken patties. Fridays would land me with some macaroni and cheese, Saturday's would be pizza and Sundays was a mystery...We'll call it ThrellerSurprise. Needless to say, I would also find myself at the bottom of 1.5 litres of Pinot Grigio for $4.99 from the local Wal*Mart. Uncorked, straight out of the bottle. I am a classy Girl.
Once the charade of my television-pinot-macaroni coma subsided, I would get the get-up-and-go. You see, I also had a schedule. for which the EX was not responsible, nor involved. The people changed, but the locations and themes were always the same. For instance, there was Tequila Mondays, Two-dollar-titty tuesdays at the local, world-famous strip club, and a low-key Crusen's night on Wednesday. Thursdays were Drag Night, followed by Gayla nights on Fridays. Saturdays were a sin-sespool culminating at the arrival to Diesel, the gay night club. Sundays were a day to sleep off the week.
Let me be very clear here. I never once hid my sadness or insecurities from my friends. I pride myself on my self-awareness and so I never once slipped into the dillusions that what I was doing was right, nice, or even OK. But, with sadness, I also developed a great apathy for the feelings of others. My ex was not even a blip on my radar any longer. He was, at best, inconsequential. For this, I do apologize to him, though something tells me he won't be following this blog.
So one Saturday night in June, My friends and I decide that a little Extasy enhancement would be a fun endeavor. So we partake of pills, and head down to one of the three gaybars from my hometown. After an hour or so, I am dancing around, mingling, and rubbing against everything that was bolted down to the sticky floor, when I see two ridiculously good-looking boys sitting at a table. In true gay tradition, they were sitting there silently judging the hordes of queens, bears, jocks, fratboys, and fatgirl faghags moving through the crowd. Now as I was, in a word, wasted, I was having a two problems. The first was an over-abundance of drunk courage, and second, that I couldn't tell whether the ridiculously good-looking boys were actually one boy that I was seeing double of due to my intoxication, or I was looking at twins.
The latter would be true.
So, me being me on X, I saunter up to the twins, plant my ass on the barstool, and ask the worst question in the history of pickup lines..."So, If I smack him, will you feel it?" Yes ladies and gentlemen, that's my A-game. The rest of the night goes down from there...Although, I did learn that the twins shared a favorite color, green. Oh, and that their names were Trevor and Taylor.
That was it. Trevor would become the object of my affections for the next five months, unbeknownst to him. That night would mark the day I would be destined to become this mess of a Bridezilla who in the words of Jason Mraz is "lucky to be in love with my best friend."
Ok, so not all parts of my life were fagtastic. Perhaps, not even half of my life was as perfect as I wanted everyone to believe. The truth? I was circling the drain. In the giant tub of life, someone had pulled the stopper and I was being pulled under at a rate to which no one could stop me. This is not the stuff I'm proud of, mind you, but it is absolutely pertinent to the story of my, "Bridezilla Becoming."
It starts with an X. And also an EX. In June of 2008, I was living the life of a desperate housewife by day, and by night, my inner-Britney shown through. In the AM, I would get dressed in my Optical-best attire. I would slump into work anywhere between 8:00 and 8:15 and begin the tasks of customer service, employee dispute resolutions, and rearranging fantastic frames for purchase. Between the period of 4:00 to 4:30, I would then venture home. As my then boyfriend and I hadn't had sex in 11 months, I would retire to the Internet world of amateur porn. Don't get me wrong, I never placated my urges to porn. That's is a HUGE GAY CLICHE'. I did, however, enjoy the knowledge that at least somebody was getting it regular. Besides, most of those clips were funny on a level I can't even make up.
After an hour or two of the old Xtube, I would feed the dog, and watch episodes of "The Golden Girls" or "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" from my DVD collection. About 7:30, the dreaded ex would arrive home to entice me with the same on-schedule-every-week-meal for my enjoyment. Mondays, we'd have fettucini alfredo while watching DVR'd episodes of "Desperate Housewives". Tuesdays would be a homebake by Betty Crocker while we were entertained by "American Idol", and then for the results show on Wednesday there would be hamburgers. Thursdays over "Bones" and "Grey's Anatomy", we'd feast on Tyson pre-made chicken patties. Fridays would land me with some macaroni and cheese, Saturday's would be pizza and Sundays was a mystery...We'll call it ThrellerSurprise. Needless to say, I would also find myself at the bottom of 1.5 litres of Pinot Grigio for $4.99 from the local Wal*Mart. Uncorked, straight out of the bottle. I am a classy Girl.
Once the charade of my television-pinot-macaroni coma subsided, I would get the get-up-and-go. You see, I also had a schedule. for which the EX was not responsible, nor involved. The people changed, but the locations and themes were always the same. For instance, there was Tequila Mondays, Two-dollar-titty tuesdays at the local, world-famous strip club, and a low-key Crusen's night on Wednesday. Thursdays were Drag Night, followed by Gayla nights on Fridays. Saturdays were a sin-sespool culminating at the arrival to Diesel, the gay night club. Sundays were a day to sleep off the week.
Let me be very clear here. I never once hid my sadness or insecurities from my friends. I pride myself on my self-awareness and so I never once slipped into the dillusions that what I was doing was right, nice, or even OK. But, with sadness, I also developed a great apathy for the feelings of others. My ex was not even a blip on my radar any longer. He was, at best, inconsequential. For this, I do apologize to him, though something tells me he won't be following this blog.
So one Saturday night in June, My friends and I decide that a little Extasy enhancement would be a fun endeavor. So we partake of pills, and head down to one of the three gaybars from my hometown. After an hour or so, I am dancing around, mingling, and rubbing against everything that was bolted down to the sticky floor, when I see two ridiculously good-looking boys sitting at a table. In true gay tradition, they were sitting there silently judging the hordes of queens, bears, jocks, fratboys, and fatgirl faghags moving through the crowd. Now as I was, in a word, wasted, I was having a two problems. The first was an over-abundance of drunk courage, and second, that I couldn't tell whether the ridiculously good-looking boys were actually one boy that I was seeing double of due to my intoxication, or I was looking at twins.
The latter would be true.
So, me being me on X, I saunter up to the twins, plant my ass on the barstool, and ask the worst question in the history of pickup lines..."So, If I smack him, will you feel it?" Yes ladies and gentlemen, that's my A-game. The rest of the night goes down from there...Although, I did learn that the twins shared a favorite color, green. Oh, and that their names were Trevor and Taylor.
That was it. Trevor would become the object of my affections for the next five months, unbeknownst to him. That night would mark the day I would be destined to become this mess of a Bridezilla who in the words of Jason Mraz is "lucky to be in love with my best friend."
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