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...