PS: When a lime is used as garnish, it becomes an Ethel Kennedy.
I told you the gays are the cleverest creatures.
The man grabs his drink and, as he turns, attempts to focus on my appearance again.
“Who are you, then?”
“I told you,” I say. “Hilary Duff. I’ve aged a bit sinceLizzie McGuire.”
He stumbles away.
I glance down the bar, wondering why my friends didn’t laugh. That’s when I see: One of the hottest men in the bar is standing next to Barry, chatting him up.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask Ron, nudging him with my elbow. “What is it with Barry? I mean, every gay man gets a couple of drinks in him and thinks he’s Hugh Jackman.”
Ron glances down the bar.
“That guy is actually talking to Sid.”
I do a spit take with my drink.
“What? Is he seeking legal counsel in Streetbar?”
“I have no idea, but just look at Barry,” Ron says with a laugh. “He’s apoplectic.”
I lean onto the bar and glance at Barry, who has puffed his chest like a rebuffed turkey. Ron is absolutely filled with delight. The man talking to Sid is quite attractive, even by weekend bar standards, but there is something that makes him stand out in the crowd: an old-school Hollywood look—a sort of modern-day Gregory Peck—squared shoulders, a look of ease and confidence, as if he could care less what the world thought about him in a world like Streetbar where we only cared what everyone thought. I glance at Barry and revel in his being overlooked for once.
“He’s coming unglued! Barry hasn’t received this little attention from a good-looking man since he got his facelift. Remember how long that took to settle? He looked like Tootsie for a year.”
I laugh and glance down the bar again. I nudge Ron to look.
Barry slowly unbuttons his shirt, takes it off and tucks it into the back of his too-tight jeans. He presses closer to the man talking to Barry and is essentially eye-fucking the back of the guy’s head. The man continues to remain fully focused on Sid.
“Barry is going to lose it,” Ron says, giggling.
I lift my glass to take a sip when someone crashes directly into my back, causing me to spill my cocktail.
“Excuse you,” I say, turning.
A twink wearing a bridal crown and a sash readingSame Penis Foreverelbows his way to the bar as if he owns it.
He ignores me and motions for Mario.
When Mario finally makes his way over, the kid deigns to look at me. “I’m getting married. You’re supposed to buy me a drink.” He looks at Mario. “Cosmo. And you can put it on this lady’s tab.”
Mario holds his hands in the air. He already knows what is about to go down.
“I’m not buying you a drink,” I say.
“Why?” he pouts.
“Because you’re a disrespectful little shit. You don’t even know who I am, do you?”
“I know you’re old and ugly.”
“Touché, thou with the concave back and hideous highlights. May I suggest you google a TV show calledThe Golden Girls, sweetheart? It aired long before you were a mistake in your white trash mother’s beer-bloated womb and long before any of us sitting at the bar had the right to marry.”
“The golden what?”
