Sunday, March 13, 2005

The Assassin, Part 1

I had a feeling of déjà vu when I was waiting in line to get into the Chicago Theatre to see Margaret Cho’s “The Assassin Tour” last Friday. Maybe it was because I bumped into four ex-boyfriends, the most I’d ever run into at the same place outside of a gay bathhouse.

You can always count on running into a few exes in a gay bathhouse. Anonymity in there is like Beyonce and good taste, two things that never go together.

Going to a bathhouse is like going to church, you spend a lot of time on your knees and calling out to God, "oh God...oh God...oh my Goddddd!!!" But unlike in church, you don’t call the stalls “confessionals,” unless you're really kinky, a priest or both.

That’s not even counting the tricks and one night stands I ran into at the show. There were so many of my tricks that if I pulled a bunch of fake flowers out of my ass, I could charge a cover and a two-drink minimum.

Of course, it’s awkward. These people can expose your deep, dark secrets in the bedroom, like when you sewed on that Ralph Lauren label to that comforter from Target. I can imagine the viciousness of the queens at the local gay bar:

Gurl, didja hear about hur and hur comforter? I knew it! I. Just. Knew. It! I knew that bitch could not possibly afford all that shit working retail. And I just knew those curtains were not from Restoration Hardware! Mm-mm-mm. Nobody can pass off that shit on this queen!

But the worst was when I ran into “The One.” The one who broke my tender, young heart.

Everyone has one of those, you know, when you were young and full of trust, and you didn’t know how another person could break your heart or hurt your dick with their teeth.

It was at the merch counter. I was second in line when I saw Fabrice walking towards me. Yeah, I know, how can a guy named “Fabrice” break my heart, right? It’s ridiculous. A “Fabrice” would likely be someone who would freshen up your clothes after a night at a smoky bar, not wreak havoc on your emotions.

I looked around frantically for some big and tall guy to hide behind or, pretend to be my boyfriend in case Fabrice saw me.

No such luck.

How I wished Brian wasn’t already at our seats. The last thing you want an ex-boyfriend to do is to find you standing by yourself, like that one time he found you in the middle of his bedroom with the spare key that you never returned and the “present” you left in the middle of his bed. Doing number two had never been so gratifying.

Just as I approached the counter, Fabrice caught up with me and introduced his Asian-of-the-month. When meeting a fellow gay Asian, I followed the traditional Asian custom of greeting where we check out each others’ outfits, give a combination smile/sneer, and turn away.

I didn’t know what he wanted, but I wanted to get away as fast as I can. So I paid for the first thing I saw. That’s how I ended up with a t-shirt in XXL, three letters that never appear together in my closet’s plane of existence. I thought the only letter that went along with “XX” was another “X”. I don’t know what “L” could possibly mean. “Lesbian,” perhaps?

I made my excuses and hurried away. The crowds were a blur; their bulk, a tide slowing my progress. I prayed my ex-boyfriend’s seats were not anywhere near my line of sight.

I found Brian just a couple of minutes before the light dimmed. I slumped into my seat and held on to his hand just as the applause rose, roaring like waves in my ears.


Next: More Assassin

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