Give the Young Chap Your Number

So a good friend of mine from work, we’ll just call him Sterling Silver, has been inviting me to come dancing at Club Try Angles, the local gay bar, for a while now. There are two things you should know about me: 1—I love to dance, and 2—I have a dark birthmark on my right thigh that doctors call a nevis. While the birthmark has nothing to do with this story, the dancing does. I’ve heard on several occasions that there are few better places to dance than a gay bar. The music is always fun, and you don’t have to worry about looking like a sissy in front of other dudes when you start pulling out your spinny moves. An added bonus is that the very fact that you are at the place makes women trust you, no matter if you are gay or straight (which you are probably at least one of those). If a woman trusts you, she will oftentimes approach you and strike up conversation! Can you believe that? I thought that only happened in Imaginaryland!

So my roommate Barnaby and I drove down to Try Angles and I purchased a temporary membership (you have to be a member to go in). As we were going in, I got a text message from Sterling Silver, who we were supposed to meet there, that he wouldn’t be able to make it. So it would just be Barnaby and I swimming in a sea of men. I’m glad we brought our swim suits. We went in and found a small table along the wall and observed for a few minutes. I had to go to the restroom, and when I came back Barnaby was gone. “Your friend went in the other room,” a neighboring table of two huge Polynesian guys informed me. I followed their direction and indeed found my Czech roommate in the billiards room, chatting it up with three young men. I joined the conversation and after a few minutes we were all having a grand old time. But the time to leave had come—we had a pirate poetry party to get to. As I got up to leave, one of the gents we had been hanging out with also stood up, “Hey, do you have a phone?” “Ya.” “Let me get your number.” Inside I froze, though on the outside I was as cool as a jazzman at The Birdhouse. I didn’t know if I should tell him I was straight, if I should give him a fake number, or if I should fake sudden illness and run to the bathroom as I made really loud throw up sounds. Oh, who cares, I thought to myself, just give the young chap your number. You could use some friends in this big new scary city. So I willingly recited my phone number, laughing hysterically inside at the fact that on the numeric keypad my digits spell SO GAY 41. If only my new friend knew.