The Gayest Night Ever

I know that’s a bold statement. The gayest night ever would probably involve sodomy, which mine did not. Still, it was pretty gay. Sometimes after work Fridays folks head to a Happy Hour, and usually I join. I’ve resolved to almost never turn down social invitations, so as to avoid transforming completely into a hermit. This invitation was to a place called Mint, which made me suspect because every city I’ve ever lived in that’s had a Mint, it was a gay bar. It’s like the Eagle, or the Rainbow Room, or the Egyptian. It’s just a gay bar name.

Robin told me it wasn’t a gay bar, but if that’s true, it really should be. The interior is very shiny, with plush booths surrounded by curtains. The floor tables are surrounded by cushy, low to the ground, vinyl sofas, and the light fixtures are alternately crystal chandeliers and chrome satellites hanging by wires. There was an elevated DJ booth, dance music playing, and the waitresses wore skin-tight black mini-dresses, black off-the-shoulder sweaters and either heels or Uggs.

I showed up a little later than the rest to find a table of women only. Not an uncommon situation, as I usually have more female than male friends. But given the venue, I found myself in the never-occuring situation of being the most masculine presence in the vicinity.

But the best part is the reason we go to Mint is the killer happy hour. Three dollar mojitos. The mojito is the gayest thing you can drink besides jizz. And I drank mojito, garnished with a spear of sugarcane. I can’t turn down a bargain, especially when booze is involved, so I just couldn’t order a beer. I finally told our waitress that I couldn’t take it anymore, and she offered that martinis are also on special. Oh, and happy hour goes on until 9. “Fine, I’ll take a martini. But gin. And dry. Extra dry.”

At one point in the night, the table held two martinis, a mojito, a cosmopolitan, a hazelnut martini, and a fruit and cheese plate. By the way, that’s one of my peeves, when people put together these elaborate drinks with fucking chocolate and fruit, and throw it in a cocktail glass and call it a “martini.”

Let’s get this straight: a martini is gin and dry vermouth, with an olive garnish. If you even change the garnish, it is no longer a martini. Use vodka, that’s okay, but then it becomes a “vodka martini.” Or if you like, replace the olive with a cocktail onion and call it a Gibson. But you wouldn’t ever walk in to the bar and say, “I’ll have a cranberry Rum and Coke. You know, it’s a Rum and Coke, except you use tequila instead of rum and cranberry instead of Coke.” Because things have names goddammit, and words are important. So if you take Apple Pucker and caramel and put it in a cocktail glass, more power to you, but you are not drinking a martini.

So anyway, we’re having a great time and Melissa’s husband actually shows up and joins us, then they leave. And about four martinis later (you know that saying “one martini isn’t enough and two is too many.” I’ve never understood that saying), these other girls show up. Friends of friends. And they are all very, very attractive. And very well dressed. Like going-to-the-clubs well dressed. And now the sun’s down and there’s a doorman, and I’m starting to get that feeling like the movie I was acting in ended and now I’m in another movie, but I’ve been horribly miscast and never got the script.

“So what the hell are you girls all dressed up for?” I asked.
“Well these two are celebrating becoming recently single,” one responded. This is great news, I think to myself.
“That’s great news,” I said. “Your choice or his?”
“His. For both of, unfortunately.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re both better off,” I said. “So what are you gonna to do to celebrate getting dumped?”
“Excuse me,” one friend said, “but she and her boyfriend broke up yesterday, so it’s still a fresh wound, and you’re basically rubbing salt in it, so thanks.”
“Oh,” and I think I stared straight ahead for a while.

I left shortly after my failed attempt to connect, and walked half way home before I realized I left my vest with my ipod in it at the bar. I walked back and thank god, it was still there and the girls weren’t.

Then I walked home and watched Walk Hard, and fell into a solid, gin-soaked sleep.

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One Response to

  1. JLC says:

    my brother mike also was telling me about his gayest night ever. i wasn’t there, though, so it might just be urban myth by now…

    picture it: san francisco, 2007. mike goes to visit two old friends who used to work at joe’s crab shack. one is an attorney now. the other, a waiter at a dinner circus in the city.

    mr. dinner circus also plans elaborate parties on the weekend to bolster the income. they end up at one of these parties, and by the end of the night, mike’s friends are in nothing but hotpants.

    i’ve only seen photos, but there were flashing lights and a lot of sweaty people. and probably some appletinis.

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