I refuse to believe it's me. I always think it's me, but that's just negative thinking. Rather, I just think everyone else sucks but me. Oh, wait, that's negative too. Well then, I'm positive everyone else sucks but me and I'm happy that it's not me. That works, no?
I didn't see Ricky for a week since he propositioned me for that sex party, which in hindsight I regret not attending. Then one Sunday, he came over before heading off to meet up with some friends, squeezing me into his busy schedule. How sweet. We fucked for about an hour and made out as we got dressed and he headed out the door. When he left, I was caught up in something I had not known before, an excitement for something other than drugs or free booze. Nothing like love, at least not how I imagined it would be, but the promise of something more than just the occasional hook-up. And I didn't mind that promise, hell, I actually looked forward to it. My first relationship! Yay! We had plans to go out that following Saturday to the Met for what would be our first date.
On Thursday night, we were talking online, my preferred form of communication, when he invited me out to drinks with him in Manhattan, before going to a friend's party--managing to fit me in again, the little dear. Now I was stoned, mind you, and on the Queens border of Brooklyn, thus getting on the G and L trains was not a task to be taken lightly. However, never one to turn down free drinks, though I'll get to that debilitating tendency in a later post, and secretly wanting to see him/happy that he wanted to see me as well, I eventually accepted. So it was that our first and more than likely, our last, date was to be that night.
Hmm, how do I ease into this? Or perhaps, I should just jump right into it. Yes, that’d be best. Turns out Ricky was married for ten years and still married as it turned out, though, his divorce would be finalized in four months. Maybe it was the three vodka cranberries, but that revelation didn’t shake me as much as he had expected, or as much as it should have. Many a gay man marries for different reasons; Ricky loved his soon to be ex-wife, but now he was done with women. What had brought that about, I’m not sure, but it didn’t matter much to me. I just like him. Ricky’s friend, Saul, happened to be at the bar that night, as well. Apparently, it was a favorite hang out of theirs—I had been there several times myself—but Saul was doing us the great service of pretending to ignore us for most of the night. Then all pretensions fell and our date became more of a friendly get-together. I didn’t entirely mind the fact of Saul’s presence as he was one of those fun, witty gays you hear so much about. Still, a part of me wanted him and the rest of the bar to disappear so I could be with my old man. Didn’t happen though. Instead, the three of us left together.
They were heading to a party to meet up with Ricky’s houseguest/friend from LA, Tim. I walked with them to a corner store so Ricky could go to an ATM. Saul had ordered coke from his dealer, which should have been an indication that this night was not going to end anytime soon. Still, I thought I wasn’t invited to said party, even after I found myself outside with Ricky and Saul. Saul waited for the dealer to show up, while Ricky and I made our way into the apartment. You know, I didn’t think there were parties solely attended by fabulous gay men in the city anymore, but I came face to face with just that. Well, that and an obligatory hag. Clearly, a token. We had arrived just as the party was winding down, though Saul, Ricky and I had enough time to take one turn each sniffing in the bathroom. When my turn came, I headed to the bathroom, locked the door and pulled out the packet Ricky had discreetly snuck into my pocket. I had done coke before (who hasn’t, really?) and I was used to getting a gram here or there, splitting with my friends whenever the mood struck us, so when I reached into my pocket and pulled out an eight ball, I was more than a little surprised. Excited would be a better word. I carefully measured out my lines, ran the water to divert the sound of my nostrils hovering up the white powder, then returned to the party, my pupils more dilated than when I had arrived. After a few more minutes, Saul took his turn, and then the party was over. Everyone left, except the three of us, Tim, the slumbering host and his boy toy-cum-boyfriend who invited us to stay as long as we wanted. Which we did, blowing rails on a $3000 table and chatting about things you chat on coke about: life, love, sex and doing more coke. We left the apartment at around 2 a.m. Already aware that the L train was down for the night, I was hopelessly relieved when Ricky invited me to spend the night at his place, something he had never done, what with the divorce and all. The drunk, coked out me was flying high that night.
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