(Nu atat) Sex si (o multime de) Oras

Este ca „Sex and the City”, dar aproape toata lumea este homosexual si mananca numai carbohidrati in ziua inselarii

Scena este cat se poate de dreapta: Hooter intr-o sambata. Doar ca e pranz. Doar ca nu exista clienti, dar noi, doi barbati gay.

Chelnera: Deci, ce pot sa va aduc?

Incearca sa fie prietenoasa, la fel de prietenoasa pe cat poate fi cineva, atunci cand esti asteptat sa porti pantaloni scurti si sa ignori toate aspectele obiectivante in timp ce lucrezi.

D: Mi-ar placea o bere intunecata si o comanda de aripi picante dezosate in plus, va rog … E ziua mea de inselat!

El raspunde privirii mele dupa ce a auzit ca mananca carbohidrati.

J: Voi avea aripi de parmezan-usturoi ( chiar daca sunt mexican nu-mi plac lucrurile picante ) si un gin & tonic.

Chelnerul se lasa inconjurat de faptul ca suntem gay si asta inseamna doua lucruri: o sa fim prosti in privinta serviciului si nu o vom propune pentru aspect. De asemenea, nu vom fi grossi. „Dumnezeu da, Dumnezeu ia” gandeste in timp ce ia ordinul in bucatarie.

D: Deci, ce ai facut aseara? Am avut aceasta intalnire groaznica, a fost un tip pe care l-am intalnit in Grindr ( imi trec ochii ) Stiu, stiu, nu trebuie sa le oferiti sanselor lui Grindr o viata reala, dar i s-a parut distractiv. Oricum, pula lui era scurta si era un fund lenes, asa ca nu cred ca il voi mai vedea vreodata.

J: De ce te mai ranesti asa? De ce nu aveti doar o problema de bautura la care sa faceti fata ca toata lumea?

D: Nu ma doare singura, vreau doar sa intalnesc un tip dragut de 30 de persoane, care este stabil din punct de vedere economic si ma innebuneste si, de asemenea, nu ma deranjeaza sa fiu in jur.

J: Ei bine, nu veti gasi amandoua aceste lucruri in Grindr, permiteti-ma sa va asigur.

The waitress arrives carrying our drinks, the gin is served in separate glasses: the ice, the gin and the tonic. I raise her an eyebrow but she doesn’t notice. She leaves and I do my own mixology stunt trying not to spill the gin, D laughs at my attempts to McGuiver my way into a gin and tonic.

Artistic representation of what a glass of gin should look like when it’s not mixed by a hungover 20-something mexican

D: Ugh, anyway, tell me about your date last night.

J: I didn’t have a date, I’m over dates, I’m over men in general. I already know I’m going to be lonely at 50 living with a bunch of cats who are going to eat my face when I die from tripping in the shower (As the gin hits my mouth I go from I-hate-everyone to I-hate-everyone-a-little-less, it’s the same feeling people have when they drink coffee in the morning, I guess), but yeah, I went out to the new fuck-place last night (In spanish, the word for dark room is “lugar de encuentro”, meeting place, but I’ve figured fuck place is a closer translation), it was… nice, lots of people, I got fucked 4 times and I fucked this beefy guy once. I’m a loose bottom but a picky top, I guess.

The waitress arrives with our wings just in the part when I’m describing my sexual preferences. I’m hoping that she has heard enough to stop trying to mandatory-flirt with us, but not enough to think of me at 50 with my face eaten by cats.

D: You did!? I was thinking about doing the same, but the date went on and on, and he seemed like a nice catch. I’ve been there a few times, good crowd, and I’m friends with the guys who run the place. We should go, well, not today, these wings are going to destroy me on their way out.

D is my Japanese teacher, he’s my best friend’s ex, and we hooked up once, it was nice, and then it got messy (emotionally), but we’re friends right now. D has an amazing sex life, this is in part because he copes with stress by having sex, whereas I cope with stress by drinking and telling jokes. He knows all the fuck-places and is friends with the owners, as for me, when I go, I try not to speak with anybody and focus on not having an anxiety attack.

J: Yeah, there were a couple of good looking guys but the drinks where awful, I mean, why don’t pay as much attention to the liquids your putting in as in the guys you’re putting in? 5 dollar-a-bottle vodka? It’s going to take something way stronger than that to make me lower the the bar enough to fuck the creepy guy who looks like a mass shooter but has a good dick.

D: Why is always the creepy dude with the good dick? I once fucked a hoarder with a huge dick, it was an amazing fuck: The huge dick, the adrenaline rush trigged by not knowing whether he was going to chop you into tiny dices and stuff you in the fridge or not… but why? why can’t we have nice things? Is it too much to ask for a dude to have a big dick, a huge savings accounts and not a reptile as a pet?

J: I don’t know, dude. Is it too much to ask for a place where they serve wings all day without the constant objectification of women? “God gives, God takes” as my grandmother says. Anyway, I went there, had a just-ok time and took an Uber back to my place. You see, the problem with me is that I don’t have that much of a great time there because I only like guys who are way beyond my league. I want to fuck big, beefy guys, but I’m not a big beefy guy (I reach for my third boneless wing in a row and chew it down with a sip of gin), I’m not even trying to be skinny, I’ve realized I just don’t have that-kind-of-body, but with work I don’t have the time to be all those fucking hours at the gym building a body that screams “I know the difference between whey protein and egg protein!”. Besides, you know how it was when I was going everyday at the gym: I was really fit but having mental breakdowns every other day. It was like going to Sephora, I didn’t knew there where so many thing wrong with me until I went there.

D calls the waitress, and asks for a second beer, I ask for a second gin, and she asks herself whether or not to quit her job. The world’s a bitch, but hey, at least there’s gin.

Wings, or as I like to call them, overpriced chicken nuggets

D: I’m going to hit you up with my nutritionist, he’s awesome. He’s straight, but he managed to make E lose ten kilos in two months.

J: Really? By the way, how’s E?

D: Thinner but happy, I guess, as happy as a gay guy living with her catholic mother can be. But he stopped checking up with the nutritionist a month ago, and last time I saw him he was super thin, not “I’m in the middle of a diet” thin but more like “I’m in the middle of a chemo” thin.

J: I hope he’s ok.

D: I hope too.

As I chug down the rest of my gin and tonic, a waitress comes out dressed as a chicken, D and I make a joke about how that’s a shamming method for gaining weight while also make her sweat until she loses the gained weight. Personally, I don’t like places like Hooter’s,way too noisy, even the straight peoplehave a hard time trying to divide their attention between eating and watching all those sports (Apparently “cars” is a sport), but the hardest part is the constant remainder that in this place, women are a thing to be displayed and to be drooled over: You look at the menu BAM! some girl holding a tray of shrimps, you’re looking for a beer and BAM! some girl also holding a beer. I feel guilty, as if Simone de Beauvoir was on the other side of the windows giving me the side eye… but where else can you get wings in the middle of the day?

J: Don’t you think we’re perpetuating these form of women exploitation, objectification, and degradation by eating here?

D: I don’t care, it’s my cheat day and it’s the only day I have to eat carbs before I start my new diet. I have to loose seven kilos if I want to look “I’m in the middle of a fancy divorce” thin…

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