Last night at the Shanghai Steakery, a middle-aged man rockin’ a dirty blonde mullet and Captain Kangaroo glasses, dressed in a t-shirt that said ARMY on it and sporting a full-arm cast, bought me a drink. He needed change for video poker and the bar couldn’t break a hundred without him buying something. So I got a pint glass of whiskey (the Steakery RULES) and thanked the gentleman profusely.
"You in the army?" I asked.
"Used to be. Late eighties to early nineties."
The guy was completely unanimated. His thin lips barely moved when he spoke.
"See anything interesting?"
"Nope. I was stationed here. I was a sniper."
"Ahhh. So if you had seen anything interesting, you wouldn’t be able to tell me, huh."
"Nope."
He worked at a second-hand tire shop. A tire exploded and the shrapnel had torn a whole in his hand and ripped up the flesh on his arm. He was fresh out of the hospital. The Shanghai Steakery was his first stop.
"Sure am glad I’m single," he said, looking around, knocking over his beer in the process. On his left two elderly fags were making goo-goo eyes at each other. I was on a date. My date was wearing lots of eye makeup and had his hand down my pants. A busty sixty-something transvestite blushed as the pretty young bartender boy gave her quarters for the pool table.
"Huh. That’s not something you hear every day. Why do you say that?" I asked him.
"Don’t gotta answer to no one. I’m free to just go where the night takes me."
"Get to surf the chaos, right?"
"Yep."
Goddamn, I thought. Here he is. Another Angel of the Lord.
Viva, Thou Art Single For A Reason, And Thou Art LOVING EVERY MINUTE OF IT.
God, it’s so weird when God speaks through mulleted blue-collar types at gay bars. My last three columns have been pitiful pipe dreams of a thirteen-year-old who suddenly finds she’s of child-bearing age. To recap: "I Want a Man", "I Want a Criminal", and "Here’s How You Fuck Me." You probably expected this column to be a list of qualifications for sperm donors.
But you know what? I’m good solo. Real good. I love living alone, I get a ton done, I get to see all my girlfriends. The reason I’ve been in a half-dozen failed relationships is not because of the boys I’ve dated—Drunk, Dick, Asshole, Loser, Liar and Prick—it’s because of me. I can’t do relationships.
I turned my attention from the Angel of the Lord to my date. I really, really liked him. He said all the right things and touched all the right places, inside and out. How long before I fucked it up? Probably when he started wanting something I couldn’t give: commitment.
I’ll suck your cock til the cows come home, but the moment you need anything else, well, anything requiring me to give up surfing the chaos of life, I’ll disappear. So long, sweetheart.
I’m trying to change. I do have cats. Two cats. They expect to see me every night and, after nearly nine years with them, I’m falling in line. I’m committed to them. I can do it. Commitment.
Could I commit to you, Sugarlips? So far you’ve really fuckin’ hit it. Maybe if you’re patient and you persevere, keep saying all the right things and touching all the right spots, if you read my last three columns and are really fucking lucky...
Nevermind.