In which FHC does not mention Bebar

When Christ suddenly lost both his legs and arms on Friday evening, I started to suspect that this week-end was going to be a tough one. I had planned to drown my sorrow in alcohol on Friday night and score some pity sex but instead I inadvertently sank everything at once: my soul, dignity and hopes…at Apex of all places. I was a little apprehensive while waiting in line with people I had written awful things about in my blog, already drunk from Kevin D.’s brilliant concerto and a halt at JRs, but I felt that the place had not changed and I must have managed to rebuild some social contacts as I remember dancing shirtless with some crackheads at one point. Kevin W., my nemesis whom I thought was barred to step in Apex, asked me to have a “look at [myself] right now” to which I replied by spitting my drink at him. I also remember Mark H. smelling like cigarette and Ben T. being all bentaylorish. Deep down, I am such a vapid f*ck because I really believe in the underlying promise of gay clubs that you can achieve happiness overnight if you are sufficiently lubricated. Eventually, instead of leading to some healthy rebound anonymous sex, the evening ended with FHC passing out (very grateful to the gentleman who brought me back and left a glass of water on my nightstand) and waking up in a puddle of vomit on Saturday morning. I have had better times and I experienced what I would describe as a pretty lonely moment as Drew W. kindly acted as if he believed I had caught some stomach bug. The only positive aspect is that I partly threw up in the H&H bucket LL had given to me as a break-up gift which is an improvement to my puking pattern. I spent my Saturday cleaning up and sending text messages of apology.

On Saturday night, Carlos U.’s farewell party was the social event of the season. It really felt like gay pride… There even was some trashy faghags and a Pinata full of kinky stuff (I brought back a fantasy cock ring). Mark H. was showing his extra-large Magnum condoms to the crowd which had invaded his house conveniently located in the ghetto (as if nobody had been savagely murdered in DC lately). Gerald had some nice words about DC when he told me “I have never met that many nest-building real estate gay men” to which dearest Neil B. added “and if you look at their faces, it looks like they haven’t lived”. Russ and Sam K. were both charming and Russ let me quote my father on British queers. Bruce was shitfaced. David D. was yummy. I was a little careful as I had just recovered from the previous night and drank very reasonably as a logical consequence, once again, I did not get laid even if I was wearing my new undies.

Comments

[LL]

Well, at least the new cleaning lady now knows the challenges that lie ahead.

[Mark H.]

me smell like a cigarette? pish posh.

[Russ W.]

One cruises the West End; the other, the West Side. From London to New York, when it comes to style, the British fop and the American queen are cut from the same cloth.

[fan]

if you can't get laid who will

[kevin d.]

once again, fan, you rear your ugly little head of ignorance. if you think fabrice in his eau de vomit boudoir could ever entice a sentient being, you are seriously misguided.

[fan]

Don't be jealous, you're kind of sexy too