BE WARY OF AMBIGUOUSLY GAY PAINTERS, AA MEETINGS IN THE CASTRO, AND PLAN-B COCKTAILS

by
Katie Manderfield

I'm wasted, drunk, and alone because this guy left me at a bar�a gay bar�downtown, and by gay, I mean lesbian - he left like it was some clich� movie, some flick starring some silly actress who only gets parts in one kind of movie; the kind of movie in which there is a scene where the guy throws a fit, makes it loud, leaves the girl stranded, surrounded by hungry homosexuals�well, the last part's a little bit of a twist, and I think the guy usually gets walked out on, but that's besides the point, you see, we were supposed to go to a meeting; he has a problem with drugs, alcohol, consideration and I was trying to be nice, I think, I know�he's my best friend, or was until tonight, this night in which he left me after I picked him up to go to an AA meeting, this night in which the AA meeting was, of course, cancelled and this night in which I agreed, despite all better judgement, to get "just one drink" (which he promised would be 'club soda,' failing to deny the possibility of mixing such said beverage with one of a more alcoholic nature), so we sat there, at this lesbian bar, and we fought because I was angry at him; he had painted on my walls, yes my walls, without asking me after we went to happy hour about two weeks ago (and really, who does that?)�anyway, to make a long story short, he "wanted to make it up to me," but of course I was very angry�also because we had been sleeping together for a good three months and I was beginning to feel a slight sexual frustration in his absence, and because in the midst of his painting he had used my friend's midterm as a palette, and two of her jackets as "excess paint remover" so I not only lost a freshly painted bare wall, but nearly lost a roommate, her midterm, her jackets, a consistent sex schedule, a best friend, and a Tuesday night to attend a meeting, for someone else who had a problem, the meeting being unexpectedly cancelled thus, placing me in a bar with a boy I was trying to help get sober, drinking a beer, and watching him drink a 'club soda' that reeked of vodka and tonic, but this is all skipping the best part�being of course, the part in which he walked out on me, after I vehemently swore off any further sexual escapades, as I adamantly defended my friend's belongings and the line that was crossed in painting a wall of my house without permission (no, I do not think I can just chalk it up to being "some paint on a fucking wall") and to the disappointment that ensued because of all this in losing a best friend/fuck buddy, to which he retorted that it was only an outlet for his creative expression, his way of providing "a great gift upon the bareness of those walls, something to lift the spirits upon each entrance into that room", (yes, he really talks this way)�however, this is also avoiding a good bit of back story; as one of the driving forces in my animosity toward him on this Tuesday night is the fact that after I had sworn him off because of the manic, rebellious wall-painting display, a friend of his had come up to me to tell me that the only reason he was 'dating' me (a term I grimaced at; a word I wanted to paint on his wall with a big, black X over it) was because my mother had promised to "invest in his website"; this, being completely ridiculous because my mother had met him once and hated him during the whole five minutes of the encounter; and so naturally, upon bringing this up, this guy denies everything (deny, deny, deny), and then sort of takes that back admitting, "You know me, I lie a lot, most of my life is a lie" to which I gave him a confused nod of understanding, and before I could point out how, then, I had every right to be upset, he added, "But I never told anyone I slept with you," to which now I was completely confused, because he had just admitted to being a pathological liar and it would have been sort of stupid on my part to ignore this admittance, so I responded "yeah right"�now, I'm not sure which part of 'yeah, right' is so offensive, but it is at this moment that the guy jumps up, throws his arms into the air reciting things like "I don't need your fucking charity" and "If you think I am a fucking liar, fine," (which I am still markedly stumped by, as if him saying he was a liar mere minutes again was some kind of freak hallucination on my part and I wondered, quite seriously, if I'd been roofied) shouting loudly as about a dozen young homosexual women advert their attention our way and he storms out, leaving me with half a beer left and sympathetic, eager stares all around, to which I subtly reject ("No, I'm sorry, he's just an alcoholic�no, no, I don't need someone to talk to, thank you though�") and grab my jacket, chug my beer, and get the fuck out of there, onto the street which he has fled from, back eight blocks to the church in which my car is parked in front of, half crying because of the ridiculousness of the situation and because I am slightly drunk off having chugged 'a' beer that was housed in a glass that equated to more like four, and as I drove off alone and embarrassed, my cell phone gives of a sort of ring, an indication that I have a text; from him of course, that reads "thank you for being there for me, I truly appreciate it. I apologize for any embarrassment that you may have experienced in my presence" and to which I cordially replied "fuck you," ('best friend' now demoted to 'fucking-douchebag-cocksocker-fuck') thus leaving me as I began this story; wasted, drunk, alone, and admittedly, still slightly horny; pausing a little too long before throwing away the receipt onto the back of which was a number circled with a heart under the name 'Melanie'.

� Katie Manderfield
Reproduced with permission