It’s Friday, and C__ is back in town from Brussels, whatever that is, and I am SO EXCITED because we’ve made plans for a ladies night out at FUEGO, D.C.’s hottest gay nightclub for Latinos and the men who fetishize them. Although I qualify as neither of those things, both C__ and our friend R__ do, and besides, who am I to deny my brothers a night of passion with someone who lives in Alexandria, wears Old Navy boxer shorts, and doesn’t speak English.

As it turns out, Fuego is not exactly located in the most accessible of neighborhoods. In fact, it’s not really located in a neighborhood at all. What does one call the 1800 block of New York Avenue NE? The Arboretum District? Because that’s what’s across the street. Oh, and it’s housed in the same building as the United Cerebral Palsy headquarters. Perhaps PN Hoffman will build a condo there and a bunch of intrepid douches will start a “UnCePal” listserv.

Anyway, we pile into a cab, and after 20 minutes of watching the meter climb to an alarming $20, we pull up to our destination. “This is it!” R__ says, pointing at an awning with the United Cerebral Palsy logo. Somehow, this is reassuring. The driver pulls away, and we find ourselves alone in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Ah, but see, out of the darkness emerges a gang of Latinos, which might have proven a wee bit unnerving on any other given night, but on this night they inspire sighs of relief. And they’re cute! Perhaps our Fuego adventure won’t be as much of a pig fuck as I had expected. We follow them into the club, where we pay $10 for cover and get hammered.

Well, that’s oversimplifying things. I had three rum and Cokes, which were essentially glasses of rum with some ice dropped in as a perfunctory gesture. I took off my T-shirt because it was just so damn caliente in there. My self-tanner was dripping all over the place and left orange smears on several unidentified objects/people. Someone winked at me, the way an uncle winks at his niece after he abuses her in a Lifetime movie. We left in a cab and went to the gay McDonalds on 17th Street, where I traded in my remaining scraps of dignity for an eight-piece McNuggets meal. Then I called my boyfriend and made him pick me up. I watched a few episodes of “Three’s Company” (“Where’s Susan Sarandon’s character?”) and passed out at 5 a.m.

The next day I went to the public pool, but that’s a story for another time. All of my friends wear Speedos and I have no idea why.

Hmm, something’s missing. But what?
I wrote about Kings yesterday, so, naturally, I was in the mood to play it last night. I went over to Tay and Rusty’s house with Cyber Agatha, and the fun began.
Not very long into the game, Tay drew a 10 and proceeded to pass legislation requiring Rusty to drink beer whenever anyone else drinks beer. Simple enough, but the new law swiftly emerged as the Second Amendment of Make-A-Rule, with the focus of debate centered largely on the definition of “whenever.”
Is “whenever anyone else drinks beer” synonymous more broadly with drinking in general (both Kings and “leisurely sips” included), or does it pertain more narrowly towards drinking in the context of Kings only? Scholarly alcoholics (They exist!) will surely debate this important issue for years to come.
Discovering a kinship with today’s menacingly activist judge, Agatha, Tay and I interpreted the rule as literal; Rusty would have to drink whenever anyone else takes a drink, even when the drink is not taken as a direct consequence of play. The flaw in our logic should have been obvious – but it did not reveal itself until Rusty drew an Ace, prompting a round of Waterfalls and the ultimate overturn of our ruling.
The general idea behind Waterfalls is that everyone must drink when the leader begins drinking. When the leader stops drinking, then and only then may the person to his left stop drinking, as well. When that person stops drinking, then the next person to his left can stop drinking, too. The chain continues until the last player puts his beer can down.
Now, if Rusty is the leader during Waterfalls, then, technically, all players are drinking when Rusty is drinking. But, with Tay’s rule in affect, Rusty must drink whenever anyone else is drinking, too. Clearly, the path toward chaos and destruction – a veritable black hole of binge drinking – was short and unhindered. Had Tay not taken it upon herself to break the unending cycle, we all would have expired from alcohol poisoning.
Thank you, Tay, for saving my life.

A recurring theme: despair.*
I spent the holiday weekend in Rehoboth with the Gentleman Friend, 14 additional friends of somewhat lesser significance, and – evidently – the entire gay population of Washingon, D.C. It was all good though; people are generally more friendly and approachable when they are seen not only in a different context, but in a desperately revealing pair of squarecut swimtrunks.
Each day of my vacation unraveled in a similar fashion. Behold the unofficial schedule:
10:30 a.m. Wake up to the sound of either Jack laughing or a headboard banging against the shared wall of your bedroom.
11 a.m. Eat breakfast. Recover from shame. Accept the fact that things are a lot less socially awkward when everyone is drunk.
12 – 3 p.m. Lay on the beach. Complain about how hot it is. Marvel at former Metro Weekly Coverboy with heartbreakingly underdeveloped quads and suspiciously tightened abs.
3 p.m. Return to house. Consider pouring yourself the first alcoholic beverage of the day and becoming “That Guy.”
3:10 p.m. Succumb to temptation. Begin what will ultimately become a 12-hour binge.
4 p.m. – 4 a.m. Mayhem. Debauchery. Shockingly forward displays of sexuality.
4 a.m. Pass the fuck out.
I mean, can your holiday beat that?
*That is not me.

What happens to a dream deferred?
I’m not sure; I don’t have any dreams. All I know is that it’s better to be a gin-soaked grape than an anguished raisin in the sun.

There came a point in the night when I willingly resigned my fate to a garbage can filled with jungle juice, placed casually and invitingly in the middle of a stranger’s living room. For one unlucky person, such a party usually ends in confusion, scandal and nonconsensual sex, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.
Although others may have lost their dignity last night, I managed merely to lose my cell phone. To those who know me on a personal, professional or biblical level, please e-mail me your phone number. To everyone else, please send money so that I can afford a new phone.
Augh.