Sunday, Oct. 24, 2004 - 9:52 a.m.

1:15 a.m. If I had to tab that one attribute I love most about my pal BCup it’s his unending and tireless effort to drag me to gay clubs against my will. So here I sit, atop a sticky cracked red naugahyde barstool, in one of Chelsea’s seediest men4men clubs, holding my stomach in for a clientele unworthy of the contraction.

1:18 a.m. BCup, sounding like a salivating parrot, chants, “How ‘bout him? How ‘bout him?” Then with a slight change of inflection, from horny smarmy to a gay Joey Tribbiani, “How ‘bout him? Oh, how ‘bout him.” Feeling a sense of obligation every now and again I’ll toss out a, “Yeah, he’s cute” followed by a brief critique “…in an infectious disease kind of way” or “…if you like inbreeds” or “…for a freak.”

1:28 a.m. Just about ready to make my escape back to the Upper Westside and the safety of my cozy nook of an apartment I see him approaching. Caught like a deer in headlights I’m struck paralyzed by a 6’ 5” 335 lb. man with a smile consisting of a tooth and miles of inflamed gums. After regaining my wits my first instinct was to dart for the door but still somewhat dazed all I could muster was to grab BCup’s arm as if bracing myself for a car accident. BCup leaned in close whispering, “How ‘bout him?”

1:29 a.m. Extending his hand he tells me, “My friends call me Sweet Ray.” Having been in similar situations like this before I have learned, the hard way, that it is best not to encourage. I reply, “I’m sure that’s quite the compliment.” “I saw you from over there,” he says. I strategically ask, “Where?” Throwing his head to the left he says, “Over there.” I query further, “Where exactly?” Adding a pointing finger he says, “There.” Plotting my exit I say, “Go show me. Exactly.” Either a big fool or no fool he responds, “Truth is I don’t right remember where eggsacly I was but it was most definitely over there.”

1:39 a.m. I’m ten minutes into Sweet Ray’s life story and all I can do is wonder if Anbesol is spelled with an “al” or an “ol.”

1:44 a.m. Somewhere around his ma working at The Sears and his pa being a prisoner or prison guard I realized that this isn’t Los Angeles this is New York. I’m a New Yorker and I am no longer a prisoner to my old way of thinking. With that self-revelation I pried my pants free from the barstool gave Sweet Ray a sweet hug and left.

1:45 a.m. Fresh air. I mean really, come on, we didn’t even shop at Sears.

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