Here. Where? There!

My neighbor Phillip is a very hot British man. Sometimes I wash my car in the driveway shirtless, and I’ve waved Hello to him, a few times, and I’m sensing a mutual attraction. Tonight, he invited me out for a drink.

Theodore: Phillip, where are we going?
Phillip: here
Theodore: where?
Phillip: Here.
Theodore: Oh, There.
Phillip: No mate. The bar is called Here.

Never one to turn down an invitation for an evening out, I accepted. Even though I was new in town, I knew full well I’d rather be anywhere than There/Here with a guy as hot as Phillip . I knew the place was a meat-market, and generally, I feel threatened and extremely vulnerable whenever I’m in a large crowd of gay guys, so I tried to play it cool.

Sure enough, I was molested by a vast array of men, all of whom were using the “excuse me/ruse me” technique. The place was packed that night, and once we made it inside, a line began snaking around the block. I am 32. Generally, men in their late 40’s-early 50’s grope and feel me up in order to walk past me, rather than erring on the polite side to say, “Pardon Me.” Those who choose the ‘excuse me/ruse me’ technique are generally ugly male perverts with limited social skills. I guess they assume I won’t notice their hands groping any available part of my body as they pass. I drew the line when a mean spirited and unphysiqued Latino guy in tight clothing administered the mother of all Purple Nurples to my left teat. I swatted his hand away, deciding that I had had enough. I warned him, “Watch it, Pal.” He replied, “I didn’t realize you were so ugly, otherwise I never would have bothered with you.” He had a very pronounced lisp, and when he spoke, his neck gyrated. He punctuated his insult by snapping the fingers of his left hand and then he ran away.

I was immediately taken back to the playground in 1983. I was in 6th grade when Cathy Lewis came up to my face, and yelled, “He’s so ugly!” to her friend very loudly. They both ran away giggling, and left me with imaginary egg on my newly designated ugly face. Afterwards, I remember going to the boy’s bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror, believing that if God really loved me, he wouldn’t have made me so ugly. A symbolic, lonesome tear streamed down my cheek in order to validate all of the sadness Cathy Lewis had colored into my life on that fateful day.

Back in the present day, the Latino nipple insurrectionist disappeared into a crowd of plastic and fake Prada, and I tried to let his hateful words roll off of my back as best I could. I stood there for an hour or two talking to Phillip, until my voice started to hurt. He wasn’t paying much attention to what I was saying, just nodding politely, so I finished out the night and made the easy decision to never frequent a West Hollywood bar again.