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Life is only what you wonder.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

It Creeps Up On You

I went to see Nancy last night at the bar she works at called The Full House.
It's just a little hole-in-the-wall bar in Highlandtown. Not much to see except a bar, a jukebox and a pool table.
I didn't go there for the decor, though. I went there to see Nancy.

I also knew that since she was the barmaid, that I'd get my drinks for free.

It doesn't really save me that much money though, considering I tip her three or four dollars for every "free" drink I get. And she made sure my glass was never empty.
By the time I left her tip jar was bulging and I could barely walk.

This was mainly due to the fact that I was drinking this cocktail called "The Creeper".
The recipe is supposed to be a secret, but I'm among friends. I can trust you not to tell anyone, can't I?
Here's the "secret" recipe:

The Creeper

Ingredients:
1 part vodka (Stoli)
I part Bacardi light rum
1 part Malibu coconut rum
1 part Triple Sec
1 part orange juice
1 part pinapple juice
a dash of Grenadine

Mixing instructions:
Pour all ingredients over ice and mix or shake together.
Strain into a small cocktail glass.
Down the hatch!

This is one of those "sneaky drinks" that don't really taste all that potent.
Then three drinks later -blammo!- you suddenly realize you're almost, but not quite, totally wasted.

Nancy and I had some good "girl talk" over Creepers and she was matching me drink for drink. (I wanna be a bartender. It's the only occupation I can think of where you can drink on the job.)
I told her everything that's been going on, and she told me everything that's been going on with her.
(Lots of drama. But it's not for me to tell her stories.)

I don't know why, but it seems I reveal more of the deep intimate stuff to my girl friends. With my guy friends the conversations are fun, of course, but they never get that "deep" and I only reveal so much.
There are exceptions to this. My buddy Fireguy is a good example. I tell him pretty much everything.
But he's like the only one. If I'm telling my troubles to someone, nine times out of ten it's to one of "my girls".

I never thought about why that is, but I'll take a stab at it right here and now.
Part of it is that "macho" thing. Men just don't talk about that kind of stuff with other men. Even as a gay male, that stuff I was told growing up about what constitutes being a "real man" is still in my head.
And . . .
I suppose I think that, although they're friends and technically I could tell them pretty much anything, they're also males, and therefore (in the back of my mind at least) possible potential future sex partners (or lovers).
Try as I may, I can't get past that.
Just like it's next to impossible for me to go to a gay club and not mentally compare how I look (hair, clothes, body, youthfulness) against everyone else there, like it's some kind of beauty contest. I don't do that as much as I used to anymore (by far), but I still catch myself doing it occasionally.
Sometimes I wish I didn't think that way, but you can only control so much about how your mind works.

I find more out about myself every single day.

Anyhoo, I had fun, hung out with one of my girls, got a little buzzed.

It was a good night.