Broadway Danny Rose

So yes, just two, three days ago I was kvetching about the music I hear when I go out, citing The Smiths as one example of something I hear too goddamn much, but last night, on that dancefloor at Royal Oak, it was a song by them, my favorite one to dance to (not my favorite to listen to at home, sad), "Hang the DJ," it was this song that made me lose my fucking shit. And it was much straighter, much more American Eagle that it normally is there, but during this song I felt a communion with all these heteros and had the briefest of revelations that I am unable to verbalize now, was unable to then, and knew that the moment was fleeting, probably the two, three minutes of that song, so I danced and sang really loud and stomped around. And that's where this feeling of being bound up with all humans came about because earlier in the night, I watched all these various straight boys lose their shit and scream and yell at the top of their lungs and stomp as the Pixies played or some other songs I recognized but would be hard pressed to name the band that sings them. And I thought, all the same, these boys aren't capable of holding it in either when so moved, that there are these songs that everyone loses their shit to in such similar ways. It is amazing.

I was in a funk last night and really this song was the peak of my night. I didn't even really want to go out. The night started with Ethan, Adele, Schlitz, Chinese Food and Woody Allen's Broadway Danny Rose. It was pretty good and Mia Farrow does a really excellent job playing a hardened broad, something I would not have thought her capable of. I was already tired after this and was sort of dreading the expectations of both Adele and Ethan, who both wanted to go out to a bar. I turned the TV to 13, which was playing one of my all time favorite movies, Some Like it Hot, and watched as much of it as I could before giving in to the peer pressure of the other two. Adele wanted to go to Barcade, Ethan to Metropolitan, and if I was going out, I wasn't going to either of those places, so I brought them to Royal Oak, which was definitely the peak of last night's bar crawl.

After getting a little restless with even the absence of the potential for dick at that bar, I suggested Fun, and the three of us headed off there. It was more populated than the last time I was there and hopefully it will just keep snowballing until the bar can live up to its name. Adele was one of two girls there and I think pretty bored since she wanted to meet boys also. I seated myself on one of the couches and stared at one of the most beautiful go-go boys ever. Certainly not hot in the go-go boy sense of the word. No muscles whatsoever, a boy skinner than me with this gorgeous mane of dark brown hair and soccer socks and Carolina blue skivvies on. I was storing these mental details about him, knowing that I would end my night masturbating to those recalled images of this gorgeous boy.

At some point, I think right after I danced really lost to Mary J. Blige's "Real Love," a song that hit the spot more than anything else probably could have at that moment, right after this, the go-go boy was standing right near us, and Ethan was like keep dancing, he's looking at you, and really too many beers by this point, too tired and Ethan went over to talk to him and I ran to Adele, really embarrassed because I knew Ethan was going to tell him I had a crush on him. Ethan talked to him for a decent bit, and I think the dancer liked him and then Ethan and I did body shots off this boy's chest, off his lack of a chest. And we left right after to go to Capone's so Adele could perhaps interact with some boys of the straight variety, and that place was pretty much a bust in every sense of the word. Practically empty except for some douchebags up on the smoking patio. We ate some pizza and then all came home and really I think I may have started writing this with the intention of saying something and I think everything went to hell, all intention gone, gone out the window, as soon as I mentioned that hot go-go boy and my mind can't handle such thoughts without wandering, wondering if I should go jack off in my room now since my room in not soundproof and it seems all my roomies are still asleep, so not in the living room right outside my door.

And last night, with Ethan asleep on the couch right outside my flimsy excuse for a door made of glass, I so quietly masturbated to thoughts of that go-go boy, was sort of spiteful toward Ethan, thinking that if only he weren't in my living room, I could move on my bed a little, not feel so constrained to this one spot, not wanting my bed to squeak, and surely that was drunk paranoia, and I don't know what this is I am writing, hungover silliness? Maybe.

Because the music that they constantly play, it says nothing to me about my life.

I could draw you a picture of this boy, the go-go dancer, the details of his appearance, his body are so crystal clear in my mind, how when he bent over to talk to someone seated at the bar, his back to me, how his underwear clung to his asscrack and beneath that, bent over as he was, you could see the clear outline of his ballsack, the underwear clinging to that also. I could draw this and his gorgeous smile, that big, dark hair. Assuming of course, that I knew how to draw.