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I was pretty zonked out there for a while. But I know I nodded at all the right times and smiled intermittently to let him know that I was interested. And I was interested. And not just because he was absolutely adorable and perky and sweet, but because he seemed smart and for real. He wasn’t talking about drugs or boys or parties; he was telling me about his graduate studies in biochemistry, in fact. And he was telling me about his great new apartment. And he told me about his childhood and growing up in Alabama and about coming out to his parents when he was fourteen. Fourteen! And there I was, almost twenty-two, and my parents thought I was dating a girl named Laura (don’t ask). And I just sat there and dreamily smiled and nodded. If this boy loved an appreciative audience, he had one in me, drugged and drunk though I might’ve been.
    “Can I get you another drink, Bruce?” he asked, already getting up to get himself another one. I managed a nod, and he was off.
    I sat there thinking of my good fortune. Did he remember me from the bathroom at Badlands? It was awfully dark in there, after all. In any case, who cared? I was just glad to have this second chance.
    And so I sat there waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. And still no Chuck. I mean, how long could it take to get a couple of drinks, right? Even with the Vicodin in full-force, I became impatient and struggled off the couch to go take a look. And, let me tell you, gin and pills are not a good mix, because walking anywhere wasn’t easy. But I was a man on a mission and managed to search from room to room for him. Sadly, he seemed to have up and vanished.
    Damn , I thought, I couldn’t believe I missed another opportunity. So pay attention up there, because here comes Gay Rule #2 (you should read this with an echo effect in the background for maximum impact): never, I repeat, never miss an opportunity when love (sex) may be at hand; you will surely regret it if you do. And regret makes you bitter, and bitterness causes frown lines, and before you know it you’re a tired old drag queen performing for quarters on Polk Street. No foolin’. So be warned.
    Then, miraculously, I heard his voice, and he sounded upset. I followed the noise to the one room I hadn’t checked out yet: the kitchen. See, my gay sensibilities were still in their infancy, and I was unaware that the kitchen is always the focal point of any gay party. (No, that’s not a gay rule. Not yet, anyway, but maybe someday it’ll make the list. I’ll let you know.)
    I peeked into the room, and in the corner was Chuck, holding back another guy who was cursing and who had obviously been crying. Drama! The only thing I could make out was the other guy saying, “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill that lousy fuck.” And other things along those lines. Chuck was trying to calm the other guy down by telling him how it wasn’t worth it and that he should just leave and to count his blessings that he found out now instead of down the road. Man, Chuck was cute, even in emergency situations. Luckily, the booze was by the door, so I poured myself another gin and tonic and continued to watch the scene unfold.
    It took Chuck another five minutes or so, but the other guy finally started to calm down and was getting ready to leave, when guess who should pop in for a drink? Yup, it was our old buddy, William. Well, that’s when the you know what hit the fan. It seemed that the ever-popular William was the source of the misery. No great surprise there. Should’ve known, right?
    “You lousy piece of shit,” the traumatized stranger shouted out, and Chuck had to restrain him yet again. “If I ever get my hands on you, I’m going to fucking strangle you.”
    And, calm as he could be, William looked him right in the eyes and said, “If I was you, I’d be having this conversation with your boyfriend and not with me. I didn’t force him to have sex with me. Actually, he was the one who approached me.