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Having once had a shitty experience at a particular dance club last year, I vowed never to go back. It’s an elitist, superficial, and charges way too much for cover. Wait, maybe I gave up going there for lent. I really can’t remember. So naturally when one of the cute bar tenders invited me to check out the new retro ‘80s night, how could I refuse?
What was more entertaining? Was it the music or the attire that seemed to be required? Long faux-pearl necklaces where draped numerous times around some of the girls. Some guys, oblivious to the night’s theme stuck out like smokers at the gym. Of course, I fit in, sporting my $5 au couture black sweatband from Just for Feet. I paid more than I wanted for the black band so I figure I was treating myself to a night of self-indulging debauchery and decadence.
Within half an hour, I met a beautiful boy that would change my world.
Boy: How old are you?
Me: *somewhat shocked that he didn’t first say, "hello"* Uh, 23.
Boy: (Oh, that’s kinda old.)
Me: What? How old are you?
Boy: Nineteen. How much money do you make?
Me: What? You shouldn’t…that’s none of your…whatever.
Against my better judgement I stayed and talked. Maybe it was the free drink the cute bar tender made me, maybe it was the sheer audacity of the underage boy.
Boy: Well, then what do you do?
Me: I’m a graphic designer.
Boy: A what?
Me: A designer!
Boy: I don’t get it. Can you sign it?
The music didn’t get any louder. I couldn’t figure out why he suddenly couldn’t hear me anymore. Nevertheless, I signed "designer" by spelling each letter out.
Boy: I don’t get you. Hey! I have a question.
Me: *looking perturbed*
Boy: If I get really drunk, will you drive me home?
When did 23 constitute old in the gay community? This isn’t Hollywood, it’s Phoenix!
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