Him:  This bar is crowded.  Wow.

Me:  Yeah.  I remember when there used to be like, 60 people here, tops, on a Friday night.  It’s become a destination.  Or a bunch of Gays have moved to Williamsburg, maybe.

Him:  What about Williamsburg would attract a lot of gays?

Me:  Just a certain type of Gay, I guess.  Different types of Gays live in different neighborhoods, it seems…

Him:  Really?  I’m oblivious I guess.

Me:  Yeah, I think so.  You’ve got a pretty face, by the way.

Him:   A compliment.  I bet you say that to all the boys.

Me:  I do, yes.


Him:  What?

Me:  I compliment boys, when I go on a date with them, yes.  At, least, if I want to try to kiss them later, I do.

Him:  That doesn’t make me feel special.

Me:  I know!  Imagine how I feel!  I told you you’re pretty and I was made to suffer for it.

Him:  I don’t want to feel like you’re just complimenting me because you’re going to try to kiss me later.  I don’t want to feel like there’s an agenda attached to it.

Me:  You’re right.  Next time I have a stray thought about you being attractive, I’ll keep it to myself.


Him:  So, different Gays live in different neighborhoods?

Me:  That’s right.  I think so, at least.

Him:  Okay.  This is a fun game.  What kind of Gays live in Hell’s Kitchen?

Me:  Middle Management Gays, Chorus Boy Gays, and Fashion Fags.

Him:  Hm…  That explains the attitude.

Me:  Exactly.  To them, cunty is a sport.  If you’re not playing the cunty game, you’re not feeling well that day.  It’s a language that they speak.

Him:  I know.  I’m fluent.

Me:  Aren’t we all?  But do we have to choose to communicate that way?

Him:  Some of us think it’s fun.  Upper East Side?

Me:  Retired Journalist Homos, Antique Store Fags, Trust Fund Queers that don’t know how cool Tribeca is.

Him: West Village?

Me:  Graphic Design Homos, Young MTV Exec Pansies, Elderly Queers with Rent Control.

Him:  Williamsburg?

Me:  NYU Poofs, Wanna Be Art Fags, Assholes With Pie Blogs.

Him:  Ha.  You are an asshole.

Me:  Thanks.  You’re super charming.

Him:  Do you say that to all the boys?

Me:  Only when I’m lying.


Him:  Bushwick?

Me:  Actual Art Fags, Small Business Owner Homos, Gay Bait with Bed Bugs.

Him:  Wow.  You’ve got it all figured out, huh?

Me:  Obviously not.  I’m a homo of a certain age, and I live next to a highway.

Him:  What do you DO for a living?

Me:  I waste other people’s time.

Him:  What? 

Me:  Just kidding.  I do comedy.  Which is frivolous.  It’s entertainment.  Which is a waste of time.

Him:  Oh I don’t think so.

Me:  Me neither.  I just like the way it sounds coming out of my mouth.  ‘I waste people’s time for a living.’  I love your hair.  You have amazing hair.

Him:  Gross, I haven’t washed it in a while.

Me:  Sorry.  You’re right.  Your hair is disgusting.

Him:  NO!  That’s not what I meant!

Me:  I know.  I’m just reacting to your sarcasm in a literal way.  It’s the only weapon people have against sarcasm.  I’m really sarcastic, and the only thing that penetrates that sarcasm is when people take it (faux) seriously.

Him: Really?

Me:  Drives me up a wall.  Maybe it’s the lighting in here, but man, your skin is wow.

Him:  Shut up.  I have a zit.

Me:  Third time.  That’s the third time.

Him:  Third time what?

Me:  Third time that I’ve complimented you and you’ve told me to shut up or rebuffed me in some way.

Him: Sorry.  I’m just not used to people going around giving compliments to each other.

Me: Not even on dates?

Him:  No.

Me:  That makes me sad.

(long pause)

Him:  Let’s just play our name game.

Me:  Okay.

Him:  What kind of Fags live in Gramercy?

Me:  Stephen Sondheim.

5 thoughts on “SaturDATE

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