Post Nasal Drips.

Late night. 11:30 p.m. Went and hung out at this 24-hour Internet cafe downtown called Shot In the Dark. Pretty hip joint, a sprinkle of college students, literary fags, dykes, and junkies spun out of their minds. As I passed through the door, took a macho pose on the back wall and listened in on a poetry session already in progress. Yes, bongos and incense were well represented. A little lesbian with short black curly hair and green army fatigue pants asked if I wanted anything. Ordered a Yoo-hoo.
Was reacquainted with a friend I had met recently...no, I knew him from Primavera. Tony, they called him. Little guy, with real white teeth. Nice smile, I suppose, in a nerdy bespectacled kind of way. Well, Tony was glad to see me and I guess I was the same. Pretty numb about talking and associating lately. People are quite a bore.
Sometimes.
So, I stood there with my Yoo-hoo, still feeling the high from the joint I toked before leaving my trap angry that The Aviator did not win the Oscar for Best Picture. Assholes. A handsome black guy rapped off a beautiful sonnet about the desert and sunsets. My fascination swung to lust as it often does. I had not made it with a black guy in a long time. The guy on the stage was a chocolate-colored Hercules. In dreads. Wonder if he fools around. Dream of running my pale hand across his dark and muscular chest, down his chiseled six-pack...
So, I was dragged out of my reverie by the nasal whine of Tony. So, wacha wanna do? Was asked about seven or eight times. Damn, boy, shut up and let me enjoy my high. With a ding-a-ling of the doorbell, our feet were hitting the pavement under the pale full moon and we found ourselves at the Iguana Bar. The clientele was old hippies, bikers, and drunk Indians. Country and Banda filled the room. Old, and I mean OLD, Mexican bitch started hitting on me as I entered the bar. "Buy me a drink!" She tottered, breathing halitosis and beer and vomit into my face.
"Let's get outta here."
Walked...no stumbled...down 4th Ave to a bar called The Surly Wench. Why not? Entered...college crowd, cheap Coronas. Hip and groovy clean-cut assholes did a ballet to and fro through cigarette smoke in a vain attempt to impress one another. No towering hostile transvestites or slick-talking boy hustlers here. But, I digress...the beer was cheap.
 

Tony, who started getting cuter as I was getting drunker said let's bar hop. Why not? The next bar was Che, and for the love of fucking God a karaoke show was in progress. Three...four shots of tequila and I am up on stage belting out Raspberry Beret by Prince. A showstopper, I tell you.

Let's go to I.B.T's...
What's that?
A queer bar.
Ech. The thought of being surrounded by a bunch of sneering aloof-looking fags peering around with their "Attitude Face" gave me the horrors. Listen to How Soon Is Now by The Smiths, so true...so true.
I shudder but follow Tony anyway. At the door, we are turned away by the large and surly doorman. Glares at Tony, "You're barred, brother. You can't come in."
Barred? Fuck. Asking no questions, mainly because I didn't care, we headed back downtown and finished the night playing pool at some dive called Sharks. These assholes had a karaoke show blaring here, too. Played drunken pool with three exchange students from Central America. Two hot, one not. Sat in the back on a red Velvet couch and made out with some guy from Peru. Last call and I said goodbye and took a taxi home. Jack off and fall asleep in that mess. And to top it off, my nose is running from that fucking cold that won't go away.