The Former Traveling Spotlight

The tales of a "30" something gay former stand-up comic living in NYC who is searching for his soul mate or soul...which ever comes first.

Monday, May 21, 2007

A Little Literal

Being a comedian, I find that my life mirrors sitcom life all to easily. Yes, I get myself into messes, and unfortunately, I don't get the luxury of having my problems solved within 30 minutes.

For the last 7 days, I've been one of two places. Either at my office for 1/2 days or in my apartment. Doing much more has been difficult, as I'm still sore from surgery, and have difficulty gathering enough energy to do much more. Yet, this past Saturday, I couldn't take it anymore. My windows have bars on them and it had suddenly begun to feel too much like a prison. I needed out of my house badly, so I took myself out to the coffee shop down the street.

Now I love living in Manhattan. A $20 taxi ride will take me all the way downtown during traffic. I get the convenience of being able to walk nearly anywhere in nice weather, and where else could I live and hear my neighbors have sex on a regular basis. However I live on the Upper West Side.

The UWS consists of predominantly married couples, married couples with children, and a few single people looking to get married and have children. I live in one of the most heterosexual areas of Manhattan. Yeah...lament, lament, lament. I'm lucky to find a somewhat affordable apartment here, so I'm not bitching too much. However, being a single gay man, the prospects of finding gay friends and dates in my neighborhood are slim. I've got better chances of meeting men in my gym locker room (although those men usually have wives) than in the neighborhood.

So I was surprised at my luck on Saturday. With coffee in hand I sat down and was about to open a book when two men at the next table started a conversation with me. Obviously a couple (they were holding hands), these men who were in their early 40's, introduced themselves and began the process of getting to know me. For the next hour, we discussed the neighborhood, the lack of affordable apartments, our work, and our past. The conversation was absolutely delightful, and I found myself happy to know that these gentlemen lived only three blocks from me. I was sure that my neighborhood had an ordinance that only allowed 1 gay man per 5 block radius.

My new friends were as equally enamoured with me, and surprised me by inviting me to a party they were having that evening. "Were having a party tonight and we would love to have you". I was touched, but unsure if I'd have the energy, so I told them I'd think about it. Later that day, they called and asked me again to attend, so I agreed to show up.

I dressed appropriately casual and checked in with the doorman, where I was then permitted to go up to the apartment. Walking in the door, I was once again astounded as to how much better everyone else's apartment is compared to mine. My place is a shit hole. Their living room was larger than my whole apartment, they had 3 bedrooms and were rent stabilized. Bitches.

The party hosts welcomed me and took my coat. 25 men, all around the same age were in the place, all talking, and my hosts gave me the quick tour, announcing that the last of the guests had arrived. The lighting was a bit dim, but I assumed it was only for the party atmosphere. I was wrong.

Returning to the living room with my party guests, I witnessed a jaw aching surprise. Two men were having oral sex in the middle of the room. In fact, around them, men were all beginning to have sex with each other. There I stood, slack jawed, as I felt an arm wrapping itself around my torso.

Can someone please tell me when did the word party and orgy become synonymous? Although flattered that I was invited into this sexual "free for all" I had no clue that when the hosts said they would love to have me, they meant it literally. There I stood, beginning to get felt up, looking around in a panic to find my coat so I could get the hell out of there.

I considered leaving my coat behind, but my phone was in the pocket, so it wasn't an option. Looking to my left, just past the blowjob daisy chain that was beginning to form, I saw my jacket lying on the guest bed. I made a beeline for it, and tried not to leave a Patrick shaped hole in the door on my way out.

And what was the 30 minute lesson that this sitcom taught me? Never talk to fucking strangers unless you want to see strangers fucking.

Patrick - 10:51 AM -