Fag Hag

One last hoorah out before leaving for Iraq… and it was exactly what I needed!  I had the wildest weekend out in quite some time.  I’m pretty sure this past weekend’s antics even surpassed my birthday’s in terms of what would be deemed ‘socially acceptable’.  I was in a form that, at one time, was fairly near my everyday norm, but has now become seemingly rare.

Let me preface all of this by saying that if there was ever any doubt in my mind that my super hot coworker, Chris, was gay, it has all been cleared up.  Chris was one of the first people I met when I began working at my present employment.  I immediately found him very attractive.  He walks, talks, and acts just like any other male in my office, although now that I think about it, he does have a much more fashionable sense of style.  But I digress.  After my first week, I spent a couple of hours catching up with my brother, telling him about all of the things I’d learned and the people I’d met.  The tone in my voice must’ve changed when I mentioned Chris’s name, and I suppose my brother thought that I might make a move on him.  "Uh, Rachel, he’s gay."  Damn.

Ever since Chris and I decided to travel overseas together, we’ve begun hanging out a little more — long lunch hours here and there, shopping sprees for last minute war zone supplies.  Midweek, he asked if I’d like to accompany him to a club in Denver this past weekend.  I readily agreed considering I hadn’t yet explored the big city.  The more we discussed our plans, the more ‘to do’ things we added to the list.

I met Chris at his house around 4:30pm.  Typical bachelor pad — modern, simple, and stylish, yet a bit messy.  We immediately embarked on the hour long drive to Denver.  First stop, Sushi Den.  We enjoyed miso soup while watching the chef prepare nigiri and firecracker rolls.  After a delicious meal, we headed into downtown to the 16th Street Mall.  From there, we parked and stopped at the movies to see… "Blades of Glory".

Now, I admittedly despise Will Ferrell movies.  "Talladega Nights" was incredibly boring, and I didn’t even think "Old School" was that hilarious.  "Blades of Glory", however, was well worth the $9.75 ticket price.  I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard over a movie.  The entire audience was practically in tears, and I spent most of the movie doubled over in my seat holding my stomach through a roar of belly laughs.  Good times. 

After the film, while chatting over some Starbucks coffees, Chris called up a buddy of his that planned to meet us at the club.  As I was returning to my seat from enjoying a smoke, I overheard, "Hmm, I don’t think she’d mind.  I’ll ask her, but plan on seeing us there."  I grinned at him slyly as I asked what was going on.  He said, "How would you feel about going to a strip club?  A gay strip club?"  I’m in!

The bar was jam packed in the middle of an entire street of hole-in-the-wall dives.  I’m pretty sure it didn’t even have a name.  The front windows were completely blacked out save for the blue, neon glow of Bud Light advertisements.  There wasn’t a cover to get in, and Long Island Ice Teas were on special for two bucks.  And yes, they were strong.  The dancers each had their own persona, complete with a costume and routine.  They all could dance well, and even I was jealous of the fancy moves.  Every man on stage was also surprisingly attractive, and though it wasn’t a full nude joint, there were plenty of oiled down muscles and bulging crotches to ogle at.

We spent a good hour slurping down drinks and watching countless pretty faces prance across the stage before finally heading to Tracks Nightclub, a near exact replica of Babylon for all you Queer As Folk fans.  The main dance floor boasted an array of originally mixed techno; colorful lights, strobes, and fog; and hot-bodied boys wearing nothing but neon booty shorts and dancing on stage waving flashy, glowing flags above their heads.  The smaller back room housed a much more eighty’s feel with a transvestite DJ spinning songs such as "Dancing Queen" and BeeGees classics.  I must’ve danced for three hours straight, breaking only to refill my empty glass and down another shot of vodka.  At some point in my drunken, sweaty state, I decided that it would be a good idea to take off the three inch stilletos that were killing my feet.  I’m pretty sure I remained barefoot the rest of the evening.

Throughout the night, Chris would grab my hand and lead me around the club, just as most of my girlfriends do, and he never missed a beat on the dance floor.  It seemed like he knew everyone there, and by the time the club lights glared down, signaling for us to all go home, I had made a couple of handfuls of new friends.  No one had quite spent all of their energy, so we caravanned to a spontaneous house party at someone’s — but I’m not quite sure whose — fantastic loft.  Another hour of drinking, smokes, and a silly dice game ("Chug your drink with your eyes closed while holding your nose."), and Chris and I had both decided that we were absolutely starving.

IHOP!

Chris munched on breakfast, and I chowed down on a cheeseburger.  Just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, we headed back south to the Springs.  I, at first, thought I might just go ahead and drive the half hour from his place to mine.  Yeah, right.  He brought me down some blankets, and I tried to snooze on his couch.  I dozed off and on for about two hours, but it was entirely too bright in the den to actually sleep.  I peeled myself off the sofa around 9:15am, and I walked in the door to my apartment on the hour.  It was pointless for me to even attempt to go to bed, so I just lounged most of the day.  I did get up early afternoon to grill some burgers, but I snuggled right back under my blanket just as WrestleMania 23 came on.  Perfect ending to a perfect day… er, night.

Needless to say, I felt like complete ass on Monday.  I think that night’s sleep more than made up for the lack thereof over the weekend, though.  I was back to my normal, perky self yesterday.  Chris and I went to a fantastic Vietnamese diner for a pho’ lunch, and afterwards, we made a downtown Starbucks run for chai lattes.  Yes, I realize that hanging out with nothing but gay men is not going to get me laid, but I am going to miss my fag hag status while overseas.

Speaking of overseas, I got an unexpected email from the head honcho yesterday.  Our company owns several trailers (as opposed to tents) in the housing area on Camp Victory.  A few days ago, a mortar made it into the camp and destroyed a trailer next to one of ours.  A similar incident happened the very next day.  Fortunately, no one was hurt in either incident.  Dennis said that he wasn’t trying to sca

re me, but that he felt it would be irresponsible of him not to tell me these kinds of things.  Ryan, a coworker who just returned from abroad, has mentioned other incidents that occured during his stay, so it’s not like I’m all that surprised.  Hell, it’s a war zone.  I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up.  I do think, though, that I will keep this little tidbit of information to myself — i.e., I’m not telling Mom.

I can’t believe I’m leaving a week from Sunday.  Every emotion about the change I will soon experience is starting to hit me all at once.  I’m not the slightest bit nervous or afraid, which is a little odd.  I expected to have at least a few jitters, but I don’t.  For the most part, I’m excited, but I’m also often finding myself submerged in thought about how this trip is going to change me — my personality, my compassion, my outlook on life.  I know it will, but I’m not sure yet how.

Cheers,
Felina