Homecoming Weekend

Spending the day watching the rain and listening to “Unwell", I tried placate myself by going to dinner at Escafe (the popular gay restaurant-bar) with Chris Gleason and South-African Kevin. Gleason is a friend who I was introduced to by Mark almost three years ago. He is around forty one years old, works at a car-dealership in Charlottesville and comes from a lot of money. He looks pretty good for his age and is always driving to DC or Rehoboth on weekends as a means of relaxation from his hectic weekdays. Overall Gleason's a really nice guy - affable, sociable and the apotheosis of generosity. I use the word generosity since he has regaled me, innumerous times, with free meals and expensive alcoholic beverages. And it’s not because of my unwillingness to pay; it’s just that he always takes care of the cheque with utmost stealth, and now, whenever we go out, he expects to bear the brunt of all expenses. South-African Kevin is also a nice attractive fellow, though not as generous. A former personal-trainer at the University, he is living temporarily with Gleason and is looking to find an employer that will sponsor him so that he can live and work in the U.S after the completion of his studies.

I enjoyed my lasagna (which surprisingly was filled with mushrooms instead of meat) amidst talking about my love for the previous night’s “Apprentice” and curiosity over South-African Kevin’s bonhomous invitation to a sex-party. It was still quite early in the night; therefore, aware of the malign effects of excesses, I was trying to abstain from drinking, unlike Gleason, who was already sipping on his fourth beverage. After all, though hard, it is still possible to enjoy time spent with gay people without filling your insides with liquor. But, after finishing with dinner, Gleason coerced me into drinking a strong vodka-something (don’t exactly know what he ordered) so that I could feel more comfortable with the public display of his habitual amorous and feverish (to me painful) massaging of my thighs and shoulders.

After finishing our drinks and saying goodbye to South-African Kevin, Gleason dropped me at the Corner so that I could meet with the gays at the highly-anticipated Glee Club foam party. With leisurely gait, I walked to the party, sipping on a whiskey-sour from a red plastic cup that I had picked up at Room 7 (a room on the lawn serving whiskey-sours and other alcoholic beverages on Friday nights to members of the Jefferson Literary and Debating Society). I didn’t want to arrive completely sober at the party, after all, since it’s easier to take off your shirt in a room full of sparkles of foam and sweaty half-naked people when you’re slightly inebriated.

On reaching the Glee Club house, I ran into Charles and young-Nicholas who were breathing some fresh air, trying to find relief from the claustrophobia inside. Young-Nicholas was looking very GQ, with his tie-inside-collared-shirt look, which I found somewhat inappropriate but quite attractive. After asking me why the hell I was late, Charles put me upto speed with things, reporting JT's evanescence with some new boy, and Jesse and english-major Dave’s departure to Dave’s place, where alcohol was available without standing in a huge line of boisterous straight people.

Somehow, pushing my way through swarms of people, I went inside only to be mortified by the over-crowdedness and yelping of the multitude pushing against each other to reach the ultimate prize: a cup of nasty, tastes-like-shit Natty light. Underage college students, some already soaked in foam, were piling and pushing, with complete disregard for personal space. Exacerbating the cataclysm was the vile air of the room, which felt like it was kneaded with beer, sweat, and stale kisses. Trying to find a spot of breathable comfort, I weaved my way through the crowd, only to witness straight couples making out with each other. At least going to straight parties in my college years has taught me something: unlike gay boys, straight college boys have no shame as they drink to the point of shoving-their tongue-down-anything-with-a vagina.

With the clock stricking twelve, the Glee Club boys, including Charles, embarked on their ceremonious singing. The rest of the party followed the guys into the main room, joining the conjuration with jubilance. I, on the other hand, in the midst of their orotund emissions, made my way to the basement, only to find a silent broken stereo and remnants of foam as emblems of precocious revelry. After half-an-hour, with the end of “the good-old-song” marking the conclusion to the Glee Club’s nocturnal singing, I tried to find Charles so that we could leave. But to my utter joy, I was accosted by Nick (different than young-Nicholas), who I thought had graduated from the University two years ago. The following is a reproduction of the conversation between us:

Nick: Hey, what’s up?
Me: Hey, what are you doing here?
Nick: I am in med-school here
Me: Oh, really? How do you like it?
Nick: It’s good. Hey can I ask you something?
Me: Yeah, sure *knowing what was coming*
Nick: Are you gay?
Me: I think I am bisexual *after a bit of hesitation*
Nick: Oh, really, that’s cool
Me: Yeah, thanks
Nick: Yeah, I had a friend who I used to hang-out with when I was an undergrad (X) who I didn’t know was gay.
Me: Really?
Nick: Yeah, and I didn’t know until recently, so it’s cool
Me: Oh, okay
Nick: Hey, was I ever on your gaydar?
Me: Um..well..sort of..I mean I guess *thinking that everyone I meet is on my gaydar*
Nick: Yeah, I don’t know, I’ve always been on gay people’s gaydar. I think I seem to attract gay people
Me: *chuckle*
Nick: Can I ask you something else?
Me: Sure
Nick: Do you think I am cute?
Me: Yeah, sure, sort of
Nick: Really? That’s so flattering, you have no idea
Me: * faint smile*
Nick: No seriously, that’s really flattering, thanks
Me: Cool, well, it was nice running into you
Nick: Yeah, I know, but I’m really flattered, thanks
Me: No, problem *smile*
Nick: It was nice seeing you, and thanks again, I’m really flattered *devious grin*
Me: See ya *looks and walks away*

Ok, how weird was that? If you’re gay, say it dude. I’m not positive if he was hitting on me, but I definitely felt that he was. In fact, I always got a gay vibe from him when he was an undergrad. And then he vanished for the next two years. Maybe after all this time he’s more comfortable with his sexuality. But I’m sure that if I would’ve hung out with him for the rest of the night, I could’ve gotten him to mess around. Still, stop the games. After all, there’s enough drama already amongst the gays and we’re really not interested in taking on additional baggage from straight folks looking for a quick lay.

I found Charles and young-Nicholas scurrying outside, pushing against people, finding their way to english-major-Dave’s car, who had returned with a drunken Jesse to rescue us from the clutches of boredom. Ignoring my cries for wanting to go home, Dave drove towards Escafe, expecting to find a gay or gay-friendly crowd. Great, I thought, I had only escaped from hell (earlier in the evening) to goto heaven (foam party) to return to hell (back to Escafe). But in actuality, with a car full of gays, we were escaping from straight hell to find enjoyment in gay heaven.

As we walked into the establishment, I saw some familiar faces in the motley crowd: Keith, who graduated two years ago and now works for ITC at the University, and Jason Vance, my straight roommate from two summers ago. I stopped at their tables to chat with them, only to return and find Charles, Jesse and young-Nicholas outside the bathroom door coquetted by three senile and unattractive men. I pulled Charles away from the old-teeth-missing-cowboy-hat guy, in an attempt to save him from doing something regrettably stupid. Showing imparied judgement, he started gushing over the hotness of the cowboy as I signed in despair, mystified over the magic of taking two Vodka shots in the car. On the other end of the bar, I saw english-major Dave engaged in conversation with an old friend; as a matter of fact, an ex-boyfriend who was in Charlottesville for homecoming.

Charles and I proceeded to find an empty table, and were joined by Nick who had saved himself by abjuring the advances of the other older gentleman. As Anthony, our waiter and Mark’s current roommate, handed us the drink menus, the boys realized that they were too poor, in addition to being underage, to order eight dollar drinks. But we continued to hold onto our seats since nobody was waiting, and 'cause we knew we were the cutest table at the restaurant.

Jesse was drunk, piss drunk. With the older guys hovering over him, he stumbled towards our table, slurring words and screaming imprudently for another drink. Wow, I thought, as we all gawked at his obnoxious state. In his drunkenness, Jesse snatched the cowboy-hat guy's head-covering to reveal the reason why the gentleman perpetually wore a hat. Baldness. Charles, after discovering the cowboy-hat guy's secret, felt ashamed and horrified at his inability to distinguish between attractive and unattractive.

Also, at this point, I’ll add another prefix to english-major-Dave: bitter-english-major-Dave. This is because he spent the rest of the night drowning his sorrows in alcohol and bitching vacuously about the unexpected encounter with his ex-boyfriend, Martin. Finally, at two in the morning, the ominous insignia of bright lights became bitter-english-major-Dave’s signal to escape witnessing Martin, according to his words, fuck-anything-that-walks. Yay, I thought, since I was getting tired of Dave’s droning, Jesse’s drunken stupor, and the dauntless unequivocal advances and ass-slapping of the decrepit strangers. Linking arms with the voracity of alcoholics, we made our way towards Dave’s car. But, instead of returning to our respective appartments/dorms, we ended up at Dave’s apartment, where Jesse, right before passing out, sloshed on my lap in an attempt to cuddle with me.

Meanwhile, the other boys sat in a circle around the dining table, where Dave resumed his scurrilous tales of Martin’s (his first love) cupidity, which had led to his own hiatus from college. The bottle of wine that he gorged down with young-Nicholas, made it ten times worse. I tried to feign interest, paying attention and asking an occasional question, but it was three in the morning, and I was tired. Amidst the sounds of Jesse’s steady snoring and Dave’s bragging about his MIT experience and the good-old-days at UVA, Charles and I were overcome with such hebetude that we had to fight to keep our eyes open. Eventually, I got up from the chair, followed closely by Charles, and said goodbye. But, alas, as I reached down into my pocket walking towards the door, I realized that my cell-phone was missing. After futile attempts looking for my phone in Dave’s car, I gave up, and walked with Charles to his place, so that I could sleep my worries off on his floor.

The next morning Charles and I woke up from slumber around eleven thirty, with me still worried about my cell phone. It would suck to spend money replacing a basic necessity of life, I thought. I called Gleason to check whether I had dropped my phone in his car, who searched his vehicle only to give me a negative response and his condolences. As last resort, Charles and I drove to Escafe in search of my sole means of communication. The restaurant was still closed, but since I know the owners, I was familiar with the place, making it to the hidden back-door to accost the day-manager, asking whether she had found a black Motorola phone. Joy. The manager had found my phone, which I thankfully grabbed, like a greedy child clutching sweets at a candy store.

Poor college students, and a few alumni, are always looking for free food due to their dire financial condition. Therefore, hunger and poverty, gave Charles and I the perfect excuse to attend the Serpentine Society (society for gay and lesbian UVA alumni) pre-football game tailgate scheduled to be held in the antiquated and predominantely straight comforts of Jeff Hall. Plus, it was homecoming weekend, which provided the slight possibility of jumping into bed, no strings attached, with a hot, wealthy alumnus. We scampered inside the venerable room of parquet floors, embellished with sully portraits, only to be disappointed by the lack of hot older men. Finishing with initial registration, we quickly piled our plates with salad, hamburgers and diced fruit, to sit by ourselves and avoid all forms of conversation. Or perhaps we sat alone in a corner to avoid Martin, bitter-english-major Dave’s ex, who Charles had asked the previous night, “Why are you here? Are there not any hot men in New York? ”, right before begging for a donation for the Glee Club.

After satisfying our appetites and engaging in a short, abrupt exchange with a sixty-five year old - former employee of Newcomb hall with a fetish for desi men - Charles decided to call Jesse to check whether he was still alive. Surprisingly, he was, and asked us to join him and bitter-english-major Dave (who was still bitter from the previus night) for brunch. Jesse picked us up at the corner of The Cavalier Inn, nearby Charles’s dorm, and stopped next at Italian Ville. Charles and I didn’t order anything, since we had just eaten at the tailgate. After finishing with food and bitching about the previous night, we dropped Dave back at his place since he was planning to attend a friend’s engagement in Martinsville, two hours south of Charlottesville.

As we drove around familiar territory, I sensed the warmth of the sunshine and the bright colors of the fall. Charlottesville is the best place on earth to be in the fall, with gorgeous scenery and the even more so gorgeous boys running around shitless wearing tight shorts. Repudiating the idea of attending the Serpentine Society banquet later at Alumni Hall (where gay-awards were going to be handed out), we decided to spend the afternoon lounging at the pool in Jesse’s apartment complex. I had to borrow Jesse’s mesh shorts, since I had brought my swim-trunks to Charlottesville. We stripped to our swimsuits, gulped shots of Vodka, and skipped outside to soak up the sun whole soaking our half-naked chiseled bodies in the hot tub.

The next two hours were lost amongst bitching and gossiping, which, to my relief, made me realize that I am not the bitterest person in the world. But it was fun, since we got to play a game that I invented: "Connect the gays". Okay, this is how you play the game. One person picks two random gays, preferably who the others players also know. Then, the other players try to connect the two gays via their sexual partners. For example, one possible connection for Chip and Charles could be: Chip>Bill>Adam>German Tim>Todd>Charles. And then there are interconnections like, Chip>Bill>Todd>Charles or Chip>Adam>Todd>Charles. The more connections you can make, the more points you score. Fun, eh?

With the sun disappearing behind the luminous clouds, we realized that our little game had made us quite hungry. So, after a quick shower, Jesse drove to my place where I could bathe and get dressed for the night. While I was engaged in my purification, Jesse and Charles met with Lucas, my roommate, and started conversing in an attempt to get to know each other. After my transfiguration and our departure from my place, Jesse told me that he was immensely attracted to Lucas and wanted to go on a date with the new boy. Great, I thought, that’s exactly what is missing from my life – roommate drama. I promised him that I would inform Lucas of Jesse’s good intentions, like the kind-hearted friend I was, only if he could hurry the hell up and get us to a restaurant.

We decided to dine at Escafe, since we had to go there anyway because Jesse, in his intoxication, had left his credit card there the previous night. With the football game coming to an end and the drunken spectators lingering back, we drove along, only so that Charles could dig his head out of the car to pay his salutations to a drunk Alex Rixley. Oh my God, I thought, I hope this is short and bitter. I’m going to refrain from starting a diatribe about Alex, since this post is already becoming too long. But let me tell you, he is not my favorite person in the world, and because his current twinky boyfriend hates me, we have a reason to perpetually ignore each other. But, even seeing that I was in the back-seat, the dimwit had the audacity to ask for a ride to the downtown mall. So, I spent the next fifteen minutes sitting next to Alex in what was the most awkward car-ride ever, with both of us pretending that the other person didn’t exist. But I did, unwillingly, get an ear on his business: he was hitching a ride to the Omni Hotel, a block from Escafe, so that he could avail the empty room (already booked but not used by his parents who were in Charlottesville for the game) by inviting his prudish boyfriend for a royal fuck.

I gorged my Turkey Reuben amid the familiar ambience of Escafe and the bitterness brought to the table by Charles and Jesse. The restaurant's Turkey Reuben is the best sandwich I have had in Charlottesville, and possibly the best ever in my life. And not even the gall of the urchins sitting across me could change that. After finishing dinner, paying the cheque, and tipping our waitress, we pondered over what to do until midnight, when we had planned to go to 216, the only gay dance club in Charlottesville. The answer was easy: Game night at Jesse’s, but first we had to get more people and replenish our supplies of alcohol.

We ran out of options on who to invite, since we had to eliminate most of the boys because they were either unattractive or already in a relationship. So, as recourse, Jesse called young-Nicholas and peremptorily ordered him to be ready in five minutes. We picked up young-Nicholas and next stopped at a nearby ABC store to purchase a handle of SKY Vodka, thinking that it would be sufficient for the remainder of the night.

Cranium was chosen as the sport to be indulged in for the evening. We girded ourselves for a match by splitting into two teams and toasting a shot of SKY to good times. Even though I had played the game once before, Jesse had to expound the rules for the understanding of all players. We started playing, with Jesse and young-Nicholas’s team taking the lead, but Charles and I following closely behind, thanks to successfully spelling the words on the yellow cards. However, rapt in the game, with utmost temerity and frivolity, we kept on drinking, taking a multitude of shots, toasting to being single, having a good time at the club, and finding boyfriends. Charles and I lost. Nevertheless, the game was close and we did a fine job getting drunk in the process.

In a delirium of intoxication, Jesse and I embarked on playing a new game, beer-pong, with two girls, Jessica and Anjali, who were friends with his roommate and were staying over at the apartment. Bad idea. Take it from me, one thing that you should NEVER do is drink beer after an overdose of liquor. So, after chugging a cup-full of beer, I stumbled to vomit in Jesse’s bathroom sink, with Charles running behind me, trying to clean up the mess.

Silence and darkness prevail.

I was awakened by english-major-Dave at around one thirty in the morning. In my haziness, I tried to make sense of the surroundings flinching my eyes to see Charles and Jesse sprawled on the bed next to me. I rushed outside Jesse’s bedroom, wearing nothing but my boxer-briefs and wrist-watch, trying to figure out if we could still make it to the club. However, my efforts were greeted only with Jessica’s recollection of our revelry, Dave’s observations of our salaciousness, young-Nicholas’s motionless body on the carpet, and Jesse and Charles’s unconsciousness.

I went back to bed. It was really cold, and I was undressed. Silence and darkness prevail, again.

I opened my eyes at five in the morning to be greeted by a hoarse voice and young-Nicholas’s body laying next to mine. Somehow, in the middle of the night, after changing his clothes, Nick had managed to clamber on the bed. He better have cleaned, I thought. Noticing the presence of another body on a single bed and Nick's tugging of the frayed blanket, all of us awakened. We looked around and saw that the Vodka handle was all spent. We started to shower each other with puerile remarks, blaming one other for our sloth. Meanwhile, in an attempt to find comfort from retching the night before, I barnacled myself with young-Nicholas, wrapping my arms around him like a bracelet, which, after a couple of hours, he told me was cutting off the circulation of air to his brain. It was also at this time, that another member of my body awakened in feverish anticipation of being next to a friend’s arse.

At around eight in the morning, I went back to slumber, amidst Charles’s and Jesse’s churlish expostulations. But before that, I did manage to switch places, so that I was lying next to Jesse instead of young-Nicholas. That was primarily because of young Nicholas’s candor, which he showed by calling me a slut, with me repudiating his claim by blaming my manhood for my incontinence.

We all woke up around eleven or twelve the next morning, with me cuddling with Jesse like a limpet. I didn’t want to wake up, but knew that I was going to get sick if I didn’t enter food into my system. We put our clothes on, went outside the bedroom room, and were greeted by Jessica, who began to communicate the events of the previous night.

Somehow, in the middle of playing beer-pong, we all stumbled into Jesse’s tempestuous bed, with nothing on except our boxers. Later, with divine prescience, english-major-Dave came to Jesse’s apartment to check why he wasn’t answering his phone. With great uncertainity, Dave opened the bedroom door to find Jesse, Charles and I braided with each other and young-Nicholas sequestered on the bedroom floor, with his mouth open, in a puddle of his own piss. Dave tried to wake us up so that we could head to the club, but we, lost in our drunkenness, were oblivious to his violent shaking.

However, to his surprise and amusement, in a paroxysm of rage, Charles awakened to cry, “You sluts, who is on top of me”. However, on settling from his outburst, he found out that the only thing lying on top of him was Jesse’s stuffed teddy-bear.

Driving to get breakfast at International House of Pancakes (IHOP), we picked up english-major-Dave, who seemed somewhat disquieted by our trampish antics from the previous night. Describing our revel, he told us how piss drunk we had been and how we had lost all consciousness to slut away half-naked in one bed.

At IHOP we were served, after a twenty minute wait, by Debra, our usual server at the restaurant. Debra remembered us from the previous time, perhaps because of our raucous demeanor or disregard for the straight families around us. During our wait, I tried to cobble my reputation by reproaching young-Nicholas for calling me a slut, who admitted that he was only kidding to make me feel embarassed about my actions. In the midst of recollecting unforgettable quotes and awarding gay accolades, our highly-awaited food arrived. I ate in silence, slowly starting to feel better, as my body assimilated three eggs, four pieces of toast, four pancakes and a plate of hash browns.

Finishing breakfast, Jesse dropped everyone at their humbly awaiting abodes. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel a vestige of shame, perhaps because, as I told myself, I hadn’t crossed the boundaries of friendship. Or maybe I did, who knows. I still don’t think so. I did not succumb to the vile sin of defiling my friendship by means of orgasm. The four friends snuggled in one bed, to bask in the comfort of chaste affection, encumbered by the force of circumstances and the commonality of being single.