In my next life, I want to come back as a gay addict. The habit is TBD. All I know is these 12-step meetings are one-part sobriety maintenance and three-parts hookup. The gays in West Hollywood don’t need to online date. When they have free time, they go to a “meeting.”
My Main Gay is constantly in and out of relationships. I sit on the sidelines feeling tragically single and heterosexual as I hear about his exploits. Today we met for lunch and I got the ga-ga eyes and “oh, this one is for real” speech.
“This isn’t fair. Is this another friends-of-bill hookup?” I whined.
“Yes, we met at a meeting. We are so in love,” he proclaimed. “He’s mine.”
I can’t even meet a straight man at the grocery store and Main Gay is seeking my advice on Valentine’s Day. Fanfuckingtastic. He’s thinking about a long, romantic weekend up in Santa Barbara. I told him I wasn’t the girl to ask Valentine’s day advice from – it has probably been more than 15 years since a man planned more than a simple card and chocolates for me.
“Aw, my hag needs a real man,” he said.
Right. We’ve seen how well that’s worked out for me in southern California. I think it is easier to just plan on being gay in my next life – with a severe addiction to beer.