June 18, 2007

I get hit on at the gym today.

“What’s up, bro? I got a question. Do you usually wear two earrings or just one?”
“Uh, just one.”
“Oh. Because it looks really good, bro.”

Before I continue I’d like to say that this is an incredibly lame pick-up line. Equivalent to me telling a girl I like her purse – which I’ve probably done. I can’t remember.

The guy is young – late 20s, early 30s – in shape, and Hispanic-ish looking. He looks like a tattoo artist.

He points to his hoop earrings, one in each ear:

“I thought I was the only one who still wore hoops.”
Nervous laugh. I smile politely. You can do it, bro.
“Yeah… I’ve had these in forever. Ever since I became a street dancer.”
“Cool.”
“So have you always had one piercing?”
“No. I took the other one out. It was too low.”
“Oh, that’s cool… You should get it done again. That would look real good.”

If I liked cock, I probably would’ve blushed. I mean that’s a genuine enough compliment, isn’t it?

“I’m Victor, by the way.”
“Jeff.”
“Cool, bro.”

There’s a few more awkward pauses followed by “well” and it reminds me of myself trying to talk to a female.

Victor ends the conversation, gives me a lingering pat on my back, shoulder, and goes. Didn’t ask for my number or anything.

Would I have given it to him?

Getting a number doesn’t mean shit these days because people don’t like to say no. They’d rather give somebody a false sense of hope and then crush said hope from a distance. Not many people have the balls to do it up close and even fewer people have the balls to not provide that hope in the first place. I’d like to think I’m one of those straight-up people who doesn’t have a problem saying no, especially to a gay man asking for my phone number, but I’m not so sure I am. I think I’m more of a bitch than I like to acknowledge.

Later, Victor comes back. With renewed confidence.

“Hey, bro. Do you like football?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like college football and pro football? Because football season’s coming up and me and a couple of the guys like to get together and watch. And… I mean I live out in West Hollywood, and, you know, you could come over, you know, and like watch it with us when it starts. Sometime. If you want.”

I’m about to tell him I’m only in town for two months (honestly!) when he makes a pre-emptive getaway, probably because he senses rejection:

“But I gotta run, bro. So I’ll probably see you in here and we’ll talk. It was really good to meet you again.”

I almost ask him if he remembers my name. Instead I just shake his hand. He squeezes my arm and dips out. But not before he says this:

“Keep that earring in!”

Seriously, what is it with the fucking earring? The last time I checked, a single piercing in the left ear meant my asshole wasn’t up for grabs. But that was a long time ago. Have things changed since then? Is my left ear a homosexual want-ad?

Victor, you get props for a valiant effort.

But next time ask me about myself.

Shit List:

June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset