The soft parade

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

Sunday 10:45 a.m., Daniel’s place, West Hollywood.

This morning I was awakened by the manic pulse of Erasure. But it wasn’t coming from the kitchen, it was coming from my phone. I answered “Chains of love” after about the 12th measure.

“Rob Lowe, you were a bad boy last night,” said a sing-songy phone voice. It was Daniel.

“Uh, huh,” I said, without thought.

“Still in bed, are we?”

“He’s still in bed,” he said away from the phone. “Well, thank Jesus you are alive, have you thrown-up yet?”

“No.”

“You should. That will make you feel better. Then come meet us by Hancock, uh, on the north side.”

“I’m not going,” I said, haphazardly trying to replay the late night events in my head.

“Rob, you need to see this, really. It is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Gotta go, call me on my cell when you get here. It’s a madhouse,” he said building to a witchlike crescendo.

"I think I lost my cell," I said into the phone. Wait, no it's in my hand. This was going to be some morning.

Silence. Painful silence. The silence of lost recollection.

There would be no Van Morrison this morning. There would be no breakfast. I was alone in Daniel’s place, mentally pacing the steps to the bathroom. At least seven.

I had to piss. That was a good sign. If had awoken feeling refreshed, I would have started feeling around for wet spots. Thank heaven for small favors. I made it through both drunken nights without ruining Daniel’s expensive sleeping apparatus.

I needed to leave, so I forced myself up and made the nine paces to the bathroom. Gay men destroy bathrooms, I thought as I looked for my toothbrush. I grabbed the nearest one, not caring whose it was. I looked at the person in the mirror, but he didn’t smile back. He was sullen and drawn, completely oblivious to any and all. The weekend had taken its toll.

I knew I couldn’t fucking miss the parade. Daniel was right. I needed to move forward, with or without Van. I drank cold coffee that was sitting half done on the breakfast bar. My need for coffee eclipsed any and all shame. I looked for more. None. Out the door.

I made my way toward Daniel and his friends. On a different weekend, I would have looked odd, even by West Hollywood standards. The sloppy beard, short-shorts, frizzed-out hair. I was crazy. But thankfully, there were 400,000 spectators and about 20,000 participants that looked even crazier. I became lost in the bizarro fold.

I arrived on the corner of Hancock and Santa Monica. I was trying to remember what side of the street he was on. Blank. I stood there and watched the spectacle. It was happening on the sidelines as much as it was on the parade route. Everywhere you looked there was decadence. Pure, lovely decadence. And I was part of it.

Did I wear my cowboy hat last night? That was my favorite hat. I hope I didn’t lose it. I looked over and saw someone that seemed familiar. He looked at me, looking at him. I think I gave him the creeps. I was hoping it was not someone I knew, not because I was wearing denim short-shorts and nothing else, but because I was a gay hooker. One willing to trade a pull on the pipe for a suck on the cock. I was dirty.

“Bobby,” someone said, “You look fabulous. I hear you’ve got your own show,” a drag queen who seemed more like a fan than a friend, yelped.

“Yes, it’s very exciting,” he said, sullenly in a ‘I’m too good for you, but thank you for noticing me. Excuse me everyone, please notice me’ type of voice. That happens a lot out here. Especially with the half-stars reality TV has created.

I overheard the name, “Anna Nicole,” as the conversation continued. I realized it was Bobby Trendy. I erased him from my head as quickly as he entered. I was manic enough.

Then I scanned the crowd. I have this weird knack for spotting people I recognize, and I turned it up to find Daniel. I did see the gay latino kid from My So Called Life. I guess he was gay in real life. Hmm, I scoffed. Some actor. I felt like someone just told me Leonardo was really retarded.

I finally got a visual on Daniel. But my pacing was about a yard a minute. I lost count how many times my penis got rubbed along the way, either by accident or accidentally on purpose. How dirty are these boys? Go feel up the ‘gay for pay’ guys at the Redken booth. Leave the hungover prostitute junkie alone. Can’t you see this hair?

I finally made it, sweaty and pale. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re here,” he said mini-clapping. He dropped his hands and his jaw, “Oh dear, you look like death. We tried to get you up, but you were snoozing away.”

Then a grin overtook his face.

“Do you have any money? “ I said, without emotion. “I can’t find my wallet and need some food.”

He just stood there and elbowed his friend Harris. They both looked at me and smiled.

“What,” I said, not wanting the games.

They both smiled again, swallowing their cheeks, awaiting some sign of remembrance.

“What," I said again, elevating my timbor to provide more meaning.

Daniel dropped his head sideways for dramatic effect. Like he needed it.

“You really don’t remember, do you.”

“Remember what?”

“Well it’s no fun if you don’t remember. Follow me, I’ll tell you while we get you something to eat, do you want some of this?” he said handing me a water bottle, “poor boy.”

I reached out for the bottle.

“One sec,” he said pulling it back. He cupped his hand full of water, and hand-coiffed my lid.

“That hair was bothering me,” he said.

We both started walking to get some food.

“Rob,” he said with a smile on his face, “About last night…”

“I’m never having you read my blog again,” I said.