Wrecking ball

Recently, I went to a party where a gay man insisted on showing me his newly constructed rectum. And it was as traumatic as it sounds.

So, there I was, minding my own pour of alcohol, when the host of the party brings over the gay man in question to officially introduce us.

“You know Angel, right?” he asks in that way that straight people do when they assume that all gays know each other.

I replied no and proceeded to engage in polite small talk with the gay, so that my friend would feel satisfied about his hosting abilities and comfortable enough to leave us alone.

I was almost done going through my small talk questionnaire – you know the one that consists of questions like, where are you from and how do you know the hosts – when I lost control of the conversation.

“Are you staying long?” Angel interrupted.

“Not too long.” I hesitated.

“Me neither. I have a date that’s meeting me at the club.”

And like the timing of a sit-com, his phone rings.

“Oh, look it’s him, hold on.”

Hold on? My ass. This was my cue to walk away, but Angel apparently needed an audience. He put up his finger and blocked my exit with his body.

Under normal circumstances, I get out of situations like this by also holding up my finger, which trumps the other person’s request. Try it next time you find yourself stuck, it works, and it’s guilt free. It’s the equivalent of immediately hanging up after being put on hold because the person on the other end of the phone got a call from someone more important than you.

But this time I decided to keep my finger down and listen in on the conversation because, as I correctly guessed, this exchange had a high probability of becoming a blog post.

Hola,” he said into the phone the way that my mom does when she is talking to a small child.

And then his tone immediately changed. It became aggressive, for no reason, unless I missed something nuanced, but from what I could tell, the guy on the other end only asked him what he was wearing to the club.

The conversation ended abruptly, without Angel’s confirmation of what he was wearing and at what time he was arriving at their predetermined meeting place.

Angel looked at me and said that he didn’t like guys telling him what to do because, he, in fact, was too old to deal with the bullshit of younger men.

I asked Angel just how young his date was to which he proudly replied that the guy was 23.

Now would be a good time to point out that from my generous guesstimation, Angel is somewhere between late mid-life crisis to early Cialis commercial. And just as you are pondering that age difference and the oddity of Angel’s attitude, I too was confused…until Angel explained that he could get any man he wanted because his ass was perfect (a statement he made while snapping his fingers).

I’ve had plenty of bottom friends and, yes, they go on and on about their capabilities (although, not five minutes into meeting them at a party). And I, as I do when I hear this nonsense, rolled my eyes at Angel and said something cynical, like “I’m sure.” To which he responded:

No, no. A mi me reconstruyeron el culo.” (No, no. My ass has been reconstructed.)

En serio?” (Seriously?) 

This is when I knew I hit gold.

I didn’t need the visual confirmation to believe him, but he insisted on showing me a picture, which interestingly he keeps on his phone (hoping and praying to one day be hacked to have his asshole blasted all over the Internet by someone other than him, I assume). I looked over his shoulder as he ran his fingers through a carousel of dick pics that were allegedly sent to him, as he looked for his ass surgery photos. They, the dicks, I mean, looked more clinical than sexual, but my vision could have been clouded by the sudden bubble of invisible vomit that had ascended my esophagus toward my mouth.

When he finally landed on the image, he said, as he shoved the phone in my face:

Mira eso. Dime que eso no es una escultura.” (Look at it and tell me that it’s not a masterpiece.)

Several responses rushed through my mind, but were deemed inappropriate by my mouth filter. They were:

  • It’s clean.
  • Is that a selfie or did someone take this for you?
  • That could be anything. Let me see it for real.
  • It looks like the back of my friend’s cat.
  • Do you have a before picture?

Instead, I opted to say, “Wow.” Followed by, “It was very nice meeting you.”


When the guy got his fingers tangled in the elaborate design of my top, I knew I had to leave.

The reason wasn’t so much that he violated my personal space, but more so that I was offended at how little game this dufus-maximus had. And, I certainly wasn’t in the mood to give a tutorial at 2 a.m. while enjoying the company of friends and Irish Car Bombs.

Now that I’m in a safe place and not wearing the equivalent of a spiderweb for a blouse, I will attempt to deconstruct where this poor guy failed – not to embarrass, but to educate.

Who am I kidding. The guy was a total douche. A perfect candidate for a penile lobotomy. And this is why:

First, Mr. Man showed up drunk. I know this is shocking, but, contrary to popular belief, slurring your name when you introduce yourself doesn’t make a woman un-snap her bra and introduce you to her girls – no matter how hard you stare.

Second, he showed up ugly. Not every man has the gift of good looks, but women give lots of points for effort if he 1. seemingly wears clean clothes, 2. appears bathed within a 24-hour period. That’s it. You don’t even have to match. You don’t even need to shave your ear hair.

Third, he didn’t get the memo. This is the hardest part for men with little game to get: Persistence only works in the movies. Girls that give you an icy response, that laugh in your face, that tell you they prefer women, and/or that walk away when you’re in mid-sentence, those girls, yeah, they are not playing hard to get. They are not even playing. Trust me, the classiest thing you could do is give them space.

Fourth, he accidentally copped a feel. I understand that when you’re at a club, concert, or sorority party, you may end up uncomfortably close to perfect strangers. But, at an empty bar? If you’re going to accidentally grab the ass of your target, at least make a scene. Fall down. Spill a drink. Don’t be that kid in the cafeteria line that pokes a girl’s butt with his tray and then blames the guy behind him.

When I pushed him over, he put his hand on my shoulder and that’s when his fingers got stuck in my blouse. He struggled for a while to free his hand. I thought about throwing a drink in his face. I thought about kicking him in his privates. I also thought about punching him in the throat. But, soberly staring at his sad existence was enough punishment for him.


This weekend I returned to the place I used to consider magical. The place I used to long to retire to. The place where Hemingway drank and Cubans arrived. However, I’ve found that in my four-year absence, Key West has been overrun with rubbers.

Two types of rubbers, actually.

The first type is men who wear rubber bands on their wrists. Not Livestrong rubber bands. I mean Office Depot rubber bands. With so many stores selling bracelets along Duval, I’m not sure why they would opt for a rubber band. I’m also not sure what deep philosophical meaning this fashion statement represents. I can only imagine they are longing for an office job.

The second type is women that violently rub their vaginas on objects, people, and street lamps. I witnessed three women gyrating on parked bicycles while posing for pictures. I also saw two women give a new meaning to bumping uglies. Such violent dry-hump-dancing in the keys is dangerous, considering the nearest hospital is 40 miles away.

These behaviors must change by the time I reach retirement age. Otherwise, I will have to consider a more appropriate and fashion-forward city – like New Orleans.