Port-A-Potty
I remember sitting in a bar overhearing three guys lackadaisically categorize the gays they knew. Some they worked with, who liked hockey but happened to prefer guys, were the cool ones. Those who “start dressing like Elton John, or something” were they type they weren’t down with.
I Miss You
It was around the time that I switch from beer to whiskey, no breeze and Indian summer, that my ex-lover walks onto the patio and asks to move to a table in the shade. We catch up on all the weekly boy/boy drama: who’s fucking who, who’s in Toronto doing what, a funny anecdote about run-ins with drag queens. I drink, laughing and smiling.
A Night of Sex, Drugs and Spray Tans
After a bottle of pre-drink Jaeger, a couple cups of sugar-free Red Bull, and the first couple drinks at the bar, I’m asked if I’m a gay boy. Honestly? I’m drunkety-drunk, I’ve had a long week of Laurier bullshit, assignments, classes with excessive and annoying student participation, and a lot of rainy weather. And I’m at Phil’s, where fucked-up goes to pass out. When I finally get out to Phil’s at the end of the week, don’t bug me about my sexual preferences.
