And the Mormons, too.

So here’s the thing.  I was at Fubar last night; it was the anniversary of B.F.D. (and if you don’t know what that stands for, I’m sorry, I’m not going to tell you) and it was busier than a pharmacist the morning after prom.

Lord knows, I love me some mens.  They’re terrific.  I like all kinds, I’ve never had a “type,” I think that’s stupid.  Hey, all you people with types?  You’re stupid.  And men there were.  I don’t know how many; I’ve never been the sort of person who was very good at estimating the amount of people in a room.  I’m always either way over or way under.  I also have terrible depth perception.  Never ask me to drive you anywhere.  But I digress; there were lots and lots of men.

And Fubar is a very win/lose sort of situation for me.  I’m either going to have an amazing time, or I’m going to consider siphoning gas out of the cars on the walk back to my car so that I regret the drive out to the city that much less.

I try to be very open-minded when it comes to the many facets of the gay community.  I really and truly do value our history, and I think it’s all fascinating, and I’m definitely a proponent of more of the youth getting their queer educations.  I don’t know who it would hurt, though, if the go-go dancers could keep the “cat in the bag” a bit more?  Frankly, I like my men with a bit of mystery; when it’s all laid out for me for the price of a dollar I’m less enticed than repulsed.  Don’t get me wrong, B.F.D. is the best Thursday night party you’re going to find in West Hollywood; Mario Diaz is king of all that is sexy, and it’s obvious the moment you walk in the door that this is where all the good-looking men have been hiding.

I just don’t understand why there can’t be more of a happy medium.  Either you’re at a bar where they serve fourteen-dollar martinis and the only thing higher than the prices are the arches on the eyebrows of the clientele, or you can hardly see through the miasma of sweat, testosterone, desperation, and insecurity.  But at least the drinks cost less.

I don’t know where I fit and I think it’s because I don’t.  I leave bars disappointed more often than not, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the bars.  It’s my own fault for expecting it to be different for me when it never is.  Ultimately I’m just not that kind of guy.

And isn’t that what *everyone* you know says?  Or at least what you want someone to say when you ask them if they go out to bars: Oh, I never meet anyone, I never have a good time, blah blah blah.  I mean how would you feel if you asked someone if they go out, and they said oh sure, a different bar every night and a different guy too!  But there again is that problem with the missing medium: there’s nothing in the middle.  It’s either a drought or a flood.

So just who are these douchebags at the bars looking like they’re having the time of their lives? Or are all of us just that great at hiding what we’re really thinking at bars that it looks to all of us like everyone’s having a better time than we are?  I know that can’t be the case for me.  I have a very expressive face.  If I’m having a miserable time, I don’t want to take the time to tell you I’m miserable; I want it to be clear that I’m miserable so that I can launch right into why it’s your fault.

Okay, okay.  I lied, the Christians and the Mormons, while some of them are perfectly lovely people with just gorgeous complexions, really, have it pretty much backwards when it comes to their opinions of homosexuals and their lifestyle.

But it wouldn’t kill you to put your pants on.