Behold Bam Bam and Jesse (on a typical night):
This photo pretty much sums up our relationship.
Because Bam Bam and I can't sit home watching Netflix all the time...
We went out Saturday to my friend Becky's fantastic Kentucky Derby party. Everyone had to wear hats. Mine was definitely not matching with the wide brimmed derby set, as all I could find was a drooping egyptian thing in my drag box (which has gotten mysteriously lean).
Somehow we managed to arrive after the Kentucky Derby had been run. "Who won the derby?" I ask and Becky tells me, "Brown Spot." Excuse me, what? Brown...Spot?
So...I proudly announced to everyone that the stain on my comforter had just won the derby.
And I was quickly outdone by a black guy.
Me: The stain on my comforter just won the Kentucky Derby!
Black guy (dryly): Brown Spot. That's what they called me in high school.
Later, I ended up somehow tongue kissing a girl. After the kissing, she introduced me to her boyfriend and I introduced her to mine. Her boyfriend was not impressed with our having kissed, but how should I know he was there? I was decidedly more shocked than sorry: a straight man at the derby party? And drinking mint juleps?
Bam Bam whisked me out and we ended up at Marie's Crisis. It's my favorite bar in the city. When you enter, it feels like you've been transported back to the 1890's, and they were definitely the gay 90's. Where everyone just sits around the piano singing showtunes.
The shocking thing about Saturday was...it was only 7, so there were very few people in there, forcing me to bravely (thank you, mint juleps!) take it upon myself to sing....for all of those missing. I normally do sing, but sing along, not loudly; not pretending I actually can sing, or know the lyrics, but Saturday I was belting them out as if I had a voice. I was even paying for requests!
I bribed the piano man to play my special standard, Bill, from Showboat. I know all the words, but not necessarily in the right order. Still, I was belting it out, trilling vibrato like a broadway baby. It was most definitely a lost episode of I Love Lucy. I'm not quite sure I can ever go back.
As I'm warbling out Bill, I decide to replace each instance of Bill with Bam, and there's Bam drinking in the corner and, as usual, not paying me any attention. I'm singing: "He's just my Bam, an ordinary guy...he hasn't got a thing that I can brag about..." which I find terribly funny, until my attention turns to an old man at the bar and like that, the emotional roller coaster begins.
Next thing you know, my head is on Bam's shoulder and I am drunkenly crying, yes crying tears because, surely, all of the old man's friends died of AIDS (!)
It is clear we must go home.
Walking back from the West Village, another loopty loop hits and I am tackling Bam in the street. He's just so big and brawny and silent that literally, his existence begs to be taken down. I finally do manage to take him down on Fifth Avenue and he brings me down with him. We are rolling around wrestling underneath a parked car, and traffic on Fifth Avenue is stopping to watch. People are yelling at us, calling the police, because this can't possibly be two poofs rough-housing. It's a mugging!
We escape before the police arrive, but I'm not done playing. Closer to home Bam gets mad, and throws me off of him, to the ground. He leaves. I just lie there whimpering. When I realize he's not coming back for me, I get up and make it home. Bam Bam is on the couch and I jump on him, except that I manage to miss him completely and instead jump my forehead slam straight into the metal side table which knocks me out and then (oddly) causes me to vomit!
Bam Bam puts me to bed (hey mom, I was in bed by 10 o'clock!) with an ice pack. Bam figures he didn't see blood on my goose-egg, so the injury is internal and he hopes it may have resolved the malfunction inside my brain. Once I'm silenced and out of his way, Bam (I later learn) stays up jerking off to porn.
I wake up in the morning with a mighty hangover, and a purple welt on my forehead. I've got a photo shoot scheduled for Tuesday and thank heaven for photo-shop because it will erase that big purple spot, which reminds me of brown spot, which gives me the sinking feeling that I, too, ran a derby. And finished last.
Do not...put your money on me in the Preakness.
All told, I did fare better than the lone philly who raced at Churchill Downs. Eight belles placed second in the derby, broke her ankles at the finish, and (bang!) was euthanized on the spot.
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