I went to a party last night hosted by Matthew Breen from the Advocate. I secretly went because I have a little bit of a crush on Matthew, who is dreamy. Once, years ago, I had lunch with him, and when he was saying goodbye, he suddenly leaned in and dramatically kissed me on the cheek, lingering ever so slightly so that I had time to inhale his musk and fall in love. Maybe it was more than love, though. Maybe, because I am an outcast, and because he was editing OUT at the time, I felt like Matthew, with that kiss, was accepting me at long last into the gay community itself.
Still, I'm a little awkward around most gays. At the party, I went immediately into the smoking section outside, where I saw "a little awkward around everything" Michael Musto come in and lurk about uncomfortably, probably fabricating some internal dialogue about how fabulous everything was, and how everyone was talking to him and saying provocative things, which no one was. I have met Michael many times, but he never remembers, so a long time ago I just stopped trying. Some nice gay boys came prancing in, and I remembered the lessons my one gay friend recently taught me, and I cried, "Work!" But then they started telling me about some Beyonce show they had just come from. A secret show, entrance to which seemed to involve some desultory coercion of some sort. I weakly told them that I loved her "Single Ladies." They stared at me open-mouthed and said, "That's it?!" Sorry, gays. I don't know from Beyonce. I stopped buying her music when she left Destiny's Child.
Inside, I milled around, waiting for Matthew to arrive at his own party, and saw a collection of Indian and black gays sitting around making fun of people theatrically. Deciding to try to make friends with this crew, I walked over and announced, "Is this the colored section?" Surprisingly, rather than freezing me solid with their gaze, they invited me in and seemed to take a (mild) interest in me having fun at the party. I danced a little bit, but my side-to-side "Belinda Carlisle" dance, which has aged suspiciously well, much like Ms. Carlisle herself.
Then Matthew came in! I walked over and screamed his name and hugged him, then asked him if he remembered me. He did! OMG, I totally crushed out. I told him I would messenger him a package to his hotel that week, but now I'm wondering if I should do what I was planning and just messenger him a galley I think he might like, or if I should try to uphold my own reputation and send him something dirty-ish but non-threatening, as well. I'll have to think about that.
Anyway, the invite for the party said "dress posh," so that's why I dug up this ratty old Sleater-Kinney tee. Hee, hee! And by the way, I know that Matthew probably kisses every publicist dramatically. But hey, what gay doesn't want to feel special? I know I do.