How Prada Made Me Realize I’m Bad at Being a Gay Stereotype

Last week I accompanied a friend to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual post-Pride gala, which happened to coincide with the museum’s current Prada (as in The Devil Wears Prada) exhibition. Apparently fashion is art. I’m not sure when this happened exactly, as I was probably too busy going to grad school to allow myself to walk by a retail display window and think, “Wow, that shoe is so deep. It should be in a museum.”

Two things:

  1. I’ve never really thought of myself as the type of person who’d show up to a fancy gay gala and high-end fashion exhibit wearing an Old Navy shirt and brown shoes with a black belt… but it seems that I am that type of person, and I might be okay with that.
  2. I’m also the type of person who unabashedly takes pictures in high-end fashion exhibits with my phone, and for that, you’re welcome, because those pictures will be featured here to tell the story of how I’m a repressed dominatrix trapped in a Mennonite’s body. Or something. (This may or may not make sense later.)

Given the above, I was of course judged by many a pretentious gay man throughout the evening. However, I was having way too much fun abusing the open bar to really take issue with such trivialities. I was also busy trying to figure out a way to approach Wilson Cruz, who was in attendance, and let him know that I loved him in the season one Christmas episode of Ally McBeal where he portrayed a down-on-her-luck transvestite prostitute.

Wilson and I never connected, mainly because I kept losing him. Between the drinking and the abundance of people, my stalking abilities (which are typically beyond reproach) were challenged.

                            Army of gays invades the Met, Prada to blame.

Eventually, we finished our cocktails and meandered into the Prada exhibit just before it closed for the evening.

If you were thinking that a museum exhibit of Prada fashion would simply look like a bunch of clothes on mannequins, then you would be correct. That is exactly what it looked like. However, some additional details helped to vaguely legitimatize the whole thing:

  • The mannequins had bizarre Lucha Libre-style wrestling masks covering their faces. It was both creepy and awesome.
  • Moody lighting.
  • There were little descriptions of the clothing on fancy plates that used seemingly big words like “subvert” and “harbinger.”

Naturally, I started trying to figure out which Prada mannequin most represented who I am on the inside. The answer came to me when I found one wearing a kick-ass mask and a super-sexy black dress with a plunging neckline.

                                  I’m feisty and will dominate you in bed.

This mannequin, I thought, is in the driver’s seat of her life. She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to take it. Wear a crazy mask that makes it look like I might sexually assault my doorman when I get home just because it’s Tuesday? Don’t mind if I fucking do. And I’ll do it with my fake mannequin boobs all up in your face, too! Because I can.

Me relating to this possibly-criminal minx of a mannequin probably lasted for about thirty more seconds until I discovered the more likely representation of my true self:

                            Don’t say the word “sex” around me, I might melt.

Yep. I am any one of these super conservative wives of Republican men who golf. Or if I’m not one of them, then they are for sure my bitches. We definitely have at least, like, ninety-seven things in common — starting with early bedtimes, an appreciation for perfect vacuum streaks, and the crippling need for a husband. The presence of these women was supremely ironic, as they, like me, could clearly give a shit about fashion. They probably showed up just to fuck with people and laugh later, and I admire them for that.

As I stood in amazement of my mannequin soul mates, a well-dressed young man approached from behind and said, “Ah, brilliant! All of the pleating is an illusion. Oh, Prada!

I wanted to respond meaningfully, but all I could think about was how desperately I wished I could sip martinis with my mannequin bitches while having a roundtable discussion about how hilarious his statement was.

Moments later, my real-life friend with whom I came to the event retrieved me and we proceeded to leave. As we escorted ourselves out, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the Met’s mirrors. I saw the reflection of a snobby fashion-hater who’s marginally attractive but could probably be way hotter if dressed in nice clothes and given a dramatic facial makeover — much like Anne Hathaway’s character during the entire first half of The Devil Wears Prada. I apparently am that type of person as well.

And I might be okay with that.

 

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Don’t Let Me Near Your Wine Bottles (Because I Might Have Anger Issues)

Do I strike you as a repressed psychopath with the propensity to unravel at any given moment?

I’m asking because I don’t know how else to explain this:

                                                 Someone needs Yoga.                       

Please note that the cork is still encapsulated by glass. I’m fairly certain that things like this don’t normally happen to people who haven’t been to prison at least twice.

                  Don’t let his smile fool you, Scrubber Ducky (right) is not amused.

I don’t recall exerting too much force during the uncorking process, but that’s probably because my mind was busy wandering into a pleasant daydream that involved me marrying Bradley Cooper and therefore having a practical need for this fantastic just-released home buying guide for same sex couples.

It is clear, though, that I eventually snapped out of the daydream, shed a single tear for reality, and went all Incredible Hulk on the unsuspecting wine bottle.

                                          Care for a glass of pent-up rage?

No, I did not drink it.

Or. Well. I might have had three sips, but each one was tainted by the possibility of glass shards scraping my esophagus and wreaking havoc on my digestive tract, so I stopped. Painfully, I poured the rest of the wine down the drain.

I wonder if those three sips are reason enough for me to bring up “internal bleeding” as a valid concern at my next physical. I’m gonna go with yes. I may also have to bring up my seemingly superhuman strength — something that’s especially bizarre given the fact that I’ve allowed myself to skip the gym for the past several weeks because I took the stairs at work one morning two Fridays ago.

In any case, in regards to that question I asked at the beginning of this post — please take your time answering, because if you say the wrong thing I MIGHT RIP YOUR FACE OFF!!!

Carry on.

 

Boobies

Do you love how I claimed that I would start blogging once a week and then suddenly disappeared from the blogosphere for yet another month?

Again, my absence can be attributed to grad school being a needy bitch.

Honestly, if I could somehow get a written guarantee that my life would turn out just like Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman, I’d totally drop out right now and turn to prostitution — that way I could blog during the day and then hit the streets at night!

Moving on.

Two crazy things happened a few weeks ago that I have been meaning to write about.  They are:

  1. I was involved in a street fight
  2. I went to a straight strip club

(As usual, all names have been changed.)

Both of these events occurred in the same night, and as their respective descriptions imply, involved lots of fists and boobies.

Ok, “lots of fists” might be an exaggeration.  What happened was actually a senseless attack involving just two sets of fists…

…neither of which belonged to me.

A group of friends and I were walking to the subway after having enjoyed some cocktails on my rooftop, when an inebriated Marlena (my delightful classmate and beloved friend) decided to pin me up against the side of a random building and tell me how beautiful, thin, and sexy I am.

  • Explanatory side note:  throughout the evening I was regaling my friends with the high-octane thriller of a story known as Nic Gained Twenty Pounds and is Now Fat and Unlovable.

Out of the freakin’ blue, a drunk and possibly coked out twenty-ish guy came barreling towards us.  He was being loud and obnoxious.

The rest is somewhat blurry, as I was busy being validated…

What I do vividly recall, though, is that after the crazy guy passed by Marlena and me, he randomly punched my friend Steve in the face.

I KNOW, right?!

Had we been in another borough, perhaps I’d understand this random act of violence and hostility… but in safe, gentrified Manhattan?!  I was stunned.

Steve promptly proceeded to fight back and almost severely injured the attacker until someone came in and broke it up.

After this whole debacle, we migrated to a random strip club in midtown called Lace.  Steve recovered very quickly with the help of a lap dance.

And this is why straight men sometimes perplex me.

If I had been randomly punched, it would have taken a lot more than a set of boobs in the face to quell my urge to turn the entire night into a dramatic sympathy-for-Nic festival, complete with multiple retellings of the incident — each of which slightly increasing in severity with alcohol consumption.

Anyways.

As the night progressed, there were lots of boobies — perfectly shaped, oblong, saggy, perky, large, small, and in between.  All major segments of the booby market were represented at this symposium of boobies.

It should be clear by now that I love using the word “boobies,” despite my lack of interest in the actual product.

Something else I love about strip clubs: I get to play some of my favorite question games!

  • Guess the Stripper Life Story
  • If __________ knew his/her song was being stripped to right now, how would he/she react?

and my personal favorite,

  • Which straight man in here do I most wish would instantly turn gay and give ME a lap dance?

Game number one is most fun when you exhaust all of the possibilities.  After mulling through the usual broken home, daddy issues, and working-her-way-through-community-college scenarios, I finally settled on “trained gymnast out of work.”  Bitch knew how to work a pole.

As far as number two goes, I’m pretty sure two of the three members of Destiny’s Child would be appalled to know that “Jumpin’ Jumpin'” is now standard strip club fare.

I’m of course excluding Kelly Rowland — have you seen the video for “Motivation”?

Number three was the least fun, as for some reason I kept coming up with Bradley Cooper, and he wasn’t present.

Hm…

Now that I’ve relived this whole night of boobies, I suddenly have the urge to go watch some softcore gay porn.

That or Pretty Woman.

 

Strangers on a Commuter Train

First of all.  I am aware of how ridiculous it is that I started this awesome blog, garnered a few awesome readers after writing a few awesome posts about my awesome summer in Nashville… and then abandoned it once my real life resumed.

That was so not the intention.

But The Apartment Hunting Debacle of 2011 happened, and that kind of took over every aspect of my life.  It also forced me to spend a month traveling between Connecticut and New York five days a week.  The daily bitch of a commute combined with my final year of grad school and an internship in the music department of a major television network has turned me into the most unreachable human alive.

The good news is that I finally found a new place in Manhattan that meets my ridiculous standards!  So I can now devote the four hours a day I have been spending in my car/on the Metro-North train daydreaming about Alexander Skarsgard naked to more important things in life — like maintaining this blog and re-watching Ally McBeal DVD’s.

To kick off my renewed blogging schedule (I’m thinking a solid once a week), I figured I would start with a story that’s been going on for about three weeks now and has joined “dark chocolate cravings” on the list of things that I think about on a bi-hourly basis.  It is called:

Nic and Lenovo-Guy: A Tragic Love Story

One rainy Monday morning a week or so ago, I was sitting quietly on the Grand Central Station-bound Metro-North train from New Haven as it made a local stop in Fairfield, where more commuters joined the party.

Up until this point, I had engaged in my usual behavior of taking up a two-seater with my book bag and an array of Dunkin Donuts breakfast items.  Strategic placement of this luggage coupled with a mildly unapproachable facial expression is usually an effective method of ensuring that no one tries to sit with me.  It’s not that I’m anti-social; I just find that it’s in everyone’s best interest to limit my interaction with other humans before 10:00 am.  I think that’s fair.

In any case, this was a particularly crowded train.  Within seconds, I was approached by a tall man in a yellow raincoat whom I tried not to look at.  However, I could no longer pretend that he didn’t exist once he said “Is anyone sitting here?” for the second time in a row.  I reluctantly responded honestly and offered him the seat.

As he removed his raincoat and placed it in the overhead bin, I got a better look at him.

Oh.  Em.  Gee.

The man who had so brazenly interrupted my morning alone time was a freakin’ dreamboat.  I’m talking lean muscle mass, flawless bone structure (sound familiar?) and great hair — all packaged in a nice three piece suit that did wonders for his totally squeezable ass.

Now that a hot professional man was sitting beside me, I suddenly became acutely aware of my every move — as if he were paying close attention and waiting for me to scratch my face in just the right way so as to signal that it was okay for him to go ahead and just start making out with me.

However, it became clear that we may not have been on the same page when I noticed from the corner of my eye that he was in fact paying no mind to my existence.  Instead, he was busily typing away on his laptop, which I couldn’t help but notice was a Lenovo. 

After mentally excusing him for using a PC, I started thinking of creative ways to initiate a conversation.  I got carried away and ended up daydreaming the following exchange:

  • Me: “Hey there.  Nice Lenovo.”
  • Him: “Oh, I’m really a Mac guy.  This is just my work computer.  By the way, I’m a wealthy investment banker.”
  • Me: “Oh, I see…”
  • Him: “I love you.  Let’s move in together and get gay-married!” (Moves in for romantic kiss.)

I’m pretty sure he was straight, but still.

Regrettably, we ended up not speaking for the entire train ride while I listened to Mariah on my headphones and he typed away on his Lenovo.

Fast forward to this past Tuesday night on the Metro-North, this time heading back to Connecticut from New York.  As per usual on rush hour evening trains, I was relaxing in a window seat trying not to acknowledge the existence of whoever it was sitting next to me as I sipped on Merlot from a plastic cup.

Yes, I drink on the train.  Usually just a couple of those mini-wine bottles, but sometimes I’ll be ghetto and have a straight up forty of Bud.  I wish I was kidding, but drinking on the train is probably the only thing that has kept me remotely sane during this whole experience.

…What?

Anyways, after a few minutes of riding side by side, I inevitably glanced in the direction of the man to my right.  And there was a Lenovo in his lap!!!  I surreptitiously scoped out the rest of him.

Verified.  It was Lenovo-Guy.

Oh.  Em.  Gee.

Of all the thousands of commuters who take the many Connecticut trains that depart from Grand Central Station every 30 minutes, somehow Lenovo-Guy and I ended up not only on the same train, but next to each other in a two-seater — again.

This was clearly a sign from God, so I decided to just go for it and strike up a conversation.  Here’s what happened:

  • Me: “So –“

He looked my way.

Silence.

Rather that follow up my “so,” with an actual question or comment, I got all nervous and awkward.  I decided to clear my throat and start fidgeting with my phone so as to indicate that I was clearly not talking to him.

He went back to his Lenovo and I kept drinking my wine, supremely embarrassed.

  • Note: this was weird, as I’m usually quite social — even around hot investment bankers.

The only thing I learned from this whole experience is that I hate Lenovo computers.  When I’m old and fat and alone with no one to love but my five cats, I will blame Lenovo and potentially take legal action.

 

Finding the Jewish Boyfriend Within

I’d like to preface this story by saying that going to bars alone is a fresh skill that I have only reluctantly developed as a result of moving to a new city for six weeks.  But it has so grown on me.  Sure, the first half of the night usually involves the following:

  • General awkwardness
  • Irrationally strong feelings of jealousy and/or hatred directed at people who have friends
  • Frightening premonitions of future cat-lady status

But then you get approached by a hot guy and life is suddenly worth living again.  You just have to suck on the sour to get to the sweet — like eating a lemon drop or performing oral sex as a means of receiving it later.

  • Note: all names mentioned herein have been changed to protect privacy.

So Friday night — it was the start of my last weekend in Nashville, and I found myself back at the gay bar where I met the blogged-about older hottie Martin over two weeks ago.

This time around, I ended up meeting Charley — an adorable and deliciously muscled all-American looking guy whom I typically would’ve melted for upon first contact.  However, it soon became apparent that he was drunk off his ass.  At 11:00 pm.  This threw me for a loop, as people generally don’t start slurring their words until at least midnight in New York.  This isn’t to say we don’t get drunk at all hours of the day — we’re just able to disguise it by forming whole sentences.

I was completely sober while talking to Charley.  The result was an excruciatingly uncomfortable conversation that needed to end as soon as possible.  In an effort to get him to lose interest, I turned off my charm and avoided eye contact.  It didn’t work, which I’ll go ahead and construe as evidence that I’m irresistible.

Eventually, Donna — his sassy Southern wing-woman — showed up and started rambling on about some Australian guy she was sexting with.  I feigned the urge to pee and excused myself.

As I took the long, around-the-entire-square-footage-of-the-establishment-twice way to the restrooms, I was secretly hoping to run into Martin, whom I hadn’t heard from since I responded negatively to a booty call text he sent two days after we met.  A part of me was aware of how pathetic it was to fantasize about running into him, but the other part of me wanted to get all up in his face and yell, “If we had gone on at least three dates and participated in a joint STD screening over the past two weeks, maybe we’d be sleeping together tonight!  Your loss, a-hole!!!”

It’s probably a good thing that he never showed up.

I started looking around for more potential suitors.  Only two people were catching my eye:

  • A shirtless bartender with a strangely endearing Luigi ‘stache who slightly resembled a founding member of the Village People
  • A lesbian who was wearing the same outfit as me

I decided to keep to myself.  For a moment, I became suddenly aware of the absurdity of the fact that I ended up at this bar yet again despite my staunch inability to sleep with strangers.  Then I ordered another beer and got back to scanning the room for hotties.

A basic lack of man-candy made my mind begin to wander.  My internal dialogue:

  • I miss 90’s Mariah so much.
  • I think I want Indian food for lunch tomorrow.

Before I could finish my next thought (which I’m pretty sure involved veggie samosas), a now-even-drunker Charley reappeared out of the freakin’ blue.  Without saying a word, he grabbed my hand and led me to a secluded area outside the women’s restroom.  The following bizarre exchange then occurred:

  • Me: “What’s up?”
  • Charley (directs my attention to his right bicep, which he’s now flexing): “And I’ve never even done porn.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this unsolicited declaration.  Charley broke the silence by going in for a (ridiculously sloppy) kiss.  My sobriety was making this whole situation feel about as natural as heterosexual intercourse, so I immediately pulled away.

  • Charley: “Why are you pulling away from me?”
  • Me: “I don’t know… I feel guilty… Umm.  I’m Jewish.”

Random, irrelevant, and oh — totally a lie.  Though I do sometimes get mistaken for being Jewish, I’m actually Italian and Catholic.

I know a lot of people get a kick out of lying to strangers at bars, but honestly, I had never engaged in the activity until this very moment.  If I were ever to premeditate a spicy bar alter-ego, I doubt I’d go with with real-me-except-Jewish.

In any case, he proceeded to share that he loves Jewish boys.  Some sick part of me must have been loving the attention, because I suddenly heard myself saying things like:

  • “Yeah, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to celebrate Christmas, but then I remember how awesome Hanukkah is.”
  • “Oh, Israel?  I’ve totally been there.  I spent two months on a kibbutz last summer, and it changed my life!”

I was just about to share some of my awesome bar mitzvah memories with him when Donna emerged from the bathroom and matter-of-factly said — in the Paula Deen-iest of accents, mind you — “It’s time to leave.  Y’all are going home together.  K?”

The fact that she’s a horrible friend won’t be discussed, as this post is already too long.

To easily get out of the situation without having to explain myself, I invented a New York boyfriend and apologetically told them about him — “He’s perfect for me and I just don’t want to mess it up.  It’s not worth it.  I’m sorry.”

And then I left.

After reflecting on it over an episode of Sex and the City and a Fiber One bar, I believe there may be an allegorical quality to this whole made-up boyfriend situation.  Perhaps he is representative of my true self.  Or the dreamboat ER doctor that I mentioned here, who’s still waiting for me to stumble into his life.

Either way, it’s time to go back to New York and find him.

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