One thing you have to respect about a drunk homosexual at a bar is his brazen straightforwardness. My mother told me once that patience is a virtue—one that I’ve never really embraced. I think that subtlety be a virtue as well, one that many gay men might attempt to learn. And, while I respect an aggressive approach when it comes to getting hit on, when you have a complete disregard for social norms or PERSONAL SPACE, it can come across as, well, incredibly fucking creepy.
Perhaps a little restraint is in order for us. And I say us, because I have, on more than one occasion, had too much to drink, and said something that, in retrospect, could be interpreted as rude, slutty, aggressive, or creepy. No more gin for me.
Here are some exercises I’ve come up with, to give you an example of what might be more appropriate, and successful:
How about instead of stumbling up to someone, announcing the various ways you wish to penetrate them and expecting them to just throw their legs up in the air, you offer to buy them a drink first. Or, maybe instead of grabbing the guys ass who just walked past you, whispering sweet nothings about what you would do to it, all the while maintaining a vice-like grip on this poor, struggling victims derriere, you look at his face, make eye contact, and ask him what his name is. Maybe even go so far as to ask him how his evening is going.
See, subtle. Restrained. Classy.
In truth, when boys are out on the town looking for sex, they aren’t terribly interested in getting to know each other on a deep, spiritual level. We don’t really care about feelings or aspirations—or, the more we drink, your physical appearance. Nevertheless, pretending like you care is an important part of the dating ritual. It’s part of the hunt—it separates the men from the boys, so to speak. Maybe it actually separates the men from the whores. Either way, the better you are, the better your conquest. If you don’t put much effort into it, you’re not going to get anything great back. Or worse, you’ll get crabs.
I mean, come on, if you go up to a dude and say “let’s fuck,” and he agrees, where’s the fun in that? Half the fun is in the hunt, finding the one that really gets your engine roaring—and we’re talking a muscle car kind of roar, not a stupid Prius kind of hum. Plus, if you find someone THAT easy, they’ll let anyone stick it in—do you really want to put your junk where half the gay community has? Yea, I didn’t think so.
We get it. You’re looking for sex. He’s looking for sex. We know that’s where it’s going to end up—so don’t rush it. Have fun, enjoy your night. Have a cocktail. Tip your bartender.
No seriously, tip your bartender.
And to the old man sitting at the bar, staring at me obsessively, moaning and mumbling “pretty boy, pretty boy” over and over while rocking back and forth on your stool, that’s not actually flirting. That’s “put the lotion in the basket” kind of creepy. You better check yourself, before you wreck yourself.
Or at least buy me a fucking shot first.