Gosh and Begorrah

No clue why I chose that as my title.

Yesterday afternoon, I finished reading The Blackwater Lightship by Colm Tóibín.  Beautifully written, and one helluva fast read.  Seriously - I could knock out 30 pages during my commute each day.

One thing bothered me, though.  Will and I were at Unabridged (local bookstore in Lakeview - caters, but not exclusively, to the gay community), and I saw this book in the Gay section.  Now, I had bought this book for $0.50 over a month ago at the Brown Elephant.  That's not the issue.

Just because a book has gay characters does not mean it's gay literature.  The major characters in this book were actually three heterosexual women, not the gay lads.  I would think The Amazing Advenutres of Kavalier and Clay would be called Gay Literature before this book, and that could even be justified.

Damn.  Hot Romanian gymnast on the pommel horse.  And I missed his name.  Still - nice eyes (and body, but he's a gymnast, so that's a given).

Anyway.  Back to last night.  I could tell I was getting moody, so I actually harnessed that to give me an impetus to go out.  Drink To Forget sort of thing.  Went to Hydrate, where the hot bartender works.  Caught the end of a little gay cabaret deal.  Still don't get drag.  At the end, the host(ess) decided to sing "His Eye is On the Sparrow".  I was thinking, Baby, don't you dare challenge anyone in here to a gospel singing match.  I'll snatch you baldheaded with "Old Rugged Cross".  And so I got a couple drinks, and kept my eyes on the bartender.

I have never gone to hydrate alone without getting hit on.  Last night was no exception.  This guy, who looked to be knocking on 40 if he hadn't already passed it, sidles up next to me at the bar.  The man isn't completely unfortunate looking, but he just doesn't appeal to me.  He's also drunk.  But friendly enough, and Hell, we know this Southern mouth can talk to just about anybody.

(okay - that Romanian would be much hotter without the moustache.)

So, he talks to me, and I can only understand about half of what he's saying, but I do my best to make it clear that while I do not mind talking to him, it's not going any further than that.  I even tell the bartender not to let him buy me any drinks. 

He talks a lot about how much money he makes, and good for him.  I don't really care.  However, he gets to me when he asks me if I want to go to the bathhouse.  My fiery southern accent comes out then, with a rousing, "Hell No!  There's no way I would ever go to Steamworks!"

The conversation goes downhill from there, folks.  After asking me what I would want to do if I went to a hotel room with him, I said, "I wouldn't want to go to a hotel room with you."  Then I finished my drink, told Bartender that I'd be back next week, and left.

I had three really strong drinks there.  I was really surprised that they didn't hit me till I was on my way home.  But until I felt them, the only indication I had that I'd been drinking was my Southern accent in full force.

Woke up this morning (afternoon) with a rather fierce headache.  And I have to leave soon for the lock-in I'm chaperoning.  So I'm probably going to miss the American and Russian men's gymnastics preliminaries.  Uvon = Sad.

Okay, my Romanian gymnast boyfriend's name is Marian Dragulescu.