When I was still a little faggot, sheltered from the realness of the world of queerdom, I used to go to one of Colorado’s few gay bars semi-regularly.
The first time I went, I was smoking in the alley when this guy in a white shirt came up to me, and asked me if I had a light. I handed it over to him, instead of a lighting his roach for him, so as to avoid the implication of cruising.
I was very drunk that night, so when the guy leaned against the wall I was leaning on and tried to talk to me, I crushed my cigarette and returned to the dance floor to slut it up.
The next time I was there, I had to piss like a horse, so I went to the bathroom as soon as we got there. Someone was having sex in the stalls, as usual, and I went up to the urinal. The guy stood at the next urinal, still wearing the same shirt, and asked me, as though not a moment had passed from our last meeting,
“So, you like Nirvana?”
I was wearing my Nirvana t-shirt at the time.
I nodded. I think I noticed the guy take not-so-surreptitious glance over the urinal divider. I zipped up my pants and walked out the bathroom.
Later that night I was busy slutting it up on the dance floor again. Well, trying to, anyway. I think that was the night I made out with a metal-head wearing a Beavis and Butthead t-shirt. He seemed nice, from what I could tell from his lips.
Then, white shirt dude comes barging through my friends’ dance circle. He gestured emphatically at me. I shook my head. I had no intention whatsoever of going anywhere with someone who couldn’t take two clear no’s. I turned around, ever so subtly, and started dancing with the nightly straight chick of the club.
Don’t be a fucking creep, I guess is the message. Keep your creepiness to yourself unless someone wants to see it. Seek someone who actually wants to see your creepiness.