Don’t Fear the Reaper

It’s always a happy thing to walk into your corner queer bar to the sound of Blue Oyster Cult.

I had larger than average dose of nightlife this weekend: two nights. Based on my recent track record, that’s noteworthy. And all in all, it didn’t suck. Ran into some friends I hadn’t seen in a while, heckled some yuppie idiots in front of Julie’s Supper Club, got wet, etc.

I didn’t get laid, of course. That would be too much to ask. This has a lot to do with the fact that I didn’t really see many appealing prospects. But the main reason, of course, is that I’d cleaned up the house and changed my bed, which is almost a guarantee that no one would get a chance to see it. Never fails.

I did finally meet Shane, two and a half years after the first time we tried to hook up in Kansas City. That was a bonus. We talked, I tried to convince him not to move here, I asked about some other friends in KC, and we discussed how many other domain-owners were lurking in the Hole at the same time.

I watched a little uninspired group sex at My Place, and then went to the Eagle, arriving quite damp, thank you. There I divided my time between two friends who don’t get along too well (always fun but they were on good behavior) and smoked a lot of cigarettes on the patio.

I went home before last call and pondered having a nice wank, but I decided to sleep instead.

Now it’s Sunday afternoon and I find myself with a shocking urge for cheap sex. Of course, this being Sunday afternoon, there are few places where it’s available (or at least few places I’m inclined to visit).

So I think I’ll go to the grocery store instead. A reasonble substitute, I reckon…