I'm on my own for the weekend, and I was getting cabin fever writing my next brilliant book, so I headed over to the Palace Lounge to sip some suds and shoot some pool. It's been a full two years since I visited that place (with an ex-girlfiend -- and that's not a typo). It's a dark underground lair that offers anonymity and good tunes; little did I know that I was in for a drag party scheduled for this particular evening. I've always been slow to pick up on my surroundings, so I didn't notice anything unusual until a young Venezuelan man started chatting me up at the bar. After exchanging a few words in Spanish I finally figured out that he was hitting on me. My gaydar is weak, but when he remarked that I look much younger than I am and lamented that I have a girlfriend, it was difficult even for me to miss what was happening. The man belting out "Jar Of Hearts" on stage was another clue I couldn't miss. No matter, I thought, I'm secure enough in my sexuality not to feel threatened; if anything, I was flattered because gay men don't like you if you're fugly (truth be told, sometimes I wish I were gay because whatever discrimination society offers doesn't hold a candle to the grief women can dish out). I settled into my surroundings to enjoy some people-watching and exotic music.
Why do I mention this here? Because however introverted I am or you might be, the occasional feast of sight and sound is good for you.
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