Paris Is Burning (Part II)

I can’t fully focus on making out with Paris Boy #1 because I’m worried about my small black bag, the only luggage I’ve brought with me to Paris, getting stolen or stepped on. Or who knows what other things can happen to an unattended bag in a gay club in Europe…

I step back and feel another body right behind me. I turn around and see a tall boy with thick, wavy, auburn hair and wearing a loose, black silk button-up. Paris Boy #2. He walks over to Paris Boy # 1, puts his arm around him and whispers in his ear. He slowly rests his forehead on his friend’s head and turns to look at me. He smiles, and I’m almost sure he flashed his tongue. Paris Boy #1 takes a sip of his drink and comes over to talk to me. I’m assuming that Paris Boy #2 doesn’t speak English so #1 has to step in as translator.

“This boy here, he is my boy friend,” he says to me, placing emphasis on the last two words. He wants to make me understand that Paris Boy #2 is not his friend who happens to be a boy; he’s the boy he happens to be fucking. Not a boyfriend. But a boy friend.

I give Paris Boy #2 a genuinely smile, then try to make a joke in my bastardized French. I’ve realized that playing funny is a sure way to show my non-threatening disposition. It’s my last night in France, I’m not going to get involved in a coup d’etat.

But unlike American boys, the French don’t get off on competing with one another, marking territory, claiming possessions. Fucking with each other leaves everyone empty-handed. French boys are more about teamwork and alliance. At least, this is the conclusion I come up with to explain how I went from making out with a boy, to telling jokes to his boy friend to trying to make the couple forget my trespass to what’s happening now: me grinding with both of the Parisians in the middle of the dancefloor. Paris #1 is in front of me with his hands on to my hips and putting his nose up against my cheek. Paris #2 is behind me, grabbing on to his boy friend’s torso and pressing our bodies closer together. Paris Boy #1 is eyeing me like he wants a kiss. So I kiss him, while playing with the back of his neck. I hand him my drink, turn around and place both of my hands on Paris Boy #2’s shoulders, to regain my balance. Then I go in for his lips, slightly higher than mine. I bite his lower lip and then smile while he’s still caressing my mouth with his tongue. I run my fingers through his thick, wavy hair and pull a little.

It’s starting to get really hot, and I can feel my shirt sticking to my sweaty back. The boys and I go over to the bar to get a drink. Paris Boy #2 turns to me and says something in French, something I shouldn’t be able to understand. The sentence is too complex, and the vocabulary is nothing they’d teach me in school. But maybe it’s his body language, getting closer to me with every syllable uttered, or his facial expressions, how his eyebrows rose with excitement after certain words, or his eyes, the way he looked at me and then down at my jeans. I don’t understand what he says, but I understand what he means.

I look over to Paris Boy #1, my original partner, and notice that he too is eager to learn of my response. Yes, these boys are sweaty, sexy. Yes, it would be electrifying to keep playing with them. Ah, a threesome in Paris, every boy’s bubbly daydream.

But no. I have a flight to catch. A flight I can’t miss (again). There will be other sweaty, sexy boys, other electrifying nights, other times to get fully drenched in daydreams. But now, nothing screams reality like starting to get sober and a feeling your watch ticking all the way down on your wrist.

I write down my e-mail address in a wet napkin, and fair the fine boys adieu. My black bag is still where I left it hours earlier.

I wonder if how far we would’ve have gone last night…

“Excuse me, sir? I can’t find your reservation in our system.” And just like that dream is over. The airline attendant at Charles de Gaulle is condescending and British. She’s been having trouble finding my return ticket back to Madrid. But I assure her that she’s oh, so wrong. I mean, how else did I get to Paris.

“I’m sorry, but at this point the only thing I can do is suggest you purchase another ticket,” she tells me.

“But I have a ticket. Here, I have my printed out reservation.”

“Well, it looks like the ticket has been cancelled. I can’t do anything about it here, you need to talk to customer service, I’ll direct you.”

So there I go again– trying to talk my way into a flight back home. The customer representative is even less helpful and way bitchier. She is not going to give me a break. She lives for moments like this. She tells me that since I missed my original, non-refundable flight that my return ticket had been cancelled, and I had no choice but to purchase a new one if I wanted to return to Madrid. The price? 875 euros.

My friends have already boarded their respective flights, I have no one with me, my phone has just died and I have about 35 euros in my bank account. And I’m stuck in Paris.

I go get some coffee to regain my compusure and figure out an escape plan. I have to get on that flight. Boarding is going to commence in a few minutes. No mom, no friends, no money. All I have is this piece of paper stating that I purchased a flight. It’s all on me. I down my coffee, look at the clock above my head, think about the cute Parisian boys, grab my Kenneth Cole bag and stand up. “I’m getting on that flight,” I think and give myself no other option.

With collected bravado, I walk up to the security guard, and flash my reservation and passport. He looks at it, marks it with his red sharpie and lets me through. No questions asked. I wait until the original British girl who denied me my ticket takes her break and find another. She’s brunette and a lot cuter. I give her all my details, and she smiles and says, “Madrid?”

“Si,” I say with the biggest good boy smile I could muster this early in the morning after having my tongue down two cute guys’s thoart (almost at the same time).

“Oh wait…” she says after she catches an indiscretion on the screen, probably a big sign reading: DO NOT LET THIS BOY OUT OF PARIS. And I think, “shit.”

But then she gets distracted by an Italian tourist, bitching and yelling about something. So she steps out for a minute to try to help her co-worker deal with irrational Italian.

And that’s when I see it, my boarding pass. Dangling, freshly printed from my machine. My ticket out. So close, within grasp. I don’t even look around to see who’s watching. I just snatch it and run away.

It’s not until my flight takes off, with me sitting comfortably in my seat, that my hearts stops pounding. I feel like… Matt Damon! I’m a spy.

[Paris Is Burning (Part I)]

Paris Is Burning (Part I)

I walk in to the Barajas International Airport in Madrid clutching my small black Kenneth Cole carry-on bag, the only thing I’m taking with me to Paris. I had heard earlier that the recently remodeled international terminal was currently being used as a location spot for the third Bourne film. I don’t see Matt Damon stunting about. Then again, I don’t have much time to focus on finding action stars. I’m late for my flight.

The night before I had gone out with Chico Rock and his friends to Royal Cool, the largest gay club in Spain. As a result, I’m not only late for my early afternoon flight, but I’m also hung-over. In no condition to be doing physical stunts of my own, instead of dashing, shoving and hectically trying to catch my flight, I accept my fate: there’s no way I’m going to make my flight. Considering it’s pointless to be dashing frantically through the terminal, I stroll.

“When is your departure time?” the airline assistant asks typing some keys into the computer. I look down at my watch, gesture nonchalantly and answer, “Five minutes ago.” She’s a little confused by my lack of concern, but I’m certain that the worse that could happen is that I’m going be put on a later flight, get to Paris later tonight, meet up with my friends at the hostel and continue on my merry way. That was not the worse that happened.

Failing to read the fine print, I did not know that my flight, because it was so cheap, was a one-time deal. No refunds, cancellations or rescheduling.  Damn you, RyanAir! The only thing I can do now is purchase a one-way to Paris for 450 euros, the assistant regrets to inform me. But fuck that!

After about 40 minutes of talking to airline agents and the ticket counter, trying to negotiate a way to get me to France for free, my persistence and their frustration gets me a ride up a secret elevator to the top floor. I’m not sure who I’m going to see, but they make her sound important. I’m kind of nervous? Nah, she’s my ticket out of here and on to Paris. I’m ready.

I walk into her office and see a woman in her early forties sitting in a large leather desk chair, wearing a black pencil skirt, heels, square-rimmed glasses, straight auburn hair parted on the side. She’s looks up at me and doesn’t smile and I think, “Great! There’s no way this lesbian is going to have any sympathy for me and put me on a flight to Paris!”

But she’s actually the most understanding of my situation… no, not that I had gone partying the night before but that I was taking an exam at my institute this morning that had taken longer than expected. She prints out another boarding pass, signs it, hands it to me and this time, she smiles. And 20 minutes, I’m sitting on another Paris bound RyanAir flight.

“Well, I am very glad you made it,” Paris Boy #1 says to me after I tell him the story. It’s my last night in Paris. I have a flight back early in the morning, but instead of sleeping at our dungy, stuffy hostel in Montmartre, swarming with hippies and vagabonds, I decide to pull an all-nighter and use my hostel money to get into an exclusive and much-talked about club at the end of Les Champs Elysee, Le Queen, a recommendation from Chico Rock.

Paris Boy #1 has short, spiky hair and wearing a grey polo shirt. Because I never really paid attention in high school French and I dropped out of my college French class, I’m thankful that he speaks English fluently, even more thankful that he has retained his accent. He speaks softly and in a reserved tone even when he’s talking about the dirty things he likes to do in bed. The 25-year-old law student noticed me clutching my black Kenneth Cole bag at the bar and thought it was unusual… he called it “peculiar.” It’s common for businessmen catching a red eye or something, but I seemed kind of young and kind of unemployed and like I had been living in a cheap hostel for a week, so yeah it was rather “peculiar.”

We make out on the dancefloor to an awful eurotechno song. The lighting at Le Queen shades the club in fluorescent violets and blue hues. There isn’t much dancing, not tonight anyway. The boys stand in place to look, but they rarely touch. It’s my last night, so I don’t care if I break the club’s customary stance. I’m touching Paris Boy #1 all over. Le Queen is not that big, so no matter where you’re standing you can get a good view of the whole place and the hotties bathed in color and motionless like mannequins all crowding inside. But I was so wrapped up in this hottie, I didn’t notice his boyfriend, Paris Boy #2, approaching.

[Paris Is Burning (Part II)]

Where There’s Smoke… (Part II)

I wake up next to Mr. Danger and quickly climb off his bed without making much noise. I go to the restroom, splash cold water on my face and look at the mirror as I mouth the word, “Fuck!” I keep running all the details from last night over and over in my head but yet cannot come to any form of clear conclusion.

I sit on his bed and put on my sneakers. He is still fast asleep, breathing softly and grabbing on to his large pillow by his head. I consider waking him up and letting him know I’m leaving. But, really, what am I supposed to say?

“Oh, thanks for smoking me up, I can’t believe we smoked two bowls. I really liked hanging out with you and watching Cruel Intentions, while we talked nuzzled underneath your sheets. Sarah Michelle Gellar is such a psycho princess in that movie, right? Oh and thanks for suggesting that I should spend the night, even though I was kind of thinking that I should just be heading home when it started getting late and you hinted that you were ready to go to sleep. Oh wait, you didn’t say you were ready to go to sleep, you said you were ready to do something else. What did you have in mind exactly?

Then you turned the lights off and turned your back on me, but a few seconds later began rubbing your butt up against my thigh and caressing my lower leg with your feet. And when I rolled over and started spooning you and running my cold hands up and down your torso, you didn’t flinch away. Instead, you exhaled heavily. And then I started fingering the elastic on your boxer briefs and getting so close down to your crotch. But then I stopped. You noticed I stopped. And I turned over and closed my tired, drunk, stoned, delirious, horny eyes. But then, you rolled over and got so close to me that I could feel your breath on my cheek. And you began poking my hips with your knees. And when I turned my head to look at you, you didn’t look away. So I kissed you, and you kissed me back briefly, softly, before you closed your mouth, recoiled back gently and said, ‘We shouldn’t do this.’

Right, I shouldn’t have kissed you. And you shouldn’t have lied to me about lying to my best friend, you shouldn’t have had invited me over, asked me to spend the night, put your body so close to mine, teasing me to make a move. And I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

No, I don’t say anything. I just grab my phone and put on my jacket and leave, slamming his apartment door as I exit. If I can’t sleep in, neither should he.

It’s a beautiful day in Lakeview, I ponder as I dash to catch the train back to campus. The entire morning, I expect the worse from Mr. Danger, calling Captain Spirit and telling him his side of the story. “And then he tried to kiss me!” he’d say after manipulating the facts, just like he manipulated me, just like he manipulated Captain Spirit.

And it really gets to me. My entire young adult life, when it comes to friends, the one rule I’ve declared rigid solid, unforgivable if broken, is “bros before hos.” Silly as it sounds, it can shred. And after everything I knew and stood by, to throw it all away for a 2-minute kiss? I feel like I’ve cheated myself.

The only legitimate reason I can come up with to justify Mr. Danger’s actions is that he was using me maybe to end things with his boyfriend, inconsiderate of the possibility that his actions might also ends things for me and my best friend. No, not his actions. Mine too. Fuck. But surely, there are easier ways to break off a relationship that do not involve setting up a trap. And in between all these rundowns of possible scenarios, my mind keeps lingering on what a great time I had hanging out with Mr. Danger, talking, smoking and watching the movie, before things got sticky.

I get back to my apartment and check my e-mail. And there it is. A notification from Facebook. Mr. Danger had written on my wall just mere minutes ago.

“Why the escape? Did an alarm go off?”

I’m positive that there’s some part of Mr. Danger that wants to get caught. That night at Sonotheque, I expect a hell blaze. An impending confrontation with Mr. Danger and with Captain Spirit, I’m ready to defend my loyalty, wavering as it might seem. I put on my second favorite pair of jeans, just in case drinks come flying at me during the course of the night.

Captain Spirit shows up alone. I’m relieved that I won’t have to deal with Mr. Danger just yet, but worried that his absence might suggest build up for a looming resolution even more explosive than I had planned for.

“Where is Mr. Danger? I thought you said he was coming with you tonight?” I ask even though I had told myself not to ask.

“He’s staying in tonight,” Captain Spirit answers without even a hint of suspicion. “I think we wore him out last night!”

Maybe not…

But as the night progresses, I realize that Captain Spirit is clueless as to my whereabouts the night before and not a bit curious either. He would have mentioned something, if he thought something was off. Thankfully, I regain some emotional stability to enjoy the last hours at the club. Captain Spirit and I are standing by the bar, waiting for another round when he says, “I think I’m going to try to be single for a while.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m serious. All these guys, even when I know it’s not going anywhere, I keep investing so much. It’s so draining.”

“Oh come on! You always get the most devoted, reliable puppy dogs going crazy over you! All of your past boyfriends were upfront about how they felt, never played games. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know, I feel like something has been missing. And I keep buckling down each time a decent guy comes around. I don’t even know if they’re right. Or what I want, what I’m missing.”

“You’re happiest in a committed relationship. It’s in your DNA. You’re the boyfriend type and I’m the type who…” I stop and I can’t say it. It suddenly comes pouring over me—a drunken retrospective of my dating life so drenched in disaster.

“You’re the type who never settles,” finishes Captain Spirit with an emotional tissue to wipe away my self-pity like only a best friend could. “That’s what I’m missing, the one thing you always go for: sparks.”

“Sparks tend to combust,” I reply.

“Sometimes, but it’s better than faking interest in someone out of fear of being alone.”

“Yeah, but aren’t we alone now?” I ask raising an eyebrow and looking around the crowded club.

“No way!” Captain Spirit responds immediately. He’s still a little frightened of being alone. “We are… in transition,” he says after careful deliberation.

“In transition,” I repeat with emphasis. I’m liking the term. “And all we need is sparks to launch the rocket.”

“All we need is sparks,” he repeats.

As we make for the exit right before closing time, I turn to Captain Spirit and thank him for coming out. I had never felt the need to do that before, but for some reason, tonight, it feels like I should.

“Of course,” he says a little thrown off by my formal regards. “You planned this whole thing, you know I wouldn’t miss it.”

Captain Spirit was right that night. We weren’t alone.

The thing about sparks is that sometimes they’re actually an alarm signaling for you to run in the opposite direction. And sometimes, they can be going off right in front of you without you even realizing they’re real.

[Where There's Smoke... (Part I)]