Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Pac's Saturday Afternoon

Saturday morning I met my buddy at the gym. I filled him in on my plan to hit the Bearracuda party later that night and he decided he had nothing to wear to a bear party. As if Eddie ever needs an excuse to go shopping.

The Boy Next Door is a small menswear shop catering to a gay clientele. Think Undergear with a bargain bin. Which seems pretty silly... no self respecting gay is going to buy the picked-over crap rejected by last season's gays. Not in public. But since I'm not about to spend $185 on jeans and my self-esteem is decimated by the time I pass the swimwear, I rock that bin.

The staff are all well trained in the subtle art of base flattery to make a sale. As soon as we walked in, the shop keeper told me, "You're wearing one of our shirts! It looks great on you!" I looked down at the sweaty graphic tee I just worked out in and said, "Yeah, thanks." I didn't feel it was my job to remind him he wasn't the exclusive retailer of Lucky Brand casual wear and that I'd found this particular shirt on the close-out rack at Macy's.

$8 for the shirt, $37 for the
salesman to tell you how buff
you look in it.
(I remember that purchase clearly. I picked up my arm load of three-for-one shirts and headed to the counter all pleased with myself. That's when the Macy's clerk looked at me sideways and asked if I tried them on first. When I replied "no" he strongly suggested I do so as "they tend to run small". I took that as code for "you delusional fat ass" and informed him that at eight dollars, it was hardly worth my time to engage in this prolonged transaction let alone visit the changing room since I can always wash my car with them. It was a lie of course, I never wash my car. The shirt fit and the first time I wore it out to meet Eddie for drinks, he was wearing the exact same shirt. Which he bought at Boy Next Door. For $45.)

Recognizing me as a bargain bin gay, the shop keeper turned his attentions to Eddie. "You've lost weight, haven't you? And you're shoulders, they seem wider!" The hook was set. "I've been doing P90X!" I heard Eddie volunteer as I dashed toward the clearance aisle. I stopped in my tracks when I spotted a pair of black pony hair loafers. "Well hello pretty, pretty pony... how much are you? What? A hundred and twenty dollars? If I ever see you in the bin, you're coming home home with me." I realized I was not only talking to shoes, the conversation was sad and disturbing.

As I was putting the loafers down, the perky shop keeper snuck up on me. "Aren't those fun? Not everyone can pull 'em off, but they'd look hot on you!" I wasn't going to kid myself, he was absolutely right.

In the bargain bin I found an assortment of temporary tattoos. I imagined my partner's face when he got back from his trip and I let my new tribal arm band slip ever so slightly from under my t-shirt sleeve. Sold! I walked out with my $5 tattoo and Eddie with two more $45 t-shirts. I made a mental note to hit Macy's soon.

How could you, Pac?! After I hauled your
fat 8-year-old ass around in circles at the
 carnival 'til you blew corn-dogs in my mane.
How do you sleep at night? Shame on you,

Pac! Shame!
When I got home I examined my purchase only to find the tribal design of my arm band tattoo converged in the center to form a graceful butterfly. Oh hell no. I am not wearing that to a bear party! Back to Boy Next Door where I exchanged my tramp-stamp for some manly barbed wire. You know, like Pamela Anderson's. And since I was there, I picked up a few other items.

The tattoo turned out to be a dud since it was 90% rubbed away by the time JB got home on Monday. (Probably too much plan B.) I haven't worked up the nerve to tell him about the pony hair loafers yet.


  1. I insist that my car only be washed using Lucky Brand T-shirts. Sometimes Diesel, if I want to treat myself.

  2. Do the $45 Lucky Brand T-shirts clean your car better than the $8 ones?

  3. I find my Wal-Mart $5 sleeveless without toxic branding on them to be far superior in hiding my moobs and less scratchy on the paint job.