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.
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,
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.