Archive | 10:16 am

Let’s Get Gay

13 Jul

Below is a transcript of a series of texts between my friend, Chris Brown, and me.

Chris Brown: Hey. What’re you doin?

Kyle Irion: Hunting. What’re you doing?

Chris Brown: Seeing what you’re doing.

Kyle Irion: You’re getting smart, it seems. End transmission.

Christ Brown: What transmission? We’re texting.

Kyle Irion: Just got a sweet kill. 10 point.

Chris Brown: You’re deer hunting?

Kyle Irion: No, I’m hunting for bargains. Gave myself 10 points for being so thrifty.

Chris Brown: So what are you doing tonight?

Kyle Irion: Nothing. You?

Chris Brown: I was going to go to a gay club with a group of people. Want to go?

Kyle Irion: Do you have to be gay to get in?

Chris Brown: No.

Kyle Irion: Is there an ocular scan to see if you’re gay?

Chris Brown: No.

Kyle Irion: I’m bringing my gay eyes just in case. They’re the eyes I watch RENT with.

Chris Brown: We’re leaving from my place at 10.

Kyle Irion: I’ll be there, man.

And so it passes that an arrangement is made. A reservation with the homosexual community has been forged. My gayness, ever covert, shall be made overt by the shaking of my ass in a completely rainbow-safe environment.

The group assembled is comprised of tall bearded man named Chris, a tiny brown woman named Arianna, a tall white woman named Courtney, and a tall gentleman referred to as Derek by his contemporaries. I’m also there.

We all pile into Chris’s car which, for the evening, I’ve likened to a kind of spacecraft. A spacecraft that is transporting us to a strange, new world where the once persecuted is embraced and those once thought to be “eccentric” are now “full on gay.” I call his car the SeX-Wing.

The ride to the club is long, but goes by quickly. It goes by quickl. Quickl. Quickl. [Editor’s Note: Why don’t you just type the ‘y’s in?] [Kyle’s Note: Because for this next part, one needn’t wonder y about anything.] [Editor’s Note: Lord.]

Arrival. Five young, intrepid adventurers dashing out into the night. Things gon’ get gay.

The club is loud and colorful. Above the dance floor hangs a large, intricate rack of lights that intermittently raises and lowers itself. In the flickering darkness, it resembles looming, mechanical, light-spider, stalking its prey.

“Look at that thing! It looks like a robotic spider!” I yell to Arianna over the music. Two gentleman walk by and say something to me about my body. I cross my arms and button up my shirt.

“What did you say?” Arianna asks. I turn quickly from her gaze and wipe my eyes.

“Nothing,” I eek out. Nothing.

There’s a long, metal staircase that leads to a second-level. At that second level, there is another bar and a stage where performers dance around and lip-sync to a bunch of songs that everybody hates but can’t stop listening to.

At one point in the show, my bladder tells me “Time go wee wee now!” I tell my bladder to talk like an adult and then get up to use the restroom. Inside the restroom, a gentleman is adjusting his boner. I giggle and run out, unzipped, my genitals spraying wildly as my cherubic face laughs maniacally.

A man with enormous muscles and a funny hair cut approaches Chris and tells him we have to go.

I tell that man that we have a right to be there.

He says that I in fact do not.

I stand on the stage and scream “My name is Kyle Irion, and I am here to recruit you!” –drawing a line from the film MILK in order to draw support from the crowd. They just seem sort of put off because I haven’t put my wiener away yet and I’m still peeing somehow.

“Kyle, let’s go. It’s time to go,” Chris says.

“All right,” I say, zipping up.

“I’m glad we’re leaving,” Derek says. “This place is a total sausage fest.”

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