After spending about eight weeks working at there, I really needed a vacation. Had I actually been working in Vancouver, I probably wouldn’t have felt quite as pressing a need to take holiday; as things turned out, I ended up working in Arlington, WA, a town of perhaps 3000 people in all, 50 miles north of Seattle, with nothing in the way of nightlife, entertainment, or…anything else for that matter. Since I didn’t have a US drivers’ license, and hence couldn’t commute to work on my own (there was no mass transit system either), I was relegated to staying in a hotel, and being dependent on all of my co-workers to pick me up/drop me off from the office. I hated it.

The Hawthorne Inn and Suites probably never saw quite as much action or entertainment as when I moved in for the summer. My habit of insisting that all of my laundry go to the dry-cleaner down the block, in addition to my inability to use the hotel fitness room without lip-syncing to Madonna—well when it was all put together, the hotel staff decided to adopt me as something of a mascot. Unfortunately, with the lack of things to do in Arlington, it’s not as though this adoption really led me anywhere other than to the occasional free drink at the hotel bar (which had some of the best bread I have ever eaten–anywhere). I would be picked up in the morning by some poor sap who had the misfortune to be dragooned by the company’s CEO, get to the office by about 8:00, stay through 5:30 (and hitch yet another ride back with some other sap), return to the hotel, work out, shower and change…and then I’d get online and play around on gay.com, looking desperately for some form of homosexual release (not in that sense, perverts), just anyone else to talk to.

That was also the first time I actually started watching (and following) Buffy the Vampire Slayer. So I guess the summer wasn’t a complete waste; I managed to lose a fair amount of weight and catch up on the antics of the Scooby Gang and Mr. Pointy. I was terribly excited about that, but it led to some pretty insane moments over the summer. Keep in mind, if you will, that there wasn’t exactly much to do in the wonderful town of Arlington, WA at the best of times, and the lack of transportation had pretty much sounded the death-knell for any hopes I harboured relating to an amusing summer.

This only made everything that happened in those 10 weeks even more surprising.

It turned out that one of my co-workers, an individual who looked like a walking tuber (think the sweet yam variety), was/is also gay, and was fairly nice to me at first. He took me to a couple of gay bars/clubs in Seattle proper, as well as to one place which sort of set the tone for my summer in Seattle. It was, ironically enough, a bar called Tracks, in Kent, WA; a small, dingy place with a pool table, a smallish dance floor, lots of 80s music, drag queens, and one blazingly-hot bartender who used to slip me free drinks. And the occasional feel. Woof.

Now, the first time I was at Tracks, I was wandering fairly aimlessly around the dance floor when I was approached by an extraordinarily attractive young man who bore a strong resemblance to Mark McGrath (that’s the guy from Sugar Ray, right?); only shorter, and a brown version. Much to my chagrin, I haven’t the faintest recollection of his name—Chris, perhaps?—but that’s OK, since no one really goes by their real names on this blog anyway. So, Brown Sugar Ray Guy (also known as BSRG), was really cute. Half-Samoan, half-Mexican, and all-lickable.

BSRG: *obviously drunk* Hi.
Me: Hello. *lascivious grin*
BSRG: *reeling and bumping into me* I’m sorry.
Me: *grabbing him around the waist to hold him up, all the while leering at him* It’s OK. What’s your name?
BSRG: *mumbling* Grizszhhzz.
Me: *confused* Oh, well, what a nice name.
BSRG: I’m sorry.
Me: You keep apologising, but I’m not really sure what you’re sorry for.
BSRG: I’m drunk, and you’re really handsome.
Me: *taken aback* Oh. Well, thanks! You’re not so bad yourself.
BSRG: Do you like me?
Me: I don’t know you.
BSRG: Well, if you did know me, would you like me?
Me: I’m not drunk enough for this conversation, I’m afraid.
BSRG: *snuggling in deeper, closer to my body* That’s OK. I’m drunk enough for both of us.
Me: *happily tightening the embrace* Oh good. You do realise, don’t you, that you’re practically mounting me here on the dance floor.
BSRG: *interestedly noting the way his right leg seems to have snaked itself around my left hip* Yeah. Do you mind?
Me: Not at all, but I feel as though someone’s going to tell us to get a room.
BSRG: *examining his left leg with extreme concentration* You’re taller than me. You could pick me up, right?
Me: *flummoxed* Well, yes, given that I’m about eight inches taller than you and outweigh you by an easy 50 pounds, it’s a definite possibility.
BSRG: Great! *jumps up on top of me, wraps both legs around my torso, and starts making out*
Me: Mmmph! *pulling away* So, where do you live again?

The Human Tuber drove BSRG and myself back to Arlington, where much debauchery took place in a third-floor suite of the local Hawthorn Inn and Suites. Although BSRG was certainly a small person, if you know what I mean, and I think you do, he compensated for his size with so much energy that at one point, the front desk had to call up and make sure that we were all right.

When I woke up in the morning, eventually, I found him scampering around the kitchen suite, making me breakfast. Which then caught on fire, because I’m a tragic queen and domesticity is a major turn-on, especially when the chef in question is bounding about between the stove and the fridge in nothing but an apron. Although the outfit of choice may well lead to several third-degree burns, scalds, and grease splatters, it was still quite fantastic. Especially because in this case, it didn’t. However, I learned several very interesting things about grapefruit.

I’ll stop now.

The real entertainment, however, began when BSRG realised that he was way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere, and I didn’t have a car, or any way to send him back to where he came from. Despite repeated attempts by me to point out to him that this was hardly classified information, and that I’d tried to share it with him last night before he so rudely interrupted me by sticking his tongue into my mouth, he somehow convinced himself that it was my fault for having led him on and seduced him.

Eventually, this led to hurling of pots and pans, because the young man is a COMPLETE drama queen, and finds nothing sexier than lots of melodrama. I found this out the hard way, when, two days later (still in my hotel room), I came back to find him lying naked in bed, watching “The Young and the Restless”. When I kicked off my shoes (having by this point in time, given up on actually throwing him out or attempting to get him home because it was nice to have my own love-slave waiting on me), and attempted to change the channel, he flung himself off the bed (naked, no less), and yelled “You don’t want me to be happy!”

I responded, quite logically I thought, with the question “I’ve known you for three days, and all I want to do is change the channel. How is this in any way indicative of whether or not I want you to be happy?”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m not yet, but I’m about to start!”

“Fine! I’m leaving!”

With that, he walked into the bathroom and slammed the door, ostensibly to put on some clothes. I went to the kitchen area and poured myself a glass of water, but accidentally dropped the glass. The minute it hit the ground, he was back outside like a shot, glaring at me.

“It’s nothing,” I muttered, looking away from him, trying to find a mop.

“You just broke that glass.”

“Yes, it was an acc…”

“I made you so angry that you just crushed that glass in your hand, didn’t you?”

Observing the light of love, or at least extreme lust, throbbing in his eyes, I hastily amended my sentence. “Yes. Yes I did…it’s just that sometimes, you make me so mad, the idea of losing you…”

“Come here,” he said, undulating across the room to the bed, and taking his half-buttoned shirt off. “I’ll take care of that for you.”

Leaving the shattered remains of my moral code and self-respect along with the remains of the glass on the kitchen floor, I happily skipped over to bed, and proceeded to realise in much detail, exactly how much of a difference tender loving care could make to one’s wounds.

This settled into a three-week pattern, with him only occasionally leaving the hotel to go home every once in a while, generally for a change of clothes. I looked forward to those breaks, because they gave me time to come up with new forms of drama that I could use to get my booty quotient. Phrases leaving my mouth, and being rapidly followed with all manner of interesting nocturnal activities included the following:

“No, I don’t care what you say, Mother, I love him!”
“Fine! Go ahead and disown me, Father, I’ll never leave him!”
“Yeah? Well fine, DON’T pay for college, I’ll make it somehow! You’re my brother, but I can’t give him up for you!”
“I told you, James, it’s over! Over! I have a new love now, and we’ll always be together—you’re not in my life any more!”
“Like hell I’m going to come in on the weekend! I plan to spend time with my lover, and if you fire me, then so be it!”

Luckily, the drama would get him so hot and bothered that he didn’t notice that all my phone calls were being made to one number, repeatedly. Never in my life have I so frequently dialled the AT&T mobile phone customer service centre. To this day, I remember each and every option on that blasted menu.

A fortnight into this, I begged the hotel manager to toss him out. He did, and all of a sudden, my life became MUCH calmer. Until the next time I went to Tracks…