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June, 28 2004
Went to a party on a roof top to celebrate gay pride. The party was a catered affair with morsels that merely served to leave my appetite raging. One of the hosts was completely distracted by a handsome waiter that had come with the catering company. I wondered if I was having a vaguely homophobic moment, or a sort of service industry based moment of protective outrage, but his ogling—along with my aggravated appetite—precipitated my early departure. I felt relieved, as I walked away, that I hadn’t made enough money to have catered affairs at which I eroticized the staff, grateful guest that I am!
At the dog run this morning I met Barry (with his beautiful five-month-old Wegman gifted Weimaraner), who had also been at the party. We admitted to missing our dogs when out socailising, to detesting the enforced sociability of the dog run and the street when with a dog. As a gay man he finds it particularly ironic that he has now become a chick magnet. I asked him if gay men were not similarly compelled to stop and pet the dog. Apparently not. He also admitted to finding the party and the dinner afterwards, which he stayed for, strangely awkward. The host had started groping him under and over the table, and as he was paying for the dinner Barry was unsure as to the etiquette in such a situation. Perhaps we were both piqued because wealth, in some instances, permits a certain liberty that I recognise offends Barry and I as we both have no money and something of the old lady about us: priggish and irritable, but quite capable of having a very good time on our own terms.