Snuffy and I were at a wedding last weekend for an office mate. We were drinking with friends well before the reception and we were the first people in line when the bar opened. I was in not-so-rare form that night, people from his office who have never met me got a taste and feel (heh heh) of the real pinoyboy. I sat pretty in my seat, dosing out zingers and campy insight and we drew attention from people around us… sometimes not in a good way. Toasts were made, food was served, laughs were had, and many a ‘heeey’ were thrown about.

The party was heating up and people were dancing to nasty country rock-music, a style choice that I was not comfortable with. Visibly disgusted with the scene, Snuffy and I enjoyed each other’s company at table 29 when a blondie blonde from an adjacent table looked me straight in the eye, got up, and sat next to me. We exchanged conversation about the rowdiness of our table before during and after dinner, the lovely desserts, and the fact that I wasn’t dancing. Visablly disinterested, I politely smiled and often turned my head so that she would get the hint.

I didn’t understand her interest and making such a bold move, either she was clueless to that fact that I was sitting next to my boyfriend or that she was just that pressed for entertainment. Snuffy and I were thinking the former as she didn’t look too inebriated and her table wasn’t necessarily the card catalog at the public library. As a sub-aside to this aside readers, I seem to have this strange effect on straight women, ask me and I’ll tell you about the gal with the fake tattoo.

Our saving grace was our friend Ron, a handsome modern man of a certain age, who sat down next to us. I turned my attentions to him in hopes that blondie would as well. A few mintues of awkward silence later, she excused herself and went back to her table. The little quorum that was left discussed the woman’s intentions and we all shared a laugh at what seemed her failed attempt to make me her fun-boy for the evening. Moments later when people were milling about our table, Ron stood up and got a glass of courage. While chit-chatting with some office people, we noticed that Ron took a round-about route to the blondie blonde and asked her to dance. Snuffy and I were proudly beaming that our single friend Ron got a little action on the dance floor.

So, why am I telling this story now? We received thanks from Ron yesterday. No details were disclosed, but I’m thinking he had a good time that night. I know this isn’t exactly how straight girls feel when they get ditched at the gay bar because I kinda felt ditched myself, but I have the satisfaction that a straight guy picked up my seconds.

One is always a bit dubious when someone writes knowingly of one’s self. There always is some uneasy feeling that the writer has an agenda to paint the most idealistic and positive portrait of his or herself, but that feeling is displaced and a feeling of believability fades in when frank and honest facts are told. Readers, this isn’t one of those times. There is a point where casual conversation is heightened an becomes deliberately theatrical in nature, usually when alcohol is involved. As a foppish sot, I can handle myself in a situation. I don’t tempt fate and I do watch what I say… to a point.

An evening of genteel tippling, starts off with what we shall call Professore! Pinoyboy [Level 1], who speaks about world events or when he has well informed opinions. Professore! holds court with a stem, tumbler, or low-ball in his lap and is attentive to the countenance of his audience. Ales of all sorts, sparkling wines from outside of the French region of Champagne, and bourbon straight from Kentucky eases Professore! into a lubriciously into a smoking jacket of coruscating wit and esprit.

Punctilio Pinoyboy [Level 2], still follows the rules of good grace and deportment, but with a sneer. Holding the libation close and at a slight angle way from his face, he readies himself to pounce upon those who sought to challenge Professore!. This level of intoxication affords Punctilio to make passes at women with the utmost grace and charm, easing them into friendship before he starts in on their husbands or boyfriends. His secret smile says to ladies, “you can trust me, I’m harmless” and his posture says that he is still sober enough to be genuine, but by that point his prey is already too drunk to be dubious of anything.

The Pernicious Pinoyboy (PP) [Level 3], changes tact and goes for a more divide and conquer method. The crowd that was once assembled and civil has now fragmented into discrete vignettes. New couples stand close to each other insecurely; these people get the cool blue aloof Pernicious Pinoyboy. Conversations with these folk tend to be superficial, only if they are particularly fetching, PP will engage in more forceful tactics but for the most part he leaves well enough alone. The comfortable couples are comprised of two people who feel at ease when the other wanders off to do their own thing. Pernicious Pinoyboy gains macho points by the men in choosing (and consuming more) stiff drinks on the rocks rather than insipid bottles of bulk beer. Their wives or girlfriends, who were delighted by Punctilio PB don’t mind when he makes an off colored or salacious joke. More often than not, the people in this group become the ‘drunk couple’.

Those who are just drunk enough and decide to separate from their partners are subject to the highest form of Pernicious PB. There’s nothing too salacious or taboo for this crowd because he can do no wrong. Wives and girlfriends can be groped, husbands and boyfriends can be hit upon, and confessions of the inadequacies or competence in the bedroom are divulged. What does the Pernicious PB do with these experiences and information? Erotica? Penthouse forums? Greek drama? Secret tea party where the characters judge each other? One may never find out.

Today in the smoking shack, I sat in on a conversation about motorcycles.  As per usual, I sat intently clicking away at on my SideKick.  An older gentleman, for the sake of argument I’ll peg as 63, was holding court over a few other men on the subject of motorcycling.  I learned about classes one can take to be certified motorist in the State of Michigan.  I tuned in and out of an anecdote about an “old guy” that was in a Harley Davidson class.  I thought to myself, if the man sitting in front of me is referring to an “old guy”, there must be 70+ year old men out there just learning to ride a motorcycle.

I want a motorcycle, I don’t plan on hitting the open road with it, and I don’t plan on making it a primary vehicle.  Hindered by my loved ones, I don’t foresee myself getting a motorcycle because of their safety concerns.  Looking at the men in the smoking shack, I was mortified to think that I’ll have to be 55+ before I can get a motorcycle.  At this rate, I think I may never feel a hog between my legs.. (heeey)