“Oh, it’ll be better than you could possibly imagine,” my friend said dreamily. “I’ve been waiting all my life to go to a gay party.”
“A gay party?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s this party being thrown by a gay guy in my musical theater class - musical theater class, Courtney. I mean, that’s the most fun kind of gay there is, right? I bet it’ll be just like Brazilian Carnival - neon colors and vibrant music and beads hanging off of guys’ asses. You gotta come!”
I quickly determined that this girl had never been to a gay party - or quite possibly any kind of party.
“Uh, I think you might be disappointed,” I said. I pictured her arriving, expecting to be thrown in a Cirque du Soleil wonderland, with Elton John playing a sequined piano in the corner, then sobbing when every gay stereotype didn’t explode like confetti around her.
“It’s probably BYOZ,” she said. “You know - bring your own Zima.”
I rolled my eyes.
The night of the party arrived, and because it was rumored that someone was bringing a copy of Grease, I attended.
My friend and I stepped through the doorway of the studio apartment and I watched her eyes widen in shock. A handful of guys my friend would later refer to as “straight-looking” lounged like a walrus colony on futons and dingy floor pillows. They held paper cups filled with cola. In the corner was a litter box being put to good use by a cat.
My friend’s lips quivered. “I…this isn’t what I…”
It was like watching a small child react to the statement “Santa isn’t real.”
“I tried to tell you,” I said. “Not every gay guy is some giant larger-than-life disco ball. So relax and let’s enjoy - ”
“Hey, you made it,” said the party’s host, jogging toward us with a Pepsi 2-liter. “You guys wanna play some foosball?”
My friend said the words like a wince. “Foos…ball?”
“Sweet,” I said, breezing past her to a worn foosball table.
I could see the heartbreak on her face as she watched me cream a bunch of guys in a sport popular at frat houses and arcades. Classic rock wafted in the background, and she grimaced when the crowd began collectively singing the chorus of a Rolling Stones song.
Around 2 a.m. I left happy, bestowed with a 2-liter of soda by the party host. My friend walked sulkily beside me.
“This party sucked,” she whined as we walked to her car. “I mean, seriously! I was tricked!”
“So the gay man throwing the party didn’t incorporate enough of his sexuality into the theme? Is that what your saying?”
“Think of it this way,” I said. “ Your dad’s a hunter but something tells me that when he throws parties his guests don’t wear hats with dead forest creatures stapled to them.”
“Well, no! But - ”
“You’re originally from Alabama, right?”
She nodded hesitantly.
“Okay,” I said. “How would you like it if you threw a party and, because of your background, when guests arrived they all burst through the door shouting, ‘Where’s the moonshine and incest?’”
She sighed. “I just…I wanted to go to a really gay party. Fun. Bubbly. Pink everywhere.”
I thought for a moment. “Wanna come to my 5-year-old niece’s birthday party this weekend?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“There’s going to be fizzy pink lemonade,” I said.
The excitement that had fled her eyes upon walking through the threshold tonight slowly trickled back. She smiled.
“Can mine be served in a martini glass?”
Courtney Bee's articles on sex and relationships have appeared in Hustler, Playgirl, and numerous adult books. On ellorascave.com she's the bestselling author of Athima, an erotic novella, and a contributor to the new X-rated anthology Flavors of Ecstasy III. She's also a top-ranked sex columnist on examiner.com, where she betrays her prim Catholic upbringing on a daily basis.