Dear Dategirl,
I’m worried about a friend of mine. We were talking about free porn vs. pay porn, and he told me it doesn’t bother him that he sees a lot of the same women on the various free porn sites, because he makes up little biographies for the women and sometimes even gives them names. I think he may even believe he’s actually involved with them. How do I tell him he’s being a freak?
David
Hmmm. Interesting dilemma, and perhaps this is sort of off-topic, but did I mention that I met the mayor last weekend? No? I haven’t? Well, I did. The Lifelong AIDS Alliance asked me to be a guest ball-caller at Gay Bingo last week, and, naturally, I quickly agreed. A couple days before the event, the woman running things e-mailed and asked if I minded if the mayor called some balls too. (I love that it’s called “calling balls.”)
He was going to do the first two games, then I’d take over. They weren’t sure if he’d stay onstage with me or not. The Girl of Date is nothing if not magnanimous, so I graciously said yes. Speaking to a couple editors around the office, I soon discovered that Mayor Nickels has never been keen on being interviewed by the Weekly. I saw the opportunity for a coup: I would be the star of Gay Bingo, and the mayor would be powerless to resist me. I’d make hilarious jokes about his jailbird son and maybe even land a cover story. I had big plans for Gay Bingo—big.
The afternoon of, I went to Vain and had Christine do my makeup and Scarlet tease my hair into an up-do, incorporating little pink plastic Buddhas in honor of the Dalai Lama’s visit. I couldn’t believe how much better I looked than normal. It dawned on me that famous people are prettier than the rest of us because they have professionals spackling their faces. (Ladies, I highly recommend you spring for a professional makeup job at least once in your life.)
I pulled on my sequined Isaac Mizrahi–for-Target dress and headed to the armory. Gay Bingo attracts about 750 people. That’s a lot of bingo fans. I was a little nervous, so I downed a glass of wine as soon as I got there. Just before I went onstage, I bought another and teetered toward the platform as I heard my name called. The mayor was up there already. Apparently, he was staying. As I reached the first step, Lady Chablis, the guest hostess, shot me an annoyed look and mouthed something I didn’t quite understand. Was I not allowed to drink onstage? That didn’t seem right. I was confused and nervous, but figured the best course of action would be to just keep going.
By now I was really skittish, and as I sat down I promptly spill the wine into my lap and down my legs, which were bare and now colored purple. I sat there in shock. Could this night get any worse? Could I have really fucked things up this badly? I had no idea what to do, when the mayor whipped out a fresh, clean hankie and handed it over. My hero!
I mopped up, and as I was wiping the last drop off my right knee, I felt everyone’s eyes on me and realized Lady Chablis was talking to me. “CALL THE BALL!” she commanded, apparently not for the first time. Oops. I called it, but my game was officially thrown.
The mayor stayed up there with me, but I was too frazzled to make fun or ask for an interview or anything. We chatted between games (he’d met the Dalai Lama that morning—apparently a nice guy), and I promised to launder his hankie and mail it back.
So yes, I blew at Gay Bingo, doused myself with wine, and didn’t even get to interview the mayor. The least I could do was answer your question: Honey, you’re right—your friend is a freak, and odds are he probably knows it. But as long as he’s not hurting anyone, who cares?
Judy McGuire is the author of How Not to Date. Dating dilemmas? Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.
