Social media and I have a strange relationship. While I like to post crap that is meant to get a laugh, I rarely if ever post that I just had dinner with Queen Elizabeth and now we are going to the crafts fair in search of macramé flower pot holders.
Actually, I would post something like that.
However, the summer invites all kinds of “look at me; I am having more fun with more people than you” posts.
For those of you reading this who don’t live in the DC Metropolitan area, first, congratulations. You don’t have to get up at 4:30 am to commute ten miles to work for an 8:00 am arrival. Second, we have something a little more than hundred miles away called Rehoboth Beach. I would like to describe Rehoboth Beach in the summer, but in the sixteen years that I have lived in this area, I have never, and I mean never, been invited to go to Rehoboth Beach in season. I have been there in September for our car club invitational, but being on the board, I didn’t get to experience whatever the hell the excitement is all about. However, if I did, I am sorely disappointed. I have been there in November and April, too. What fun!
I once dated a guy, we will call Lester, not because we are protecting him, but that was his real name. We met in June, and every weekend he went to “the beach,” which is code for going to Rehoboth. Not once, did he ask me to go. He did finally ask me to go the following March. I dumped him the next month.
But, I am not bitter.
Maybe not getting invited is my fault because I never asked for an invitation. I am just one of those people who doesn’t go where he isn’t invited. I know people who ask to stay at other people’s homes when they are on vacation, taking advantage of generous people. When I took my cross-country trip, I only stayed with Danny and Michael, and that was because they insisted. It never occurred to me to ask people to stay in their homes. I have an acquaintance who declared years ago that he would entertain no more houseguests. He said he no longer had the room, nor did he want the inconvenience of having people in his space. Do you know what he does when he travels? He calls everyone he knows living at his destination and asks if he can stay with them. And, they let him. I have invited all my friends from around the country to stay with me, with one exception. You guessed it.
My friends, Charles and Ken invite me to stay with them all the time, so I know my company can’t be all that bad!
Once, many years ago when I lived in Florida, a friend was having a birthday, complete with limo and bar hopping. I found out about it, and I sort of made a stink since I was the only one in the group left out – the reasons being I didn’t drink to excess and I was better looking than everyone else (I am assuming the latter). Well, they reluctantly invited me but not without a bunch of rules as to how I was to behave and not to kvetch nor whine. Not kvetch nor whine? Had we met? I decided to drive myself and meet them at a club in Miami. Well, I was having a perfectly lovely time, when they decided they were bored, so all of them left, except my friend Stan. Not two minutes went by when who would walk by us and say hello, but Madonna! And, I don’t mean the Virgin Mother. I am talking about THE Modonna. And, they called me the whiner and kvetch.
I don’t get upset that I have not been invited to “the Beach” in season because from what I have gathered, everyone who goes there every weekend is a snobby, pretentious, A-list wannabe, who cannot consume a beverage unless it is in a red plastic cup and someone is pointing a camera at him, while he is wearing a bathing suit that is not flattering nor properly fitted and just shows how time and vodka can take a toll on a bitter queen's face and physique. If I drank as much as some of these old hags, I would never let someone point a camera at me when I wasn’t wearing a veil.
Has anyone told them that just because the bathing suit made the model in the Undergear catalogue look hot, that doesn’t mean it is going to work on you?
But, I am not bitter.
Speaking of cameras, I live by the Lucille Ball sixth season of Here’s Lucy rule: only in flattering light with a filter and no close-ups. I have one other rule. I will never have my picture taken while holding a red plastic cup. Uccchhhh.
These “look at my pitiful attention-seeking life” photos are all over Facebook every weekend in the summer. They are usually accompanied by a post that says, “Out at the Blue Moon with my dear friend, Tyler. Having a blast!” Dear friend? Really? Before you invited Tyler to stay at your fabulous beach house that weekend, he was reading you up, down, right and left – behind your back of course. What some whores will do for a weekend at the beach. Tyler’s tongue must be bleeding from all that biting.
But, I am not bitter.
The other summer activities that makes their way onto Facebook are the cookouts and pool parties. Again, I don’t know how these are because – you guessed it – I am never invited. There all of them are, many of whom I have invited to my home over the years for dinner parties, cocktail parties and the like, posing for the camera, holding those godforsaken red fucking plastic cups. All smiling as if they are the best of friends. I just want to vomit.
There is one clue as to why all of them are at the same party. They look alike. You don’t believe me? Look again. DC gays only hang around guys who look like themselves. Twinks with twinks, gym bunnies with gym bunnies, club kids with club kids. Same haircuts, same physiques, same clothes. And, not a damn one of them is aging well. Vodka and red plastic will do that to you.
A good friend of mine and I have had this discussion many times about how hard it is to fit in or be a part of a group of friends in this area. The jobs are here, but that is about it. He escapes westward every weekend rather than beachward. After much thought and consideration, I am thinking of doing the same thing because my closest friends don’t live here anymore. At least the guys in the boonies are not snobby, A-list, pretentious, wrinkled, tired, old queens with nothing better to do than pose drunk in inappropriate attire, while holding a red plastic cup.
But, I am not bitter.
If you are drinking out of a red plastic cup, follow me, join me or buy my damn books! www.miltonstern.com.