Neither of us wants to go.  We’re tired.  Well, at least that’s what we keep telling ourselves to justify not wanting to go.  The truth of the matter is we don’t feel like dealing with the drama of it all.

The issues are many: it is a Cinco de Mayo party thrown by a gay white guy (The Child); Rick had done all of the interior design for The Child’s house where the party would be held, so we both know that topic will be discussed ad nauseam; it is a Friday night and the party will run late, and we assume that means we’ll have to drive home with all the drunk crazies on the road (as opposed to the rest of the time when the crazies aren’t drunk); our chances of severe weather increase dramatically after midnight; around 300 invitations were sent out and neither of us know more than a handful of the attendees; and we will have to deal with The Child.

On the other hand, there are some good reasons to go: it is yet another opportunity to hobnob with people disgustingly richer than both of us put together; it will allow us to party with a few peers and friends; it will be a great chance to network with the young, sometimes rich, and horribly beautiful of the DFW metroplex; Alice will be there; Rick and I are going together; there will be lots of free booze and food; it is a chance to see The Child again; it is a party being thrown by The Child; and it is being catered by a Mexican food restaurant we like.

You may notice the inherent plethora of paradoxes.

Although we didn’t care to show up, we both dress in our trendy best and set out on our journey shortly before 8 PM.  We arrive at The Child’s house fashionably late: perhaps a quarter after eight.  In front of this gargantuan yet beautiful house is a blow-up playpen for the blow-up bucking bronco that springs from its center like an obscene gesture.  We both agree before parking that this represents a very bad sign.

Oh well.  Too late to leave now.

Caterers are busy right there in the driveway cooking fajita makings.  It smells quite good.  That surely is reason enough to get out of the car, so I park at the end of the street so everyone else is forced to park behind me, thereby leaving me the easiest escape by way of a clear path outta there.  We drag ourselves from the vehicle and walk across the street and down the sidewalk, arrive at his lot, walk up the driveway to the front door, then let ourselves in.  As expected, everything looks wonderful.  And standing right there in the dining room is The Child looking delectable as always.  A cadre of friends and wait staff surround him.

We go to him, and kiss and embrace in greeting.  We pass a few personal comments back and forth to ensure he’s not overly stressed.  He then introduces us to several of his friends, including the two acting as hosts with him, and afterward we both comment that one of them is take-home material.  There is polite conversation, a bit of catching up with The Child, some mention of how nice the house looks with all the beautiful plants, flowers, and fruit scattered about for decoration, and the kind of shallow small talk with those we didn’t know about how we know The Child, is this the same Rick who’d designed the house and the expected yadda yadda yadda that goes with that, and casual questions about how many people will be here and who are they and where are they coming from.  Thankfully, there are perhaps a few dozen people there already who comment that our timing is perfect because alcohol and food both are being set out at that very moment.  Strategic timing intact, we know when it is acceptable to get away from them.

A quick glance toward the enormous patio reveals a significant cache of ice-covered beer located just outside the door, so we make a beeline for that location.  Neither of us denies needing a bit of liquid character to start the evening if we are to survive this ordeal.  That is accepting we already imbibed a few before making our way here, a little pick-me-up to help us through those first awkward moments should any present themselves between our arrival and additional alcohol; luckily, there are none, yet we do not regret our preparation.

We arrive on the patio and stand before the trough of ale.

Huh.  Would you look at that: nothing but Mexican beers and they still don’t have Negra Modelo.  And this party centers around those of self-proclaimed culture.  Fuckers.

We each grab a Corona to serve as our second-shift aperitif (perhaps one of many), search out the supafine bartender (Huh.  Would you look at that: the wait staff is full of lookers.  This party’s already better than I thought it would be.) with the church key and politely ask that he open the bottles.  He acquiesces and obeys; we like him already.  Once the beer is available for consumption, we stop by the hors d’oeuvres bar and enjoy some guacamole, salsa, and chips, and then make our way back out to the patio for fresh air and to avoid the commotion inside as final preparations are completed.  The Child meets us out there and introduces us to the two gentlemen responsible for the fantastic plant, floral, and fruit arrangements throughout the property.

Thankfully some critical detail requires his attention, so off The Child goes to address the latest drama.  That left Rick and I to chat with the “plant people” who are obviously family.  They seem normal, at least, and we give thanks for this blessing.

We stand on the patio drinking beer and talking for perhaps three-quarters of an hour.  Around us, the house and outside areas continued filling with people.  We note several times the proliferation of female waifs who seem underfed, anorexic, or bulimic, or even some combination thereof.  We can not deny the vast majority of them are absolutely beautiful, but neither can we refute they all look to be in denial of their hunger despite desperately needing to eat.

Go, Little Ones.  Scarf unto thine heart’s content.  Eat, drink, and eat some more lest thine belly echo the cries of dissatisfaction.  Thou art commanded to stuff thine face with much food and drink, and then thou needest more food.  Leave not this place until thine gut aches will fullness, not emptiness; until thine bowels cry out in satiation and sufficiency.  Tarry not, Little Ones.  Dinner calls out to thee even now.

With our two new friends still in tow, Rick offers them a brief tour of the house, something they both agree to and enjoy.  They are quite interested in his design work and impressed with the splendor of the place.  We are all thankful for the opportunity to escape the growing and writhing crowd hemorrhaging throughout the house.  Eventually, however, the tour is over (Excuse me, but how long can we hide in the master bath before someone becomes suspicious?) when The Child locates us after a brief search.  He amiably chides us for hiding in the bathroom.  It is a rather large and magnificent bathroom though, so at least it is a comfortable place to hole up.

Back out to the patio we go.  The timing is good as all four of us need another beer.  Once again ogling the bartender as he opens and delivers each beverage, we realize we can’t be selfish with him as others are also waiting for drinks.

Damn it!  We were here first.  He’s ours; accept it.

We mingle with the crowd and visit with those we know (each of the four of us doing introductions as appropriate).  Eventually, we notice Alice cornered by The Child and two people we do not care to socialize with (strategic avoidance), but she acknowledges us with a wink and we know she’ll be along shortly.

More introductions happen, including having to visit with the people we want to avoid.  (Oh well.  We tried.)  Alice finally makes it over and we greet one another and chat comfortably.  The Child comes back and wants to introduce some close friends of his: one man and three young ladies (Why must they all be so terribly thin?  Did you invite the entire eating disorders wing of Parkland Hospital?  Just askin’.).  Despite their apparent need for much food, the man is in better shape: a handsome, sexy guy with an intelligent and butch speaking voice who is casual and comfortable, albeit shedding a bit of nervous anxiety her and there.  With introductions out of the way, of course, they want to talk to Rick about the house.

This is getting old.  And did The Child say that man is straight?  Um, sure he is.  If he’s straight, so am I.  I’m sorry, but did he just say he’s a frustrated designer?  He’s frustrated alright; it’s just not about design.

We laugh and carry on as this new looker asks plenty of questions about everything in the house.  The three girls with him also ask plenty of questions, but we all notice it’s the man who is most interested in cornering Rick on the topic.

I’m sure that’s not all he wants to corner him about…

We all chuckle at that one.

For a straight man, he’s certainly flirtatious with the gays.  I’m not complaining, you realize, since we’re the folks he’s flirting with, and he certainly causes no pain for the eyes, but still: straight?  Ha.

Our two new friends mention Rick is looking increasingly uncomfortable because the three girls are now mobbing him and carrying on with socially unacceptable, mundanely banal small talk.

The Child certainly invited some riffraff this evening, did he not?

I am already aware of Rick’s growing discomfort with the Barbie Squad and explain to our new friends that I will in fact rescue him.  I turn and gently take his arm, lean into the conversation to interrupt their babbling, and tell him I need his attention for a moment as so-and-so and so-and-so have decided to leave and have a few questions regarding our previous conversation.  He politely bows out with a riposte and thanks me afterward, adamantly confirming he is ready to explode from the bimbo assault.

Finally, our two new friends are ready to leave, but before they do they invite Rick and me to have drinks with them in the coming days.  They enjoyed meeting us and would like to get to know us if we find the idea agreeable.  Then off they go.

We, Rick and I, visit with The Child yet again as he makes his rounds, all the while with Alice protected betwixt us.  After more party talk with the host, we move inside to the dinner table to grab a bite to eat and visit with the “straight frustrated designer” who continues his blatant flirtatiousness in a “I just know I’m straight, but kiss me again” kind of way.

Again, he sure is frustrated, but it has nothing to do with design.  But, hey, he’s doable.

The more he drinks, the looser his lips become.  This is rather enjoyable.  The conversation progressively becomes sexual in a generic way, and we all find it engagingly fun.

Considering the man just met us, he’s moving terribly fast.  Oh, and we must remember he’s straight.  Uh-huh.  Sure.  I like him.

There are many others around the table.  We visit with those we know and those we don’t know.

Sadly, very few of the starving herd appear ready to accept food from strangers.  Perhaps they’ve not located this bounty just yet.  It is hard to believe that’s true, however.  This is a pity, we note, as they can not survive the season in their present condition.  It is sad in this explorer’s eyes to admit they will not be here next year when we visit this savanna again.  The continent will be a lonelier place.

Now almost 11 o’clock, several hours washed away with beer, we decide it’s time to get Alice out of there and to head home ourselves.  First we try the front door, but the mass of the crowd is out there to play on the inflatable bull ride, a monstrosity that seems from behind alcohol spectacles to have become even more obscene, if not downright sexually explicit.  Seeing The Child riding it induces even more lust for the young, dashing, horribly rich, stunningly well built man, but that does not mean we want to wade through this torrent of bodies.

Before we are able to reverse course and go back inside, The Child sees us and runs to greet us yet again.  There are more hugs and kisses, and it’s obvious at this point, he is casting his sheets to the wind with abandon.  He doesn’t have to drive and it is his party, so we are all glad he’s enjoying himself.  He insists we absolutely must ride the bull.

Um, that ain’t gonna happen.

We all make nice with him as we stand on the front porch watching others try it.  Once his attention is diverted, we escape back into the house.  Alice and I are utterly grateful Rick designed this place; he knows the surreptitious escape route that will take us to the front yard on the opposite side of the house away from the blow-up thing and those trying to prove their worth on it.  We slide effortlessly through the house, into a secluded area, out through several doors guiding us through utilitarian rooms, and finally are ejected onto the front yard hidden by the house and trees.

Our plan is successful.  We make our way to our cars, Rick and I in mine, Alice in hers, and flee the scene before anyone is the wiser.  I drop Rick off at his place, step inside for a moment to greet Wylie and say my goodbyes to Rick, and then I am home before 1 AM.  In the distance, lightning rolls across the sky, and the distant sound of thunder approaches.

We had a fabulous time.  It was enjoyable in all the right ways, only slightly less enjoyable in the wrong ways, and a grand way to spend a Friday night.  Despite not wanting to go, we all had fun, and making some new friends is never a bad thing.