This week's episode: The Slime of my Life.
The last episode of the Jtron Show left off with an awkward conversation in a speeding northbound Jaguar. I had a handle on it though, as my life is a continuous series of awkward moments:
My uncle: "So, you wouldn't be shocked if I told you that I was in a three-way relationship with [The Hotness]?"
Me: "As of this very moment, nothing shocks me anymore."
My Internal Monologue: Ah, so 'paranoid' is just another way of saying 'preternaturally aware'...
Me: "But you know, I was thoroughly convinced that he was bisexual. Thoroughly. Convinced."
My uncle: "Nope. Gayer than a maypole."
Me: "Ha... funny."
My Internal Monologue: Funny that you told me he was looking for a girlfriend, you duplicitous pervert.
Grrrr! I mean, ouch!
I guess you just can't trust anyone, not even your family, to be straight with you. And I mean that pun with every ounce of my perturbation.
It was all so irritatingly counter-intuitive. You expect people to try to swindle their way into your pants. You don't expect them to swindle their way into marrying you. And you certainly don't expect your own family members to play a major role in the chicanery. I don't know what I was more incensed about: the fact that my uncle blatantly misled me to set me up for some nefarious purpose, or that everyone was getting laid in this scenario but me.
Now--bless their sentimental, idealistic hearts--my friends steadfastly maintained the belief that The Hotness really did find himself attracted to me, regardless of everything else, and that there was more to this situation than met the eye. Ever the captious cynic, I refused to entertain those notions. I'm sure that the group dynamic played some small part in the dissemination (or non-dissemination as it were) of crucial information, but the truth is, I don't give a toss about the man's theoretical feelings or struggles, or what he may or may not think. How about we dispense with the extraneous bullshittery? Let's keep it simple, stupid:
If you want to bang me, then fine, let's do it. If not, it was nice knowing you. If you need a green card, let's talk about it. Enough of this ambiguity. It's time to shit or get off the pot.
When they invited me out again the following Thursday, my objective was clear: I was going to get to the bottom of this hot tranny mess and confront The Hotness; I was going to put it all out there; I was going to be like Wonder Woman with the lasso of truth. I wanted him to know that I know, and I wanted him to know that I know that he knows. At the very least, I was hoping that there would be a lot of stern, purposeful glances with knitted eyebrows:
It's something I'm very good at, in addition to my talent for mixing cultural references.
Unfortunately, because of booze and Michael Jackson, things didn't go exactly as I had planned.
I met him at the movie theater (before my uncles arrived extraordinarily late, as was their custom). Right off the bat, it was hug, rub, touch, "There is my angel face. You gonna come salsa dancing wid us tomorrow night? Is fun. Is like sex."
Not enough like sex, pal:
Twenty minutes later my uncles finally arrived with their fan club of sassy Latinas. We (i.e., they) decided to see Mama Mia. (All right guys, you're GAY, I get it.) Ninety fucking minutes of love and estrogen and Abba tunes set on the sun-drenched, mythical shores of a Greek island where all they do is dance and squee, but no one ever sweats. If only paternity tests existed in that strange parallel universe, they could have had that movie resolved in fifteen minutes, and I could have used the extra time to drink my pain away. But I digress. My uncle's partner, again with all the subtlety of a train wreck, made sure I sat in the seat right next to The Hotness, despite my best efforts to sit next to someone else. This was of course, a poignant repeat of the events that occurred at the immigrant movie. As soon as the lights went down, he started in with the whispered compliments again.
You think my eyes are beautiful? Kamehameha!
My gorgon death stares seemed to have the intended effect on him, and I made it through the rest of the movie (ordeal) unmolested. Afterwards, we headed to Felt (irony?) for some drinks, but I was going to be damned if I let that man caress my buttocks again. All I had to do was wait for the right moment to pull him aside, and BLAMMO. I was gonna whip out the flow chart. But first, I had a quick long island iced tea to get my truth lasso ready. Then I had another because the lasso still wasn't ready yet. After my third, my uncle pulled me outside for a minute to inform me that, "No one knows about the three of us. We're keeping it on the DL."
Right...
...
...
Wait a minute...
...
...
No one knows what, exactly?
A) That you three are gay, B) that you are in a relationship with each other, C) that you're all bastardly man-sluts, or D) all of the above?
Does this mean that I shouldn't bring anything up while there are other ladies present? And does this mean I'm a beard???
When I received no answer, I realized that I had been talking to the bouncer (who found me terribly amusing), as my uncle had already disappeared inside the bar. It was no matter--I mean, I had already been drawn into the eye of the shit storm. What difference does this new angle make? Maybe it was the booze doing the thinking, but I was sure that if I had another quaff, the situation would pretty much resolve itself. So, I went back inside, and had another three drinks.
Then they played Michael Jackson, and I felt compelled to dance.
Then I completely forgot what I was so upset about.
Before I knew it, I was slutting it up on the dance floor with the gay man.
Again.
FAIL.
The next day, as I wallowed in hangover hell, I got a text message from my uncle:
"Do U no any1 who wud mry a hot gay Colombian?"
That's it.
Enough of this crap.
I got on Facebook, and I sent The Hotness the following brief message: "Hey sweetness, have you only been inviting me out because you need an American wife real quick?"
I was feeling pretty bad-ass, until I hit the send button. Then I immediately felt a twinge of regret.
Oh god. Am I having a Northanger Abbey moment? Have I let myself get carried away by my vivid imagination?
I got a response fairly quickly. It was disproportionately lengthy which was intimidating. I avoided it for a whole day, suddenly overcome with the feeling that I had somehow, somewhere along the way, lost my mind entirely, and that I must have imagined the whole thing. Thankfully, when I finally did read the message, it was just self-righteous enough to piss me off. To summarize, the answer was 'no' because 'I don't take advantage of people' because 'I'm an honest person'. 'I am me', and 'I'm not desperate' and 'if I have to leave the country as undocumented then I can deal with that', 'I don't know what I told you' but 'I am proud to be Colombian'. And so on, and so forth. And so on some more.
Wow.
Defensive much?
How I wanted to respond:
I didn't inquire about your insane nationalism, but thanks. I guess I made an ASS out of U and ME because of the shitty circumstances in which you fled your country and your most recent marriage of convenience to that 52-year-old Puerto Rican troll who ditched you in favor of welfare checks. But I'm sure that wasn't an act of desperation. Clearly, you must have really had feelings for her.
It's refreshing to know that you have such a strong sense of identity. Despite the fact that you are a vagina tease who flirts incessantly with women to divert attention from the fact that you are in a secret poly-amorous relationship with two other men, you never lose sight of who you really are as a gay Colombian man. Your mother would be proud. I see now that I was out of line to QUESTION YOUR INTEGRITY. Thank you for enlightening me.
Dirtbag.
How I did respond:
Thanks for your candor. If I offended you, I do apologize.
Needless to say, I am done with the load of these assholes. Yeah, I'm humiliated. Yeah, I'm disheartened. Yeah, I can feel a little more of my soul atrophy with each passing day. But someday, I will have my moment of triumph (or vengeance):
At least there is one thing I can be thankful for: after September 7th, The Hotness will no longer reside in this country and will be nothing but a distant memory. Bon voyage. And now that it's over, I can reflect humorously on the lessons that I have learned from this situation:
1. Salsa dancing is apparently the socially acceptable way for gay men have sex with straight women.
2. I should never, ever go to Greece.
3. If it seems too good to be true, then it is too good to be true.
Here's to hoping that season 29 of the Jtron show is a lot sexier and a lot less tragic.
