A Smoke Shop Queer

'Tis true. A juggled Getty schedule includes purveying lil' cancer sticks to all the downtown Fourth Street foot traffic, the same pitter-patter of those gay boy haunts; their staff emblazoned OCH or RAIN on their gay-boy-proud chests, swift with their nicotine (and caffeine) fix at my joint, just a hop-skip-jump across the street.

"Something to puff on, boys?"

I recently acquired an OCH V.I.P card after a friend staffer told me, "Lesbians aren't allowed to be V.I.P at Oil Can's," which immediately set me on a mission to find out. Two days later, and the rumor was proved untrue, my pocket stacked with line-jumping capabilities a' la my fave bartender, Steve. Or daddy as he lets me call him. He calls me mommy. "People just want to get shit started about the gay clubs, you know, controversy and shit. But, baby, if yer V.I.P, it doesn't matter if yer a boy, girl, or whatever. Just be cute."

So far, an hour (3pm) into the shift and it's me, Bradford (the cute blonde queer boy who works the smoke shop nightly), and a sushi worker who just stated that the perfect lesbian, "has a long tongue and can breathe through her ears." Well put, my lil' fish-working friend.

Dirty Smoke Shop Jokes:
Bradford: What's the worst thing about eating your grandmother out?
Sushi Boy: Getting her outta her wheel chair?
Bradford: No. Hitting your head on her coffin.

Bradford: What did one tampon say to the other?
(Silence)
Bradford: Nothing. They're both stuck-up cunts.

Ooh, dirty.

Now(3:45pm), we are joined by the best dressed beautiful gay black man who plans weddings, with a beautiful tie and beautiful cuff-links. His current wedding-to-plan is "in nature." He says, "Nature's got nothing to do with it. It's just gotta sit there and look pretty." Indeed. So did he.

It's 4:20pm, and Randall's here, a gay-friendly pony boy from Albuquerque who admits to having made out with five (5) boys but can't get down with facial hair. So, only clean-shaven boys tempt this straight arrow. Interesting. I did shave my legs today. (It took two razors, easy, after years of hair. Oh my!)

I've made it to 5:15pm with not many more customers, but a short smoke-break visit from my very-straight co-worker Krissie, who, though I beg incessantly, won't kiss me unless it's goodbye or hello. (You'll see me leaving and coming a lot around this one, maybe.) She says she likes her boy's lips better than mine. I'm fine with that.

Inside the last hour, and my gay boyfriend Joey is in here with Canadian Tom. We kiss from time to time. Joey, not Tom. It's funny. He's gay. I'm gay. Which makes my friend Molly freak out, jokingly, "I hate when you queers do these types of things. Now, I just don't which box to put you in. And that frightens and threatens my straightness."

I love the smoke shop. And I love you.