Log Cabin Republicans exist. It’s a fact. But you don’t expect to end up going home with one—that is until you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Under normal circumstances (normal includes registered Democrats, natch), exchanging sex for a place to crash wouldn’t be the worst choice; but, as it turns out, Log Cabin Republicans are a strange breed.
My evening had begun normally enough. I was at Vlada for happy hour with a friend when we noticed two older men in suits staring at us. Not being the miserable misanthrope that I am, my friend struck up a conversation with them and, within the course of a cocktail, they had “rescued” me from what they took to be an awkward first date. Of course, their version of rescuing me entailed a detailed conversation about how Democrats would ruin the country for rich people, and how having Hillary or Obama institute domestic policy would wreak havoc on the entire world. I smiled and nodded, having been brought up to believe that political talk with relative strangers is rude.
Luckily, the conversation quickly petered out (helped in part, no doubt, by my glazed eyes), and I found myself whisked across town to The Townhouse, quoting Auntie Mame all the way.
I always forget how powerful a well-placed Mame quote can be with rich men twice my age. Nothing impresses them more. A few cocktails and rasped songs later—I come from the Elaine Stritch school of song—and Patrick and his U.S. flag lapel pin took off, leaving Thomas and me to fall into a cab to have dinner near his East Village apartment.
The next morning, I was cursing myself for ordering ceviche instead of a burger after all of those vodka tonics, but by the time the sun was up, I had bigger problems: Namely, the wealthy older man who had picked me up for the price of a cocktail.
He lived in a duplex on Fourth Avenue—who even remembers that Fourth Avenue exists?—and claimed to have a penchant for “effeminate” younger men. That he should have picked me up struck me as slightly odd then, since I’m many things, but I’ve never considered myself flamingly gay. I’m a homosexual who likes show tunes and over-the-top divas, sure, but I’m not running around with bleached tips in bedazzled jeans and belly shirts.
“One younger guy begged me to spank him. Harder and harder,” he told me after we had staggered into his bed. There was a long silence—the first of many—while I fought the spins. Then he asked. “Are you into getting spanked?”
Always willing to try something new, and loosened up by a hefty amount of vodka, I said yes. “And are you into the daddy thing?”
I paused before answering. “Sure.”
“Oooh, OK. Well, Daddy’s a little bit kinky.” There was another long silence that finally ended when I sighed and said, “Oh—in what way?”
“I want to shower with you tomorrow morning…“
“You can stop right there,” I said, “because I don’t shower with people.”
“Really? OK, then. Do you want to watch Daddy shower?” I grunted, too drunk to leave well enough alone and brought the conversation back on track.
“Why did you want to get me in the shower?”
And then it started.
“Daddy wants to get his boy all lathered up, and then shave your body until you look like a little girl. Daddy likes his boys womanly. That’s what I noticed at the bar. You had very feminine body language.”
Since I’m well aware of my tendency to turn into Patsy Stone after a few drinks, I let it slide. Thomas stroked my upper arm and practically purred, “Don’t ever work out.”
“Don’t worry,” I snapped.
“Daddy likes your womanly build.”
I won’t lie: There was some spanking. And “Daddy’s sissy boy,” as he called me, came on Daddy’s chest. But what I found to be the cherry on top of the evening was when he snuggled contentedly up against me and murmured: “Faggot.”
What the whole night hammered home for me wasn’t just that I’m not a little sissy boy, nor am I much into the daddy scene. No, what Thomas’ comments made me realize was the utter reliance I have on my voice. I understand that, being lanky and slouchy, I’m not the butchest ‘mo in town. But I always believed that having a deep voice undercut all of it; that if I could make it as raspy and resonant and dripping with self-awareness as I could, no one could possibly think that I wasn’t conscious of the appearance I presented and make a silent joke out of it. Apparently, however, Daddy Thomas didn’t see it like that. Which means that somewhere out there, a middle-aged Log Cabin Republican is picking up a skinny twentysomething in a bar, and saying, “I was with this guy once, who really got off on being spanked and called ‘Daddy’s sissy boy.’”
Fellow young gay men, I offer my sincere apologies for perpetuating his illusions. But maybe it’s just easier for Log Cabin Republicans to pretend they’re having sex with a little girl than with another man.
My evening had begun normally enough. I was at Vlada for happy hour with a friend when we noticed two older men in suits staring at us. Not being the miserable misanthrope that I am, my friend struck up a conversation with them and, within the course of a cocktail, they had “rescued” me from what they took to be an awkward first date. Of course, their version of rescuing me entailed a detailed conversation about how Democrats would ruin the country for rich people, and how having Hillary or Obama institute domestic policy would wreak havoc on the entire world. I smiled and nodded, having been brought up to believe that political talk with relative strangers is rude.
Luckily, the conversation quickly petered out (helped in part, no doubt, by my glazed eyes), and I found myself whisked across town to The Townhouse, quoting Auntie Mame all the way.
I always forget how powerful a well-placed Mame quote can be with rich men twice my age. Nothing impresses them more. A few cocktails and rasped songs later—I come from the Elaine Stritch school of song—and Patrick and his U.S. flag lapel pin took off, leaving Thomas and me to fall into a cab to have dinner near his East Village apartment.
The next morning, I was cursing myself for ordering ceviche instead of a burger after all of those vodka tonics, but by the time the sun was up, I had bigger problems: Namely, the wealthy older man who had picked me up for the price of a cocktail.
He lived in a duplex on Fourth Avenue—who even remembers that Fourth Avenue exists?—and claimed to have a penchant for “effeminate” younger men. That he should have picked me up struck me as slightly odd then, since I’m many things, but I’ve never considered myself flamingly gay. I’m a homosexual who likes show tunes and over-the-top divas, sure, but I’m not running around with bleached tips in bedazzled jeans and belly shirts.
“One younger guy begged me to spank him. Harder and harder,” he told me after we had staggered into his bed. There was a long silence—the first of many—while I fought the spins. Then he asked. “Are you into getting spanked?”
Always willing to try something new, and loosened up by a hefty amount of vodka, I said yes. “And are you into the daddy thing?”
I paused before answering. “Sure.”
“Oooh, OK. Well, Daddy’s a little bit kinky.” There was another long silence that finally ended when I sighed and said, “Oh—in what way?”
“I want to shower with you tomorrow morning…“
“You can stop right there,” I said, “because I don’t shower with people.”
“Really? OK, then. Do you want to watch Daddy shower?” I grunted, too drunk to leave well enough alone and brought the conversation back on track.
“Why did you want to get me in the shower?”
And then it started.
“Daddy wants to get his boy all lathered up, and then shave your body until you look like a little girl. Daddy likes his boys womanly. That’s what I noticed at the bar. You had very feminine body language.”
Since I’m well aware of my tendency to turn into Patsy Stone after a few drinks, I let it slide. Thomas stroked my upper arm and practically purred, “Don’t ever work out.”
“Don’t worry,” I snapped.
“Daddy likes your womanly build.”
I won’t lie: There was some spanking. And “Daddy’s sissy boy,” as he called me, came on Daddy’s chest. But what I found to be the cherry on top of the evening was when he snuggled contentedly up against me and murmured: “Faggot.”
What the whole night hammered home for me wasn’t just that I’m not a little sissy boy, nor am I much into the daddy scene. No, what Thomas’ comments made me realize was the utter reliance I have on my voice. I understand that, being lanky and slouchy, I’m not the butchest ‘mo in town. But I always believed that having a deep voice undercut all of it; that if I could make it as raspy and resonant and dripping with self-awareness as I could, no one could possibly think that I wasn’t conscious of the appearance I presented and make a silent joke out of it. Apparently, however, Daddy Thomas didn’t see it like that. Which means that somewhere out there, a middle-aged Log Cabin Republican is picking up a skinny twentysomething in a bar, and saying, “I was with this guy once, who really got off on being spanked and called ‘Daddy’s sissy boy.’”
Fellow young gay men, I offer my sincere apologies for perpetuating his illusions. But maybe it’s just easier for Log Cabin Republicans to pretend they’re having sex with a little girl than with another man.
