the night the cynic realized that, deep down, everybody's a romantic

.

[yeah i've been gone for awhile and i don't post very often anymore and there's all kinds of stuff i should write about these days but tonight this old story is the best i can come up with, sorry]

so i push my way into spike, drunk and full of my usual dark intent, but before i can even get my bearings i'm hijacked by this tall-dark-&-handsome type decked out in scuffed leather and torn denim who without warning shoves me into a dark recess and launches an assault upon my stunned and unsuspecting person with his hands and his tongue--and in the face of such a concerted attack, what could i (or anybody else in the same position of helplessness) possibly do but leave with him five minutes later?

he wants to go to his place [good], which turns out to be a hotel [even better--he's a transient and i won't have to dodge his calls later]. once there, we pile into the elevator and grope our way up four floors and down the hall to his room, where he fumbles with the keycard as we shove our tongues down each others' throats.

once inside--it's actually a mini-suite--he pushes me down onto the sofa and, instead of immediately piling on top of me, says, "hang on, i wanna put on some music."

he turns to his portable sound system [a cambridge soundworks model twelve--i remember this because i couldn't believe the incredible sound that came outta that small, inauspicious package] and, instead of the typical dance-crap i'd braced myself for, out comes this...calypso music.

he comes back to the sofa, settles down next to me and, in response to my inquiry, replies, "a friend of mine is in this little show that just hit the jackpot, and he sent me this bootleg cd yesterday--isn't it cool?"

i nod "yes" because it is indeed cool, at which point he proceeds to pull my head down onto his lap, look deep into my eyes and, to the background accompaniment of the cd, sing, tenderly and from memory, and in a soft, clear, resonant voice, the entire score of the show--called once on this island--to me, and only me.

do i completely and totally melt? well, what the fuck would you do if some hot, talented guy sang the entire score of a new broadway musical to you while he held you in his arms?

[turns out my levi/leather boy from spike is in actuality not only a musical prodigy, but the orchestra conductor for the road company of les miserables which is currently in town and playing at the pantages theatre.]

eventually the cd ends and he goes from crooning into my ear to wanting to be face-fucked, and i rise to the occasion with my usual panache.

and then for days afterward [what can i say, i was new], i await his promised call, and the promised ticket, and the promised view from third-row center of his tight butt in the tuxedo he'd modeled for me, and the promised toss of the carnation from his lapel...

needless to say, that call never came, but whatever--how many people can say they were given the opportunity to grow more romantic and more cynical on the same night?