“You read me wrong
I wasn’t trying to lead you on
Not like you think
I didn’t mean to turn you on”
It’s just that she looked so much like Katy Perry, and when the DJ played “If We Ever Meet Again,” it felt like she ought to be with me, dancing torso to torso. If we had been anywhere else, she certainly would have been the center of attention, with her flawless skin, piercing blue eyes and perky bosom. But at DJ Station, the three gayest floors in all of Bangkok, she might as well have been invisible.
I may not have noticed her myself had she not stopped me on my way upstairs.
“Did you see that?” she asked with a posh British accent. “Please tell me you didn’t see what I just did.”
Apparently, she had almost tripped on her way down the staircase, and she was worried that I was laughing on the inside. “Don’t worry, Beyonce does it all the time,” I said, assuring her that I had missed her near-slip. She had nothing to worry about. She did, however, have my attention now (mostly because she could pass for a Katy Perry doppelganger), though it wasn’t exactly undivided. I kept looking over her head to take in the sights.
I know women hate that, but she must not have noticed because she grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dance floor. After a few bumps and grinds she leaned in for a kiss. Instinctively, I pulled away. We redid this scene several times before the light bulb finally went on.
“You fancy boys!” she said. “Oh my God! I’m so embarrassed!” She wasn’t handling this very well. This was one of those instances when the guy can say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” and really mean it, but I decided not to go there. Not that going there would have made a difference; she wasn’t going down without a fight. “You’re the hottest guy in this place,” she kept saying. Not to be outdone, she added, “And I can have any guy I want, so you are very lucky that I want you.”
A guy could never set away with saying something like that, but I got a kick out of her nerve. I agreed. She probably could have any straight boy that she wanted, but she had come to the wrong place for that. Over the course of the next hour, she kept trying to kiss me. After resisting for a while, I finally gave in. Once, twice, maybe six times. I couldn’t believe how soft her lips were, and every time we kissed, I felt that slightly tingly feeling you get when you first put a breath mint into your mouth.
But sadly, she was simply the wrong gender. “Why are you smiling?” she asked me every time I pulled away from her kiss. I found the entire scenario to be completely unexpected and amusing. And since she knew that I wasn’t straight, I couldn’t understand why she continued to try to have her way with me. I get hit on by girls all the time — once in Buenos Aires, a gaggle of them made me kiss my straight friend Nico to prove that I really am gay! — and occasionally, I indulge them, but I don’t recall any ever being this aggressive.
Now I know how women feel. If she had been a guy, and I were a straight girl, this would be sexual harrassment. And God help the gay guy who pursues a straight one with such forceful persistence. But when you’re gay, and she’s straight, all of the normal rules are tossed out, and women are allowed to be as aggressive as men. (Stephan Jenkins from Third Eye Blind once accused me of pretending to be gay as a way to score women, and I wondered why more straight men don’t do that.) They can even say things that coming from any other gender, and in any other setting, would be classified as homophobic.
“It’s such a shame, such a pity that you’re gay,” she kept saying over and over. “I don’t think so,” I responded. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I know she didn’t mean it like that. Most gay men have heard all the “too bad you’re gay” comments, and coming from anyone but a straight girl in a gay club (like a homophobe, a holy roller or a Republican), those words would be infuriating instead of flattering. I knew what she actually was saying was that I am that hot. She was, too. She was certainly more appealing than any of the guys there, and for a moment, I actually considered indulging her.
But I snapped out of it. When she announced that it was time for her to go back to her hotel, I was never happier to walk someone outside and put them into a taxi. Now that my relapse into heterosexuality was over, there was a bartender inside with my name all over him, and I wanted to put my hands there, too!