Drama at the Victoria Theater

I asked a guy (okay, guys) out to see Tommy, but apparently "I'm going out of town" is the new "I've got to wash my hair." Stalwart Statler was eager to join me. The Victoria Theater is pretty awesome if the cast is mic'ed and independent theaters always get our support. The facilities, however, are lacking—in that there's only one men's and one women's bathroom, with only two stalls each. This makes for long lines and cramped quarters. I'll get back to this in a moment.

Also, I bought the "premium" seats, but it turns out that only means early admission to general seating. We got a drink at Esta Noche first so we were SOL when we got to the theater. The only two seats available together were in the back row, center, and under a camera and all sorts of recording equipment. This was a dangerous place for us to sit considering our penchant for commentary. We happily took the seats. Unfortunately, at several points Kevin used my full name so I cannot escape culpability should any of our unconscious commentary make it to their recording tracks. Kevin recognized this and offered his full name too and joined me in the potential offense. Honestly, it was easy to forget the microphones were behind us—especially considering the embarrassing nature of our pre-show conservation.

Okay, so other than constant cuteness/theater staple Brett, I recognized only one other person at the show. Or rather, he recognized me. He was certainly with the hot, but I could not for the life of me place him. It was several seconds before I could match his face to a reference card in my brain, and I merely politely demurred a greeting. I don't know if I should really reveal this now or later in the story, but here it is: I was wrong in my initial determination, which colored all of my interaction with this man.

He was slender, furry, sharp, goateed, and was working this 40s/burlesque tee-shirt with suspenders look. I thought it was this guy—a sex worker who tried to pick up RMJ last year a the Titan Video Folsom Pre-Party at the Endup. The question before us then was "If a hustler cruises you and picks you up, you're not expected to pay for it, right?" I'm trying to recall whom we sent text messages that night to verify protocol (all things have rules you know). I see this guy around town or in clubs every couple of months and we nod greetings of acknowledgment but nothing more. I most recently saw him at the Stompede and (again) could not immediately place him. I noticed him and he locked eyes and gave me an eye fck which sort of disturbed me. I didn't notice him for his looks or manner, but rather that he was in a BRIGHTLY lit ballroom (this was during one of the full days of classes), surrounded by dancers drenched in sweat and wiping their faces with towels or bandannas, and he was in full pancake makeup. Once I clued into who he was, I concluded (erroneously or not) that he was working the event. I couldn't keep myself from looking back at him as the makeup was so...obvious and thick. The looks he returned me were much more predatory and I was afraid he was reading the wrong interest into my returning glances. Anyway, that was then. Back to now (ish).

So now I am thinking this bit of hotness is the escort guy, and I am resisting all of his flirtations as mere marketing. I told Kevin the backstory.

But the more I looked at this guy I realized (1) He's much shorter than the escort I'm remembering; and, (2) He's much, much more handsome. I still couldn't place him. I reported to Kevin that my 85% certainty that he was the escort guy has dropped to 20%, and I needed to pull up the photo on Flickr to compare as my mental image was blurry at best. (Ultimate comparison left me feeling foolish as other than facial structure, slenderness, and facial hair, they look little alike.)

And then the flirting escalated into double entendres. Then into single ones. He then called me by name. A bread brush and chest grope later (him to me), I was both (1) hot; and, (2) bothered. And it took me the entire second act for me to concoct a conversation starter that might reveal to me how I know him, or at least get his full name for research later. And yes, I am ridiculous for not remembering him or being honest at the get-go but it's hard to redirect an interaction when it initially diverged because you thought someone was a whore.

I'm just sayin'.

He sat in the row behind us (our row was actually the penultimate row as the true back row was all recording equipment save for two seats on either end) and head turning and eye contact was frequent. I was not closer to finding context in my memory. Unfortunately for me, he left before the curtain even closed and disappeared before I could engage him again. And now I am left only with a blurry photo I managed to snap with my iPhone with which to seek an identification. The curiosity is getting to me.

But back to the bathrooms, and the take-away line of the night (other than the one I said too loudly during the opening scene of the play, when the World War II soldier picks up the chick welding on stage, and I said that "I loved her in Flashdance.").

Kevin and I were waiting to pee. We were waiting inside the bathroom while the stalls were occupied and the line continued outside the door. We were continuing the "I think that's the escort who picked up RMJ last year at Folsom" story. Kevin reminded me of the hot and hairy guy who tried to pick him up at Sundance Saloon several years ago. He slipped his card into Kevin's pocket and Kevin only looked at it as we were walking together to our cars. Kevin started laughing because the guy's card was four-color, and he was half naked on it. The guy was a sex worker in town to see his NorCal "clients." There was a web address.

Kevin and I continued this conversation as we peed in our respective stalls.

The website was about as sophisticated as the early GeoCities pages, and featured him in a variety of undress and activities. There were also videos.

When I found Kevin in the lobby after I finished, I had to glare at him.

"What?"
"When we're in a bathroom and I'm talking about a guy who tried to pick you up and gave you his card with a web site featuring videos of him getting ass fucked by a machine, and you leave the bathroom, you have to tell me."

Yeah, there I was, going on, keeping up my end of the conversation, when finally I said to the silence (other than the sound of a urine stream), "Kev?"

A voice answered over the partition, "Uh... yeah. He left. But I wanted to hear the rest of the story."

Aaaaaand scene.