II truly hate those super happy people that walk around smiling for no apparent reason. Like. Why? Unless you have those vibrating panties on or you’re in a meditative euphoric state, which I wouldn’t advise in these streets, what the hell are you smiling about? Well. I found myself being that obnoxious chick the other morning, sans vibrating panties. Sipping my coffee while the sun was warming my face, (bored) I was thinking about how perfect my life was. Great job, cute makeup, still skinny and I was dating the most amazing man. Textbook tall, dark, handsome, killer job and absolutely adored me. I couldn’t ask for anything more. Especially because I was dating another perfect man at the same time. So, it’s a little greedy to ask for more, right?
Boy One was so business savvy and professional and Boy Two was just artsy and soulful. Boy Two was a movie producer. He was obsessed with Halloween like me, always wore black ripped up Tshirts, said the F word as much as I did, and was just a reckless animal. Ugh! I felt extremely balanced with both of these men. They both gave me something I craved and I didn’t want to let either of them go. Museums with one by day, fancy dinners with other by night. Just an endless whirlwind of the brat life, (which is every girl’s fantasy…to have nonstop attention, let’s be honest.)
At this point in my life, I am not surprised by anything. Or…so I thought, until I was proven wrong last week. Note: when it feels too good to be true, be advised, it is. It always, ALWAYS is. Out on the town with my bestie boyfriend, ( by out on the town I of course mean in a dirty underground bar. And by bestie boyfriend I of course mean a smiling blonde angel that fights with me over the same tattooed gentlemen.) We were traipsing about town to our usual Hell’s Kitchen haunts when we nightcapped at Vodka Soda, the most glorious place on 46th street.
Around midnight, the queens fire up a lipsync battle and dance around in the fashion district’s best fabrics to showtunes and diva beats. To say how entertaining it is would be a wild understatement. My bestie boyfriend and I have already swallowed our body weight in vodka, so everything to us is hysterical at this point. After the standard Whitney, Cher, and of course Stevie Nicks impersonations…a dark horse entered. I use the term dark horse two-folded as the black floor length costume with glitter and feathers wasn’t as menacing and game-changing as what I was actually watching. Boy Two. In all his glory. Courting barely legal gentlemen and effortlessly waltzing across the room to Ursula’s ,“Poor Unfortunate Souls.” There was no mistaking that his affinity for the dark side was shining under that disco ball to Disney villain anthems. And if that wasn’t enough, the little devil-horned shoulder tattoo I used to bite on was slipping out from the back of his sequined dress. (Insert dry heaving sounds.)
F*cking. Boy. Two.
Unreal! This is what fifteen years of dating in this town gets you. Two for One watered down cocktails and a mediocre performance by your closeted drag queen boytoy on a Thursday night? (Insert more dry heaving.) When does the madness end? Haven’t we already been through enough drama with these boys? Douchebag Wall street type, fetish obsessed, drug addicted, super vanilla tech nerds that never shut up, and now showtune-belting secret drag queens? What. In. The. Actual. F*CK is happening? I nearly broke my bestie’s arm grabbing it so hard when Boy Two turned around and our eyes met. He knew. I knew. Snapchat knew because I couldn’t help myself after 6 vodkas. But the show must go on. And it did. He didn’t miss a beat, and then…that was it. He waltzed out of my life forever. Bye Bye Boy Two.
By Allison Torres