Now Serving: Tits on a Platter, With a Side of Shame

I let a homophobe hug me. Twice.

Allow me to explain.

I arranged a meet up on the Friday of Labor Day weekend for a local event where a nearby town attempts to transform itself into “honky tonk row” a la Nashville. It’s crowded, loud, and, at my age, not as much fun as it used to be. But we grasp at straws, don’t we, to get a little life into our lives?

At the first venue we visited the music was good (even though the prickly librarian who showed up made her displeasure about it clearly known. “I prefer jazz” she said. OK then why the F*** did you come to an event that is clearly focused on country music?) Whatever, she left, hating me, but with her sense of superiority perfectly intact.

On to the next venue with a band that was supposed to play country but threw in a lot of rock, playing out their arena fantasies on the roof of a distillery. It was a nice atmosphere, but tables and barstools were scarce. We found a table that a couple was willing to share, and they left shortly after we arrived.

Here is where I should explain that, from the moment I became aware of what we used to call the opposite sex (now known as cisgender or straight men) and figured out that I like them, and that I would like them to like me, I realized that most of them didn’t. Fat, frizzy, glasses, smart, you get the picture.

So, to this day, when a guy looks my way, I simply assume that there’s a blonde behind me.

But, there is a class of undergarments women can adopt, comically known as “shapewear,” (a more accurate moniker would be “squeezewear) which provides a level of compression and uplift that seems to overcome the dominance of the blonde distraction by shoving the breasts up high and close together, so they appear to be an appetizer served on a platter of “OK, come and get me, boys” when all you were going for was “please, let me fit into this cute blouse.”

Thus, enter “Bart.” Bart and his buddies needed some spare barstools, which we (me and the one other guy who was still there for the MeetUp) were happy to offer. As they were shifting the furniture around, “Bart” made a raunchy, homophobic joke. I told him to go away.

Somehow, on the way to pick up food and drink, “Bart” stepped in front of me and started talking. l put “Bart” in quotes because even though the guy told me that was his name, his conversation, if you could call it that, told me that he was full of it.

In the span of a few minutes, he conveyed that his marriage was on the rocks, he had made and lost millions, and, in response to something I said, that he had an adult autistic son. And that maybe it would be better if he just ended it all.

Ok, pause.

Let’s assume for a moment that what he was saying to me was actually true. That the stunningly beautiful woman he pointed out as his soon-to-be-ex wife was actually who he said she was. Let’s assume they really did have an adult autistic son. Let’s recognize that suicidal ideation must always be taken seriously. My autism Mom instincts kicked in.

I said, “don’t talk like that. Your son needs you,” and I told him that ok, maybe he and his wife were having problems, but my husband died of cancer seven years ago and he was a stay-at-home-Dad and try taking care of your adult autistic son on your own and think about the effect of losing you on him. Suck on that, Bart.

And then somehow we got to talking about how old he was (probably because I asked how old his son was) and whether his son was verbal and how he spends his time and when I expressed disbelief that “Bart” could have had a son in his twenties (because backwards baseball cap, bro-ish attitude), “Bart” told me his birthday.

April 27.

The day Mike and I met.

OK, the gods are really fucking with me now.

I was kind of stunned, and I told “Bart” the significance of that date.

And he threw his arms around me and hugged me, hard.

I didn’t resist. I confess it felt really, really good. I honestly don’t remember the last time a man held me like that. So I leaned into it, despite the earlier offensive, homophobic joke. I enjoyed it. I soaked it up.

But it doesn’t stop there.

The band was scheduled to play “live band country Karaoke” at a bar just down the street about a half hour after they wrapped up on the rooftop, and honestly, that’s the only reason I stayed out as late as I did. My MeetUp friends had left, or assured me they could get home ok, so I walked down the block to the next venue, got a beer, and stood outside on the patio listening to the band that was finishing up before the Karaoke started.

And all of a sudden there was “Bart” again. And we were both very startled to see each other and I don’t remember how it happened, (yep, I’d had a few too many) but I ended up enfolded within “Bart’s” firm embrace once more.

And whether or not “Bart” was full of it, and taking into consideration that he apologized, seemingly sincerely (benefit of the doubt) for his appalling joke, I accepted the hug, even when he said “stop talking,” twice, as he was hugging me.

Humans have needs. Kindness and love require forgiveness and understanding. Our imperfections burst out all over the place, all the time. So “Bart,” wherever you are, I hope you and your wife work it out, if only for your son’s sake, and I’ll think of you next April 27, along with my Mike, as I try to forgive you, and myself, for the human foibles we all display as we struggle (or struggled) through this life, doing the best we can.

until next time, I remain,

your feeling-guilty-about-feeling-so-good-when-a-guy-I-just-met-whose-opening-line-was-a-homophobic-joke-hugged-me-twice,

Ridiculouswoman