If I had money (right now, I’m in debt), I’d help my friend Marc finance a restaurant. He is an amazingly talented cook. Whether inviting me over spontaneously for brunch or showcasing Spanish tapas for friends, Marc has perfected his culinary skills. He hosted a four-course sit-down dinner for eight yesterday. Think carrot-ginger soup. Absolutely divine. It was the Sunday of Superbowl playoffs. What else are a bunch of homos to do except eat, drink, and be so gay?
I realized I was at the bottom of the totem pole of class when I arrived with my BevMo bottle of wine. From the way Marc shoved it away into a cupboard, one would have thought I had brought a box of Franzia or a jug of Carlo Rossi. All the while, his friends are offering a pour of so and so fine wine. I’m completely embarrassed, taking mental note to never come to a Marc fete without consulting the latest edition of Wine Spectator.
On average, I’d say we each consumed a bottle of wine. Great wine = great conversation.
“Hey girl, who are you dating now?”
“Do you want to ride him like Seabiscuit?”
“Do you want his pole in your hole?”
“You know that’s what’s great about women. They’ve got a bonus hole.”
The shit talk isn’t only in the locker room. The gays can dish it up better than anyone. By the end of the night, I’d had my fill.