February 26, 2003

The ski trip in the Poconos with the gay cheerleaders started out beautifully. There were six of us in attendance: me, L.O. (the captain), the gymnast, the bodybuilder, the pretty one, and the Jersey boy. (I’m not giving the last four initials, because it would just be too confusing, and also they aren’t relevant to the story as individuals.) It rained on Saturday, which meant that we didn’t have to ski; we were of course all thrilled and relieved, the obligation to ski having been the only downside to the trip.

So instead of skiing we went shopping at the outlet mall, where I bought things that I liked, needed, and couldn’t afford even at outlet mall prices. Long live plastic.

After such a delightful afternoon, one might ask, what could possibly go wrong?

We went to a bar, that’s what.

Even this started out promisingly, with my virgin karaoke performance (“I Don’t Know How To Love Him” from Jesus Christ, Superstar) a smashing success. Then I went upstairs to the bar and smiled at the cute, shirtless bartender, who smiled back at me.

Then everything started to go to hell.

One of the other cheerleaders (the bodybuilder), on whom I had theretofore had a crush even though, as my friend D.R. says, he looks like a young Bob Hope, saw the cute, shirtless bartender smiling at me and said, “Oh, he does that to everybody.”

My soul shriveled into a little ball of self-hatred and despair.

Then the young Bob Hope said, “Hang on a second,” and walked away. He came back three minutes later and said, “He asked me to meet him after close.”

Any normal person would of course have committed entirely justifiable homicide. However, since my soul was now, if you’ll remember, a little ball of self-hatred and despair, I just said, “Oh,” and went into the bathroom and tried not to cry.

Of course, it gets far worse. The gymnast, the bodybuilder (a.k.a. the young Bob Hope), the pretty one, and the Jersey boy all got roaring drunk (L.O. and I weren’t drinking—I because I don’t, he because he had to drive), and the gymnast and the bodybuilder started dancing shirtless in the gogo cage, clearly having more fun at that moment than all the fun I have had in my life put together. I watched them in agony for a while, torn between my desperate desire to join them and actually have one iota of fun and my mortal terror of joining them and making an utter and complete fool of myself. Eventually the former won out over the latter and I took my shirt off and got into the gogo cage with them.

Where there wasn’t really enough room for three people.

And where I felt like a total idiot moron because I have about as much confidence in my ability to move gracefully and suggestively as I have in Ricky Martin’s ability to enjoy cunnilingus.

So I gyrated half-heartedly for about two minutes, during which time I was so miserable I wanted to put my eyes out with a carving fork, and then I got out of the gogo cage.

Then the four roaring drunk cheerleaders started to get really annoying, as drunk people tend to do when you are not drinking. There was all this drama about who was taking whom home, and who was trying to avoid taking whom home, and in the end nobody took anybody home. After puttering around for a while I went up to the room I’d slept in the night before to find the drunk Jersey boy blowing the drunk gymnast. I figured this was my cue to find somewhere else to sleep, so I made up the air mattress downstairs. Then I puttered around for a while longer, helping L.O. clean and rolling my eyes with him at the drunken behavior of the other four. It was a shared moment with somebody I like and respect and for the first time since the fateful intervention of the bodybuilder (a.k.a. the young Bob Hope) I felt like maybe my life wasn’t a cruel joke somebody had decided to play on me.

At some point in the middle of the night, the bear with whom the bodybuilder had been locking lips all night arrived, and the two of them had annoyingly noisy sex. I comforted myself, however, with the knowledge that L.O. and I had a special bond that was infinitely more meaningful than the shallow fun the drunk cheerleaders were having.

Then, when I woke up the next morning, I found out that L.O. had had sex with the drunk gymnast during the night.

I had forgotten how much it was possible to loathe oneself.

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22 Responses to The ski trip in the

  1. Todd says:

    What ring of Dante’s hell was this weekend?

  2. PeeWee says:

    oh Faustus. Sorry you had such a crummy weekend. I will still respect you in the morning.
    Sounds like pretty boy didn’t get any either. And bL.O.>w turned out to be an @$$.

  3. PeeWee says:

    oh Faustus. Sorry you had such a crummy weekend. I will still respect you in the morning.
    Sounds like pretty boy didn’t get any either. And bL.O.w turned out to be an @$$.

  4. PeeWee says:

    Holy crap. Thought I was editing, and it turns out I was just repeating myself….DELETE, DELETE, DELETE!! Ack!

  5. josh says:

    but you called, so I know that you at least love me…. :)

  6. danee says:

    this is precisely why i drink.

  7. angelo says:

    Honey, as a homosexual in high school, you should have already learned by now that cheerleaders, of any form, are ruthless creatures and not to be trusted.

    Isn’t there a gay lawn bowling team you could join?

  8. bob says:

    at least you didn’t break your leg on the ski slope

    Rule #1: men are pigs

    Rule #2: see Rule #1

  9. Adam807 says:

    So clearly, darling, the moral of this story is that you need to start drinking. It is actually possible to drink to a point where you yourself do not become a complete idiot, but you find yourself amused by the idiots around you. (As a newbie, this will probably take you about one cosmo.) I have a well-stocked bar; we’ll start lessons next week.

  10. Chris says:

    The actual moral of the story is to never set foot in a gay bar in the poconos. Especially if they have a gogo cage.

  11. Tin Man says:

    Console yourself in the knowledge that the next time those guys run into each other, there’s going to be major eye-contact avoidance and stilted conversation, if they can even manage to speak to each other. You’ll be able to stand there and quietly laugh as they go through those awkward the post-post-coital gay interactions.

    Or laugh loudly, maybe.

  12. yasir says:

    faustus, i love you. fuck the poconos.

    I had a lot more to say, but it was basically just babble, so i condensed it to the above.

  13. marquito says:

    At least you still have your dignity. LOL Actually, you’re such a cool guy. You should be confident about that. You’re smart and I’d venture to guess you are cute although I’ve never seen you but how can someone who isn’t cute go on so many dates and have the fun that you have actually had as evidenced in your journal. Wipe yourself off and be the Faustus that I’ve always known and lived vicariously through!

  14. octopus says:

    Hmmm. I’m trying really really hard to loathe you on the basis of that story, but i keep loathing all of the other characters instead. How frustrating!

  15. Hmmm and what happened to that rule about not sleeping with other members of the team?

  16. Jon says:

    Angelo: It’s New York City. We don’t have lawns, let alone, lawn bowling.

  17. Nigel says:

    Cool. This made me laugh, unlike 99.998% of blogs. Favouritised.

  18. Choire says:

    That sounds like… what I might have expected from said trip? Now go look in the mirror and tell your face you love it thirty times.

  19. Convivia says:

    That sounds like every ski trip I have ever been on in my life, except for the go-go cage.

    Seriously, ski trips are what the nuns would call A Near Occasion of Sin.

    But I don’t loathe you. Nor should you loathe yourself. Just because you lie down with apes doesn’t mean you have to get up with…no, wait…

  20. Jeff says:

    It is your duty to mete out the punishment they so richly deserve. Do it; you are the Slayer.

  21. Phil says:

    Vodoo Dolls, you need vodoo dolls. I’ll make you one to stab repeatedly.

  22. Pingback: The Search for Love in Manhattan

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