Rupert, the Homophobe

The setting for this tale is your standard Chicago sports bar. I was there to watch the Celtics play the Lakers (and hopefully win). But other bar patrons had a different agenda: pounding my sweet ass. After my 6th or 7th drink I was already pretty toasty. When I approached the bar to order another drink I overheard a conversation.

“You are ‘Uber-hot’ and I really mean it!” Said drunken guy #1 to anonymous stranger #4. I paid little attention and continued to order my drinks. Anonymous stranger #4 left and drunken guy #1 approaches me. “You are ‘Uber-hot’ and I really mean it” he repeats to me. I’m not fishing for compliments here, but I know for a matter of personal record that I am NOT “Uber-hot”. Under optimal conditions I am barely usual hot. I’m not butt-fugly but no one would ever confuse me for Brad Pitt.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink tonight” I say to this obviously confused and drunk homo.

“No, no no! You’re uber-hot, man. You want a BJ?”

I didn’t pause to ask him if he was offering up a $100 bill. “I’m sorry, I think this is a misunderstanding” I replied.

“No, no uber-hot guy! I want to blow you.”
At this point I pretended to not hear him and walked away. I guess I’m old-fashioned that way; some guy offers to blow me and I just get all flustered! I proceeded to walk out of the bar and toward the Red line El stop. This guy didn’t slow down.

I conjured up terrible images in my head of this guy following me to my apt. I figured that he would stalk me and then bend me over a table and rape me. I quickly surmised that he was only about 5’8 and that I was probably a lot stronger than him. That being the case, I could probably rape him. For an instant I envisioned yelling, “Fuck off, I’ll rape you, motherfucker!” but I didn’t.

As I walked out of the bar it started to rain and this lonely gay guy made some innocuous comment like, “Wow, when it rains, it really pours”.

“What do the 36th president of the United States and a Mexican blowjob have in common?” I asked him at the turnstile of the Fullerton stop.

“I don’t know” He answered.

“They are both ‘El BJ’”. I said, w/ a smile. I stuck out my hand and he shook it, approvingly. “Get home uber-safe” I commented as I signaled for a cab.