my opposite sex gay stalker & why life is fucking weird.

we're note passing at the pike. the topic: the self-obsessed blonde at the bar. we write in spanish things like preguntala si es una maricona and su amiga - que fea, no? he's watching us but we don't notice. he approaches out of nowhere and says, "what do i have to do to be on a napkin?" i write, "if you were king/i'd climb come down this ivory tower/find this place a golden world." perfect sarcasm passed off to him before exiting for the upteenth cigarette. five minutes later and he's outside asking for our names.

he's very effeminate. he's got blondish hair, dirty, carelessly spiked to precision. he wants to join us inside for the rest of our drinks. why not, we say. he stares at me from across his second martini. he wants our opinions on tom cruise. he's of the opinion that katie holmes isn't worthy of tom's affections. he believes it's strange that the couple has given a "silent birth." he knows a lot about tom. he knows a lot about scientology as a result of knowing a lot about tom. interested in other topics, i ask him if he reads. he says, sure, i read star and us but don't have time for other stuff. awesome, i think. he just stares intensely and drinks his martinis.

it's my day off, he says. something about hairstylists never work mondays. i noticed that, i say, which is why i have to wait until wednesday to get a cut. he says, don't wait. let me do it tomorrow. but i have my guy and i'm kind of loyal, i say. i'll do it for free, he insists.

hmmmm. this guy really wants to do my hair. weird.

i'll do it for free but i'll have to take pictures and you have to let me do what i want. hmmmm. what's that? i ask. oh, i don't know - whatever you want. okay, i say.

i, like a fool, give the guy my number and e-mail. what could it hurt? he's gay. i'm gay. he just wants to cut my hair and take some pictures, right?

we keep drinking. he keeps staring. i tell him, i'm stoked about gay pride coming up. a sudden frown crosses his face. he looks at me. he looks at my friend. he says, oh my god, are you two like...a couple? no, no, we laugh. she likes boys, i say. and you? he asks, eyebrow raised. i'm into the girls. as if that's not fucking obvious. oh, i see. he orders his fourth drink. from that point on, he simply stares. finally i say, seriously, why do you keep staring at me? i'm just so into you, he says. i get up to smoke. he follows me. really, you can trust me, he says. i'm one of the good ones. what the fuck? okay, dude. you are clearly off your rocker. we call him a cab because at this point he can hardly stand. the cab comes. we get him into it. see you later. good to meet you. send him on his way. forty minutes later and the fucker comes stumbling back into the bar. looking for me. ah, hell no. my friend sits his ass in a chair and we get the fuck out. the next day he calls me three times. today he has called me twice and e-mailed once. i saw him walk down my street once, and skateboard down it twice. i've only been home for two hours.

one day i'm attacked by a raging mother, the next i'm being stalked by a homosexual hairstylist with a fauxhawk and a gold pinky ring. i'll be lucky if i make it to the weekend without shooting myself.