Last night (well, at this point it was two nights ago--Wednesday night. I digress...) I had a fairly exciting night. For many reasons.
My dear friend Nannette held her 40th birthday party at Asia SF. (What says "Happy Birthday" better than Asian men in drag? As one party attendee put it: "My penis is confused.") I have pictures and video from this event, but I should probably wait until I get, um, permission before displaying some of the things that took place.
Afterwards, I went with Scott and MJ to the Latin American Club, a bar in the Mission. I've been to the LAC before, but apparently I wasn't paying close enough attention the first time around. (Or something like that. Hush.) They have quite the collection of creepy pinatas, an impressive cluster of cuckoo clocks, multiple portraits of chihuahuas, and a giant white wooden rat displayed walls. We stayed until close. MJ said goodnight and Scott and I wandered to El Farolito, which is apparently a favorite 24 hour joint for cheap (and not bad) Mexican food.
I had recently complained that the men who hit on me were...well, freaks. Or crazy. Or drunk. Or all of the above. Inside the restaurant was a perfect example.
While waiting in line to order I met a drunk and nearly toothless man who beamed at me. I swear: one of his eyes was spinning in a circle. I briefly smiled at him and then glanced back at the menu, at which point he stepped over to me and said, "Muy bonita!"
It should be noted that the remainder of our interaction took place in Spanish. It also used every single bit of Spanish in my repertoire.
He asked me if I spoke Spanish and I told him, "Not much." He extended his hand and introduced himself as "Pablocito" and said he was from Guatamala. I ignored him while I placed my order and, because he was still there when I turned around, I told him my name, that I was from the United States, and un pacer de conocerlo (a pleasure to meet you).
Pablocito was VERY drunk, and it was difficult to make out what he was saying because, in addition to being in Spanish, he mumbled and slurred his words. He seemed terribly proud of his country, though, because he would frequently intersperse his sentences with cries of, "Guatamala!" and pound Scott and I on the shoulders enthusiastically.
He told me repeatedly how beautiful I was (and some other things that I'll leave to both of our imaginations)--it was around this point that I lied and introduced Scott to him as mi novio. He apologized to Scott profusely and then proceeded to do what he had been doing before: repeatedly asking my name, trying to touch my hands or face, and telling me I was beautiful. I pushed his hands away and told him, "We want to eat now, and you need to leave. Goodbye." (My "novio" was minimal help here. Just had to get that little dig in.) Finally, a police officer came and escorted Pablocito out. Scott complained that I was too polite, but my language skills are such that I only know how to make polite conversation and not how to tell someone to fuck off.
After the excitement died down, Scott said enviously, "At least someone wants to fuck you! Not even the crazies want me!" (There was a whole conversation that followed on this topic which should probably not be repeated.) But all in all it was an eventful evening.
Anyway, I have another story to tell about my cab ride tonight, but as I write this it's 4:33am and I should probably go to bed.
'Night.
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