It was Tara's birthday and we were gonna have fun tonight! Tara had a crush on this bartender named Lee. Lee had bleached blond hair and tattoos. Twelve years ago, bleach and ink weren't the average look. He wasn't every guy in Echo Park, he was a rebel. An artist.

Lee gave us some free birthday drinks and agreed to come out to the Man Hole after work. Or maybe it was called The Cock. Whatever that gay club was called, it was a place you go dancing without worrying who was cute, whom you might want to talk to, or that nice-but-nerdy guy whose feelings you don't want to hurt, but you can't shake him any other way.

Lee insisted on getting the drinks, and he got many. I don't drink very often, and when I do, I tend to wind up in a public bathroom making out with stranger. Luckily I didn't have the right equipment for the clientele at this club. We all danced together, Lee was trying out his dirty dancing moves on me and Tara, and several gay men complimented my lipstick.

You always know you're having an I-look-good day when gay men compliment your…well, anything. With me it tends to be cleavage or lips/lipstick.

By my third vodka-something, I was fairly loaded and began to scope out the bathrooms for possible make-out sessions. Forgetting where I was, of course. Back on the dance floor, Lee and Tara were inventing new moves Patrick and Baby could have utilized in their routines. I came up behind Lee, he turned around and stuck his tongue in my mouth.

If I had been sober, my conscience would have pushed him away. I was loaded enough to not even think about the Tara-crush-on-Lee issue…or how she might feel if her crush ended up fucking me and not her. Years later, via LA Weekly After Dark, I'm saying it: “I'm sorry Tara.”

Though I'm sure I said it plenty of times in the past.

I can't remember if I did in fact make out with Lee in that gay public restroom, (god knows its seen its share of inappropriate behavior with or without us) but I do remember stumbling back to his place and making out on the way there, on the stairs, in the hallway…

Then I remember being in his bedroom in the dark. We were kissing, touching, taking clothes off. I was touching his lean stomach, his thighs and then reached into his unbuckled pants and…WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? I didn't say that. I thought it.

My hand was down his pants touching a growth on his penis. Fucking. Gross.

My head was spinning with vodka and images of what the growth could be. I was disgusted, yet intrigued. Maybe his tattoos and bleached hair were over-compensations for a deformed penis?

Maybe his deformed penis would make him that much of a better lover.

Ugh, then I pictured the growth again. G.R.O.S.S. But did I stop kissing? Nope. Did I stop further clothing from coming off? Nope. I closed my eyes, and hoped for the best.
The vodka made my head and the room spin, a welcome distraction from the fact that some dude with bleached hair was about to put his funky penis in me.

Tara, I take back my apology. You're welcome.

Eventually it ended. I passed out and didn't open my eyes ‘til morning. Then I was sober and there was some light coming through the heavily darkened windows of a bartender's bedroom.

I had to know what the growth looked like. Was there more than one? What color was it? Did it have a particular shape?

I summoned all my courage and lifted the blanket. I was ready to look it straight in the eyes.

Then I did! It was silver and smooth. And cool to the touch?

His deformed penis was nothing more than a representation of his rebellious tendencies. A Prince Albert piercing on his otherwise normal cock.

Thank god it wasn't contagious.

Image: djcodrin.

LA Weekly