At dinner Saturday night a couple of us were discussing how bad our waiter was ignoring us. This, of course led to the “when I was a waiter” conversation. It seems funny how many gay men were waiters while in college or just starting out.
This drew me back to my last stint as a gay waiter. Back to Dallas. Back to Marcos Italian, off Cedar Springs Road. It was a part time job to pay for a lift kit on my jeep.* It was mostly pretty fun. Right in the center of the gay ghetto, I met some really cool people by slopping bad Italian food in front of them. A fellow floor whore was Dave, he was your waiter for dinner and your “anything else” if the price was right. One night Davie and I were making Marco’s signature Bellini. In a five gallon bucket and a stick we found in the alley. As I was jabbing at it with our “sterrin stick” Davie complained that his washboard abs itched. Lifting his shirt he rubbed the dried cum off his muscular belly. My head cocked at an angle to watch the dried man snow drift into the bucket.
“Huh. I have no idea whose that is?” Dave wondered out loud.
My last week at Marcos was pretty bad. I had decided that I really didn’t need a lift kit. That’s when Cher walked in. Not the Cher, but a Cher. Damn good one too. She was scheduled to perform at the Village Station later that night, but was hunn-gree. There was the typical drag queen flack. But soon enough I got a plate of lasagna in front of her so she’d stop saying “Ooooh.. Can I swing on your arms?”
Half way through her meal I decided to go smoke. But as I turned to leave I heard a scream. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEECK! Owie, Owie!” Let’s just say that Cher lost some cheap dental work. If you’ve ever been fingered as the cause of a drag queen losing a paying gig. You know, it’s not pretty.
I quit the next day.
*Wow, that sounded butch.
This drew me back to my last stint as a gay waiter. Back to Dallas. Back to Marcos Italian, off Cedar Springs Road. It was a part time job to pay for a lift kit on my jeep.* It was mostly pretty fun. Right in the center of the gay ghetto, I met some really cool people by slopping bad Italian food in front of them. A fellow floor whore was Dave, he was your waiter for dinner and your “anything else” if the price was right. One night Davie and I were making Marco’s signature Bellini. In a five gallon bucket and a stick we found in the alley. As I was jabbing at it with our “sterrin stick” Davie complained that his washboard abs itched. Lifting his shirt he rubbed the dried cum off his muscular belly. My head cocked at an angle to watch the dried man snow drift into the bucket.
“Huh. I have no idea whose that is?” Dave wondered out loud.
My last week at Marcos was pretty bad. I had decided that I really didn’t need a lift kit. That’s when Cher walked in. Not the Cher, but a Cher. Damn good one too. She was scheduled to perform at the Village Station later that night, but was hunn-gree. There was the typical drag queen flack. But soon enough I got a plate of lasagna in front of her so she’d stop saying “Ooooh.. Can I swing on your arms?”
Half way through her meal I decided to go smoke. But as I turned to leave I heard a scream. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEECK! Owie, Owie!” Let’s just say that Cher lost some cheap dental work. If you’ve ever been fingered as the cause of a drag queen losing a paying gig. You know, it’s not pretty.
I quit the next day.
*Wow, that sounded butch.
What broke her teef? Your dried cum?
ReplyDeleteyep - i have heard of your stirrin stick before.... even seen pics of it.... and um - ew - never want to drink a bellini again...cn
ReplyDeleteOkay so the lift kit sounded butch, the fact that you didn't go ahead with it and the rest of your story was possibly a wee bit less butch, but hey thats alright - we all know what a bit strong man y'are!
ReplyDelete