“Sticky and Sweet”

Once upon a (recent) Thursday night at Tracks, I was a very drunk boy, who was spilling his heart out (between taking shots) to a very beautiful and wise drag queen in the DJ booth at Tracks. I told her about how the last few boys I was fixed on were lying, cheating, dirty boys who apparently needed more attention than I could give them. I poured out how they were seeing other boys, and lied to me about it, as I poured over my steadily decreasing martini.

She placed the headphones that she was holding up to one ear onto the booth, took the drink out of my hand, delicately whisked the rest of the light green liquid into her mouth (without as much as a lipstick mark), and leaned in close, so I could hear what she had to say.

“Beautiful, how long have I known you?”
“Years?” I gasped, rolling my eyes and dramatically throwing my arm over my head; draping my body onto the vinyl albums, next to the neon green and pink turntables.
“Matty B., I have seen you select men of your choice out of the crowd, take them home, and try to domesticate them. Sweetheart, men here are dogs. You take ‘em home, scratch their bellies, slap a leash on them for a walk around Cheeseman Park (to attract other men with dogs), and then you release them at a big farm, where they can run free. Yes, they might lick your face, put their nose in your butt when you least expect it, cuddle with you in bed, and hump your leg every so often, but a DOG can’t ever love you as much as you love him. It doesn’t matter if you feed him, give him baths, and clean up his shit. Unless YOU are a dog too, it won’t ever work out. Trust me sugar pie, you are not a dog, and that’s why we love about you.”

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do with all of this truth, which was cleverly draped in wit and humor. A few moments passed while Christina Aguilara belted her final notes of the evening. The lights flickered on, and my dumbfounded expression quickly changed to skepticism, as I took a delicate sip of her Bacardi and Coke.

“What? You don’t believe me? Look at them.” She said as I peered out of the DJ Booth, and down onto the illuminated dance floor. 1:30am, and security was herding the gays like cattle out through a little double door on the far end of the club. Her description was not only incredibly accurate, but the sweaty shirtless men started to all look the same. Dirty, panting, sticky, messy, and with one thing on their mind: getting out that door, and finding another dog to get off on. They pushed, bit, and snarled at each other, spitting and drooling everywhere. She was right, they were filthy, and I was a fool.

I slid open my Helio to text my boys, to see if they had been herded out with the vermin, but they beat me to the punch. Jimmy was already calling to see where I had slinked off to. Everybody knows that you couldn’t possibly retain any dignity if you are still in the club when the lights come on, all sweaty, makeup running, and shirtless. Like true social veterans, we would immediately react when our cell phone alarms went off (set to 1:25 am), warning us we had a 5 minutes to escape through the front, before we were harshly unveiled by the fluorescent lights.

After everyone had left, I walked around saying goodbye (carefully stepping Around broken glass, empty coke baggies and torn clothing) to all the bartenders, security, and Erik (the club manager), giving ample amount of time for the police officers out front to break up the fights between the lesbians, and for the gays to drunkenly drive to Denver Diner. Jimmy pulled the car around, and I hopped down the steps and into the back of his car, hungrily awaiting biscuits and gravy.

As we drove away, I looked back to see a pack of boys grunting slobbering, and howling, in the parking lot next to the club. Maybe DJ Markie was right. As we sped away, my phone vibrated. John, a very cute boy that bought me a drink earlier that night, sent me a text wondering where I was, and what I was doing now that the club was closed. I thought about it for a minute, trying to decide whether or not to invite him along with us. After a few minutes, it was decided. It wouldn’t hurt to take this cute pup out for a run around the block… just as long as I remembered that that was all it was: a run around the block with a cute dog.

“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry, because we both know that’s not true-“
Matty B .

Busy Queen Bee

Working at the most popular gay club in Colorado defiantly puts you to the test. I spent the evening running around with an arm full of glasses, a headset full of people yelling for security to break up fights, certain bartenders yelling at me for more beer, and everyone and their mother grabbing my ass.

While working under extreme amounts of pressure may break people down, I find it exciting, and incredibly amusing. Although I have to do no-so-glamorous tasks every so often, I still find myself with a grin on my face at the end of the night.

I’ve been getting busier and busier lately, in an attempt to drown out any thoughts I may have about my friends, relationships, or family situations. Between working two jobs, trying to catch up on sleep and bills, I have been fairly successful. I haven’t had time to worry about what people think of me, because I’ve been having such a blast living life day-by-day.

My dear friend Nic and I had a wonderful brunch together a week or two ago. I was apparent that I had been completely overwhelmed by my first night working at TRACKS that previous evening, considering that I was in public wearing a purple sweatshirt, black sweat pants, green flip flops, and oversized sun glasses.

We got to sit down and talk about the crew: Steven, Eric, Nic, myself. It was nice to be able to talk to someone who could actively listen, and then provide feedback.

Steven suggested a few ways that I could improve myself; being less gay. To some degree, I know exactly what he’s talking about. No one likes a raging queen. Girl, I know I don’t. However, in the gay community I see a lot of guys snapping their fingers, and screaming “hay grill!” at the tops of their lungs, and while I admit to doing that from time to time, I also see how fake it is.

Growing up, everyone knew I was gay. Lets be real here; when I open up my mouth, a drag queen falls out and kicks you in the face. When I was younger I would always baby sit my little brother’s friends, and they would always ask me,” Matt, why don’t you talk in your normal voice?”

At the age of 13, and a freshman in high school, that’s a hard thing to hear. Living in the wet social rectum of Colorado (Longmont) surrounded my faggot hating, boot wearers, was tough enough as it was. The fact that I had a queeny woman voice that I just couldn’t shake, added insult to injury.

I don’t feel like writing anymore.
I get a lot of demands to update my blog. I know all my friends read it. (whether or not they are talking to me)

You know what? It’s not fir to me for everyone to be reading my life. Especially when I don’t want to write about it, at the moment.

If you’re reading this, and you want to know what’s going on with me, you are going to have to pull your shit together and fucking ask me.

What happens when I’m tired of being that great friend to everyone else, and I have NO ONE to return the favor?

I stop writing.


We Get High In Back Seat Circles, We Break Into Mobile Homes
Matty B.