So, last night I was the sole girl at a party full of fabulous gay men. My fag hagging skills are so rusty, but I was holding my own through two bourbon and cokes (made with more coke and not much bourbon, because I am a terrible light weight). Then, well, the room got smoky and slowly, surely, I turned into a piece of furniture. Stylish, comfy furniture, (it was the most masculine-yet-well-decorated apartment I've ever been in), but still.

Luckily for me, the boys were way more than happy to entertain me. So I sat and listened to wonderful stories, to gay men singing along to Blondie, sucking down helium from the balloons in shifts so there was always at least one falsetto going full voice. Hee.

I love men. I love it especially when they hug, or cuddle, or kiss, or get up and shake their cute little bubble butts while the others hoot and holler for them to "go girl!". So hot.

I loved how they checked in on me as I chilled on the couch. How I was instantly "Sweetie" to all of them. How protective they were. How no one complained when I switched, just before the third bourbon and coke was finished (which was mostly bourbon and therefore was having its way with me) to a plain ol' water.

Heathen and her boyfriend Cole showed up just after the pizza to drop off a present, so I caught a handy ride back to BART with them, which was lucky since I was too out of it to negotiate the bus. Well, could've done, but didn't want to and had been considering shelling out for a cab.

I had a wonderful, lovely time. But I'm just a bit hungover this morning. I am, as Richard says, a very cheap date.

Huh. We never did give the shipping boy his spanking.