#122 is pretty guessable given the story of #121: he was doing the rounds and I wasn’t about to be left out. More details, though? Well, he was wearing nothing but a white lab coat, a pair of tights, and smudged lipstick. I think his boyfriend had put on the club we were at. #122 was eighteen.
At least that’s what he said. There was a brief period of panic not long after the event, when I described him to a friend who was a youth worker. “Nine, he’s not eighteen,” he advised. “He’s fifteen.”
Oh. My. God.
Happily, enough evidence manifested further down the line to satisfy me that this was a case of mistaken identity. #122 turned nineteen shortly thereafter, and I chose to believe him. But that was a little, um, troubling, no?
I ran into him several months later at Disko Bloodbath and a few of us wound up at his place afterwards. I could not believe the house that he was living in. Talk about loaded. Anyway, the night mainly consisted of #122 and everyone else trying to lure my friend Frank away from his persistent heterosexuality.