Thunderbirds

There is a local bar in Thornton Park called Thunderbirds that just kind of feels like a home away from home. I'm not sure if its the popcorn maker in the corner, the haze of cigarette smoke surrounding the overhead lights, or the Big Buck Hunter game that Chris and I would pose in front of for pictures so that it looked like we had antlers on our heads. I had been in Orlando for a year and after briefly dating someone, Chris was searching for a boyfriend for me as fervently as a research scientist is searching for a cure for cancer. It started out, as it always does with Chris, innocently at first. Some boys would trickle in and we would pick out which ones that we thought were cute. A pack of guys who played basketball together on Thursday nights came in, and Chris suggested that I send one of them a drink.
"Absolutely not," I said, shaking my head. I had just come from the salon where my gay hairdresser Kelly had fluffed and teased my hair until I looked like an older version of Jon Benet Ramsey. It was pageant hair through and through, and barely moved when I shook my head no.
"Why not? I do it when I'm at a bar, watching a Saints game, and there's a guy sitting across from me."
There were two reasons. 1) "You have a boyfriend, and are doing it to show that you are one of the guys while you want me to send it over like I'm peacocking for his attention." 2) Since I have been following a strict diet of Chardonnay and Taquitos for the last month, some of my curves have changed direction.
Chris was friends with the bartenders, and was trying to get the scoop on every attractive male in there (lucky for me, there were only 5 total throughout the night, one of which was wearing socks with flashing Jagermeister buttons on them). There is nothing more attractive than the faint aroma of desperation in the air, huh boys?
"I want to leave now," I said, tired of going to the bathroom and catching glimpses of my pageant hair in the mirror.
There is a dartboard right by the back door, and there were 2 guys playing. On our way out, Chris challenged them to play a game. One was cute and preppy, and the other was nerdy so I let Chris be partners with him. My partners name was Bill, and we beat Chris and her partner Dennis twice. We sat down with our drinks and cigarettes. We had broken into two conversations; since Chris loves nerds she was talking to Dennis about some socialist regime or some array of nerdy topics, and I was talking to Bill about work and where we grew up. I asked Bill how old he was...24. He asked how old I was...27. It worked at UCF so I'm sticking with it for awhile. I ran out of cigarettes and said, "I'm going to the store to get some cigarettes," at which Bill said "Great, can you get me a pack too?" Are you kidding? I wasn't going anywhere. When I say that I'm going to get something it means that you're going to get something for me and preferably with your cash. It sounds bitchy, but isn't that the Southern Gentlemanly thing to do down here? So young. His brother Dennis offered to go for us. If only I could merge Bill's good looks with Dennis' sensibility. However, my favorite part of the night came at the end when Bill asked if I "wanted to go make out for awhile." Who asks that? Even at 24? I will make out with you for a little bit, Bill, but only because I think that it's hot that you scored a bullseye.