Pickles is sized up & accepted into the flock.
And so, the first chapter of young Pickles’ new life in DC comes to a close with the realization that I’ve become what I hate most. This summer I’ve gone out practically every weekend, participating in gay funtivities that range from the innocuous house party to the pants-off dance-off intern slutfest that passes for nightlife in this city. I thought I had left all of my crazy days back in Korea and Poland, but alas, I’m now a card-carrying DC gay. I’ve come to this conclusion based on the following:
Click here for an easy to read list..
The DC gay is a fascinating, if one-dimensional, animal best observed in his natural habitat: any gay bar within a five-mile radius of the 20036. If you’re a regular gay like Pickles, you’re only admitted to this privileged world occasionally, usually through a more inebriated friend who wants to show you the “real DC” you’ve been missing. If you find yourself in this situation, here are some behavioral norms you should adopt to live long and prosper in the foggy bottom of society that Dupont attracts.
It was bound to happen. Pickles has officially run out of juice. As in energy to date, not the lead-in to a refractory period. This isn’t because I haven’t enjoyed dating, or because I’ve had a particularly negative experience in the past couple months. Frankly, I’m tired of the repetition. Take Monday, for example. I hadn’t been on an actual date in a while, but this guy started talking to me on OkCupid and suggested we “meet up” for happy hour. I obliged, but fifteen minutes into this lurid encounter in a Foggy Bottom watering hole, I started having deja vu. It didn’t take long for me to realize why.
I’ve been known to burn some bridges with this column. In response to my observations about their behavior, Country Fried defriended me, Awkward Turtle called to yell at me, and Multitasker’s best friend sent me hate mail. Last week I outlined my manifesto about my writing, and about attempting to date in this ridiculous town in general. This week I’m taking a sick, sad trip down memory lane to prove that I reserve my harshest criticism for myself.