Get Out! GAY Magazine – Issue 325 – July 19, 2017

stories
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THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE
MY COUCH
BY IAN-MICHAEL BERGERON
@ianmichaelinwonderland
The other night I went out for
drinks with a couple of friends.
“No, I really mean it. You’re
so, like, free, you know?”
“Agreed,” another one of my
friends said, “that’s a read.”
“He just said ‘Hey, it looks like
you didn’t try when you got
out of bed today, and I want
you to know I noticed.’”
We ended up at Boxers
Chelsea—my idea, because
of their two-for-one happy
hour. We got our first round
of drinks (margarita, naturally)
and decided to stand outside:
It was a little humid out, but
much quieter and easier to
talk.
About half a drink in, a guy
came outside, business-like
in a pale pink shirt tucked
into navy dress pants, with a
gaudy gold chain around his
neck. He was cute, the kind
of guy that’ll break it down at
the club but play it straight
during the day with his finance
buddies.
He came up to us, cigarette
in hand, and I thought he
was going to ask for a light.
(Which I don’t have: I haven’t
smoked since 2008. Regularly,
anyway.) Instead, eyes locked
on me, he made his way into
our circle and lit the cigarette
himself.
“I was watching you through
the glass,” he said, motioning
inside. He sounded a little
drunk, but not bad-day-atthe-office
drunk. “You’re
extremely cute.” He said this
right in front of everyone,
unashamedly. Everyone
looked to me to see how I’d
respond.
Not being one for gold
chains, and also just not being
on the prowl, I showed him a
small smile. “Thank you.”
“Free?”
“Yeah. You’ve got this whole
comfy Dorothy thing going
on.”
I looked down at my outfit: a
navy silk top from All Saints,
a flowy pair of linen pants by
Ralph Lauren and my ruby
red leather Persian slippers.
Casual, maybe... but comfy?!
“That’s my aesthetic,” I
nodded, then looked away.
He made his way into a corner,
finished his cigarette, and we
watched him go inside to get
his bag and say goodbye to
his friends by he pool table.
“He was so into you,” one
of my friends said, sucking
air through the straw at the
bottom of his drink.
“He said I looked comfy,”
I spat. “That’s not a
compliment.”
PHOTO BY STEVE BRENNAN
“I don’t think so,” my first
friend shook his head. “Is
comfy really that offensive?”
“Yes. I want someone to say,
‘Look at him, that looks so
expensive, I bet he didn’t pay
his rent so he could buy that.’”
Which, let’s be honest, is true.
“Instead you’re out here
looking like comfy Dorothy.”
We finished our first round
and cashed in our two-for-one
cards, and I tried to move
the conversation along—but
the nickname stuck. “Comfy
Dorothy” was on everyone’s
tongue—figuratively speaking,
of course.
After our second round, I
clicked the heels my Persian
slippers together three times
and went home, vowing to
never wear linen pants to a
gay bar again.