Lose The Boss

My boss is a charming 60-year old gay man. He's fun, witty, treats his employees well, and he adores me. I love my boss. Most of the time. But once in a while, things get a bit out of hand.

One day Bossy came into the office and told me he had met someone at his gym. Lonni is the lead singer of a new gay pop rock group called Whore's Mascara.

"We're friends now," Bossy told me excitedly, "Lonni wants me to come to one of his shows. You should come with me, I'll introduce you – he's veeeery cute!"

Bossy's partner, who I’ll call Partner, also works in the office. He rolled his eyes at Bossy's match-making, and also at the idea that Bossy would ever go to a Whore's Mascara show – Bossy is strictly the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, asleep by 10pm and at the gym by 7am. Then one Friday morning Bossy tells me that Whore's Mascara is performing at The Ritz at 10pm on Sunday night.

"That's not so late," he said.

I laughed. "The Ritz is right in my neighborhood," I told him. "If you go, I'll go."

"Maybe I will," he replied.

That Sunday evening found me in the West Village, celebrating a friend's birthday at one of the worse venue choices ever – Marie's Crisis piano bar. As I winced while hordes of insipid queens screeched out agonizing renditions of bad showtunes, my cell phone vibrated. A text message. From Bossy.

You goin to whores?

I was shocked. He was actually going to leave his apartment at 9:30 on a Sunday night to go to a bar? He was my boss, so I couldn't really say no. But going to a bar with him might be awkward. As I paused to consider my options, someone dragged their nails down a near-by chalkboard. No, it was just some flaming gay man trying to hit a high note intended for a soprano. I texted him back.

I'll meet you there in 30 minutes!

"I can't believe I'm here!" Bossy announced after I walked into The Ritz. "I haven't been out this late in years!"

"I'm proud of you!" I replied. He smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Partner didn't know what to think when I left," Bossy told me. "He thought for sure I was going out to have an affair!"

"Uh-huh." I said, looking for a cocktail. And starting to feel a bit awkward.

"I told him – I'm just going out with David!"

"Oh good," I smiled again.

"So now, he thinks WE'RE having an affair! HA!"

Awkward feeling continuing.

We got our drinks and found some seats. Just then Lonni walked by. Bossy jumped up.

"Hi!" Apparently they did know each other, as Lonni, who turned out to be a boyish-looking guy in his mid 20's, greeted him warmly. Bossy introduced us.

"This is my friend David."

Heeeeeey," said Lonni, with a laid-back, California-surfer, too-many-drugs kinda dwawl, "nice to meeeeet yoooooou. You just just relaaaaaax. We'll get started sooooon. Til then: get luuuuuu-bricated."

He waved and drifted away, leaving Bossy and I staring at each other, pondering exactly how to get lubricated.

Awkward feeling intensifying.

We decided to sit and wait for the show to start. We chatted a bit, talking about where Bossy used to go out, what bars were still open in New York, etc. I made the mistake of once again letting down my guard, thinking this wasn't so bad. As if he had a sixth sense, Bossy abruptly changed the subject.

"So what's going on with Michael’s ass?!" he asked. Referring to one of my co-workers, his employee.

"Uhhhhh... I... uhhhh... dunno..."

"It is getting FAT!" he announced.

In an attempt to close my dropped jaw, I pulled my drink to my mouth. And finished it.

"I think I'll go to the bar," I said cheerily.

"No! Sit down. I'll go. What are you drinking?"

"Are you sure..."

"WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING???"

"Citron and soda," I replied. "Thanks!" And he was off.

He returned a few minutes later. Mercifully, before the conversation hit another landmine, the performance began. Surely, I thought, we were safe now. We'd watch the show for an hour, and then both head home. Whore's Mascara is a fun time. Their music is sort of edgy-pop with dirty lyrics. Very dirty lyrics. Which would be great... if I weren't sitting with my boss.

"Don't be so full of yourself. Be full of me."

Ok, it's innuendo. Maybe he doesn't even get it.

"There's a dance party up your butt! I'm gonna Come! Come! Come! Come!"

Intense awkwardness.

Finally I decided to just focus on the visuals. The group is 3 singers, 2 guys and a girl. Though that night, they had a second girl. She was a skinny little dancer, dressed in a tight tank top and teeny-tiny little short shorts. She didn't dance as much as stand on a box and gyrate, and stretch, and bend over. Which would have been fine. Until she sat on the box and went into a very wide split ... and we could clearly see her maxi-pad sticking out of either side of her crotch under the shorts!

I tried not to look at Bossy. I tried to entirely eliminate my peripheral vision. It was useless. He was laughing, and leaned over to me. And the pinnacle of awkwardness was reached.

"I think they could cut that dancer from the act. She seems to be… unnecessary. She's sticking out."