Summer 2001 was blisteringly hot in the DC area and Northern Virginia that year. You don’t know hot until you live in a city during a heat wave. Think of it, the miles and miles of pavement reflecting the heat back up onto the tons and tons of people that pack the city like a can of spoilt sardines. Yes, it’s sweaty and it’s stinky. The smell of rank armpits and dank asses follow you everywhere. Dare you to complain about the heat to a Southerner and they’ll just roll their eyes at you. Southerners think they have a copyright on hot, I'm here to tell you. They’ll tell you that Yankees know nothing about heat. They'll also tell you that they don’t even have a/c in their trailers and it stays over the 95-degree mark practically everyday from mid-April to early October. The whole time you’re complaining, they’re not really hearing you. All they hear the is the ""Wah wah wah wah wah" of Charlies Brown's school teacher. And what they're thinking is: “What a fuckin’ pussy, this Yankee can't even begin to understand HOT.”
I know because I was just like this until I left home and moved North. But does Washington, DC really count as living in the North? I guess you could say that it’s North to people living in the South. Technically, it's considered Mid-Atlantic, but is that North or South ?
The heat that summer was trying to kill me. I remember cutting across the Pentagon parking lot one day on my way into town and it was so hot that I swear I could feel my brain sizzling. I really thought I was going to have a heat stroke so I took my shirt off and tied it around my head like a turban. If it had been after 9/11, I would have never done that, ya know. They would have shot my crazy ass for sure, walking around looking like that so close to the Pentagon.
I decided it probably wasn’t a good ideal to walk all the way from Arlington, VA to Dupont Circle anymore, at least not until the heat wave broke. I had some killer legs when I lived in DC from all that walking.
Luckily, I had quite a few friends that had pools. We formed a sort of gay pool party circuit that year in DC. The person hosting the party that week would start cocktails around three, people could sit around and drink/talk or swim (clothing-optional) and a BBQ would start around 7. We’d all eat like Romans, drink way too much and most of us would spend the night only to wake up with the worst horrible hangovers and sunburns the next morning. But, come next week and we’d be all ready to do it all over again, it was that much fun. I’ll be honest, I was a poor, dumb hick from rural North Carolina and I wondered why I got invited into this circle of wealthy DC queers. I wasn’t sleeping with any of them, so why? The most I ever got out of one of them was that I was “fun” and they liked my long, rambling stories about my life in the south. I think they thought of me as sort of a southern version of Rose Nylund.
Okay, I'm rambling (again). I need to get to the point of this story. It was during one of these parties that I met and befriended this cute, little redheaded guy named Tye. One night after most of the other party guests had wondered away from the pool to do other things, me and Tye decided to skinny-dip. Tye pulled down his Speedo and damn if his cock didn’t hang to his knees. It was huge! It looked so silly hanging from this tiny, femmy bottom boy that I burst out laughing. Oh how cruel fate is to give this monster cock to Tye. Even Tye had to laugh; he hated his cock because it drew some much attention at these pool parties. He’d only swim in the nude after dark with me. Oh man, he’d get so pissed when guys would take one look at his cock and instantly want HIM to top them. Asking Tye to fuck you in the ass would have been like asking Mary Poppins to knock on your back door, just plain weird. I spent so much time calming him down after these events happened over and over at the parties, I kid you not.
Tye- “ God-damnit, Ken! I can’t even get in the pool naked until it’s dark or I’ll have a pack of queens following me around trying to grab my dick!”
Me- “Well, Tye… Gay men aren’t that different than straight men. Straight guys like big tits and gay guys like big dicks. They don’t care if you’re a 100% bottom. All they see is that big, fat, fuckin’ dick of yours and they want it!”
Tye- “God damnit! I’m sick of it! I wish I didn’t have this fuckin’ log hanging between my legs. It's just grotesque!”
Me- “Bless yer heart!”
When a southern doesn’t know what to say or they think you’re stupid as shit, they usually fill up the silence with a good “Bless yer heart” and change the subject.
Moral of this story? People are never happy with what they have. Are they ? Damn.