Queer Ear for the Straight Guy

by anna at 09:35 AM on August 16, 2003

In my neighborhood there’s a gas station that doubles as a convenience store. I was there the other day. I took vague note of a threesome in a car with out of state tags and the motor running. Two of them got out: A handsome, Tiger Woods-ish black guy who looked to be about 17, judging by his baby-faced visage and baggy hip-hop garb, accompanied a scruffy looking blonde. (Think a bedraggled, trailer park takeoff on this .)

He peels $20 from a sizable wad of bills and issues highly specific instructions as to what she is to purchase, namely a case of Coors Light and a pack of Camel Lights. She dutifully scurries to grabs the beer. She is so thin and frail she struggles under its heft. Her hair was kind of stringy and cut shoulder length. She wore worn out jeans with frayed holes and a clingy halter top that revealed an extensive and hardly dainty tattoo. It looked like some kind of gang insignia you’d see emblazoned across a tenement wall. But the most noticeable thing about this chick was the fact that she was sporting high-beams big time. We are talking erasers on those huge pencils they used to dole out as token prizes at state fairs here. You almost felt embarrassed for her, as if you’d buy her a bra if you could; although she didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Indeed she seemed to revel in the attention her brazen, saucer-like display engendered.

The cashier certainly took due note of this, so much so that he didn’t notice that she was illegally buying cigarettes and beer for a minor. She flashes her ID and says, “Remember me next time.” “Oh you can bet I will,” he says with leering eyes glued to her chest. Certain dudes seem to regard gals nipping (especially in conjunction with major tattoos) as some kind of license to abandon all pretense of propriety. It’s like, you chose to go braless and it’s icy cold in here (65 degrees F per a thermometer on the wall.) Thus I have every right to treat you like a piece of meat. He tries to engage her in further conversation but the language barrier precluded that. He looks vaguely miffed behind his wispy moustache, like she should have ditched her friends and blew him behind the counter. She glances at me and rolls her eyes as if to say, “guys.” (I wonder how men would react if women were to openly stare at their crotches when they are strolling around sporting wood. Probably much like my friend Matt did back in the 80s, when he dangled an earring from the so-called “queer ear.” He claims gay men goosed him in elevators and accosted him in bars.)

At last she completes her transaction and gets back in her car, a bright red Mitsubishi Eclipse. Trashy-looking, Girls-Gone-Wild people such as this often gravitate to showy cars, I’ve noticed. They confer for a moment and go screeching off. I am left to wonder just what the deal with this threesome was. I should note here that the wet-noodle looking white guy in the back seat appeared to be even younger, maybe 14---a third wheel would be my guess.

We know this much: She is at least 21, they are not. She isn’t real modest and indeed makes the most of what she’s got. It’s also clear the rich 17 year old hip-hop guy is calling the shots. They are from out of state in the middle of a suburban enclave forty miles from the state line. They are ready to party hardy (24 divided by 3 = 8 beers apiece plus god knows what else was stashed in the console) and evidently plan to stick around awhile (“Next time remember me.”) Other than a nearby concert venue, there really isn’t much in the way of attractions around these benighted parts. It’s not what you’d call a hot spot for tourists. That is, unless you enjoy rooting around in junkyards or watching amateur race car drivers go around in circles. I checked online and there was no rock show scheduled.

Hmmm, so just what were they up to? What was the nature of their relationship? Us fuddy-duddies who live vicariously through the lives of strangers we chance to encounter want to know. Hell, we demand to know.