Spaghetti and Sleazeballs

FuelMix went to a business luncheon hosted by a gay business group. He’d never been and was curious.

There they were: Lipstick Lesbians, tons of gays in black reeking of high-end department store fragrance. FuelMix was in a smart suit, neatly accessorized. The white Maitre d’ winked as he showed FuelMix to his shared table.

The table companions swapped business cards but FuelMix instinctively knew he’d toss them once he got home. He didn't appear to have much in common with this crowd.  Perhaps he was at the wrong table. 

The conversation was light and airy. FuelMix received lingering gazes and strokes on the wrist as his table fags (who'd obviously read the same books on visual and tactile communications in business) emphasized their conversational and professional points. Lunch was served and FuelMix had some nouvelle spaghetti creation. There was a Speaker and everyone applauded politely.

After the Speaker finished and mid-way through dessert, FuelMix needed to piss. Excusing himself, he began to navigate the tables towards the Maitre d’. Halfway during the voyage, FuelMix passed a white 50-something fag in a grey suit. The details are kinda fuzzy – all FuelMix remembers is a hairy paw that emerged and latched itself onto his crotch. FuelMix tripped slightly – the paw on the crotch had stopped forward motion. Several people turned around and there was silence. The Maitre d’ looked horrified. FuelMix went ballistic and instinctively grabbed the old fag’s throat. The hairy paw dropped immediately.

Alone at the urinal, the Maitre d’ entered to apologize. He was assured none was needed. He smiled coyly and lingered. FuelMix gave him several views of his cock, then washed his hands. Maitre d’ gave him a towel, gently kissed him on the cheek and escorted him back to the table.

Moral: lunch may require forks and knives, but gay men eat with eyes and hands. 

Originally published 29 April 2006
Amended and Republished 12 April 2014 | 7 May 2017

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