At first, I was grateful for the full presence at my new bar job last night. All night, I had small groups, solos, and duos with which to occupy my time. Small talk was made; laughs were had. Until, that is, the Broadway folk showed up. Let me be clear: one out of six was a sweetheart who, before her posse of five began to trickle in, was chatting amiably and comfortably with both other customers and me for the better part of twenty minutes. She was to meet a B'way producer to talk "shop." I had an inkling of who it might be, and was none too delighted when the man in question showed up. "Boy-Toy" is a hard drinking, very sharp-tongued, and fairly catty straight man who is a "regular" at my current bar gig. He suffers no fools; you know when you've made that list, let me tell you. Fortunately, he had his "work meeting" to contend with, so not much attention was directed my way, at least, for the first hour of his stay. After that, he found it funny to call me "lesbian" instead of using my name. The name, in fact, he greeted me with on his way in that night. Is it my short hair? Is it because I don't fawn over him like his young starlet-types? Does he really think that adolescent crap like that is funny?
Sadly, none of his crew batted an eye (the "nice one" was lost in talk with another in the group, and didn't notice, I should like to think) as he referred to my alleged sexuality, but made sure to note that, hey, he'd "go down on me." That was the icing on the shit cake, for sure.