A Not So Typical Thursday in Center City (part 2) ...

Let me first say that, since this website posts the latest writings first, please scroll down and read part 1 below before going on to this posting. Thanks.

So, where was I?

Oh yeah...

The homeless guy beating off in broad daylight.

I had decided that I needed to get a cop to at least go down there and make this guy stop. It was obvious that someone who had that dazed look in their eyes as they spanked their monkey either had quite a visual going on in their head or didn't really care one way or the other. Either way, I knew that he wasn't all there and I wasn't going to be the one (unarmed) to tell this guy to stop Chokin' the Bishop.

So I walked up 20th Street towards my original destination, Wawa, for cigarettes, all the while glancing up and down the cross streets hoping to find a police car. Of course, as luck would have it and as the old saying goes, there's never a cop around when you need one. Even in the Wawa, where you can find a policeman filling up a mug of coffee any hour of the day or night, there was none to be found.

I bought my smokes and stepped back out into the street. I looked up and down 20th Street again and then Locust Street, trying to spot a familiar blue and white. Then I noticed the flower fair going on over in Rittenhouse Square. There were white tents lining the sidewalks and selling houseplants and garden plants and all the accessories that go along with the green thumb. There were hundreds of people too, which meant that there would be police-o-plenty.

...or so you'd think...

I crossed the street and stepped into the park, my senses on overload with the aroma and smell of endless rows of blooms, the sounds of screaming children climbing the goat statue, the sights of all the sunbathers taking in the warm weather. I knew, since the pounding the pork incident was several blocks behind me, finding a cop now would be next to completely useless. Either the bum shot his wad all across the sidewalk or someone had already stopped him in mid-stroke. Anyway you look at it, it was five or six blocks behind me now. I doubt a cop (if I could even find one) would head all the way back down to 20th & Lombard Streets, but at least maybe they can radio in to see if anyone was in that area to drive by and take a look.

Needless to say, between my house and the Wawa, between the Wawa and Rittenhouse Square, between Rittenhouse Square and the ATM and between the ATM and my first beer at The Post, there wasn't a cop to be found. If you weren't looking for them, you'd be able to spot a dozen of them seemingly bored out of their holsters, hanging out on street corners chatting with one another like street thugs. But not today. Today, a street bum was able to get his rocks off with no interference.

So on I went, entering into the deep shadows of Chancellor Street and into the little Post Bar for a beer.

It was almost 3 o'clock when I ordered my first beer. The bar wasn't crowded at all, which was fine by me. I wasn't really in the mood to be all that social. It was me, the bartender and one other patron, a man who I've known a few years from the bar. I sat in a stool and sipped on the beer and watched Ellen's talk show. After about a half hour a few more people came in, some carrying hanging baskets of blooming flowers purchased in the Square. Overall, the bar remained quiet, and I was quite content, until the topic of discussion across the bar started in the direction of health issues. And I figured enough was enough when rectal exams started to overpower the entire conversation. I mean, there's only so much I can take of talk about sticking fingers, tubes and cameras up your ass.

I decided to move on...

I didn't feel like going home, so instead, I headed across town to Woody's, Philly's most popular gay club. The place is huge to say the least. With 2 floors, 5 bars, a restaurant and a large dance floor, the space takes up almost an entire block. But this early in the afternoon, only the first floor was open and it would primarily consist of older gentlemen who have already retired and people who have gotten off of work early. I haven't really been there in quite some time and I didn't expect to see anyone that I really knew there, but as it turned out, I was wrong.

The main room is pretty much occupied by a large rectangular bar in the center. I walked up the service area and ordered a beer. Immediately across the bar, I saw a group of three guys, 2 of whom were at the Post the previous evening and one of them being the guy I mentioned in an earlier post; the guy who wanted me to take him home and cook him dinner.

I walked over and said my hellos and, through a bunch of small talk, I noticed that Mr. Make Me Dinner was eyeing me up again. Now, not that he is an unattractive guy, but I just wasn't into him. I was flattered by the attention he was giving me, but I paid no mind to it to give him the wrong impression. The strange part of the whole thing was that this third guy, who was introduced to me and I learned was French Canadian down here for a week visiting a friend, was also flirting with me. Again, not my type, but I liked the attention. But Mr. Make Me Dinner was flirting with him too. So much so that when Mr. French Canadian went into the bathroom, Mr. Make Me Dinner followed along. While they were gone, my friend told me that at first it was just him and Mr. Make Me Dinner at the bar. A few minutes later, Mr. French Canadian sat down next to them and Mr. Make Me Dinner was immediately smitten by the guy's French accent.

A few minutes later, the two came back to the bar, sat down and Mr. Make Me Dinner said to my friend that he wanted to talk to him, so they announced that they were going to another bar, Bump, down the street. I hadn't planned on going any further but, after a brief and pleasant conversation with Mr. French Canadian, we decided to head down to Bump for a martini (something I rarely drink).

Now, Bump was having a kick-ass happy hour, with $3.00 martini specials and about a dozen different varieties to choose from. We walked in and the other two guys were at the bar sipping their drinks. I ordered myself a Butterfinger Martini (sidebar: daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayum that was gooooood). The afternoon progressed and the flirting got worse. Mr. Make Me Dinner flirting with Mr. French Canadian, Mr. French Canadian flirting with me. I didn't know what to make of it all. But it wasn't until the moment when Mr. French Canadian asked me what I did for a living and I told him and the discussion turned to art and he asked if I was an artist. I told him I haven't lifted a paintbrush in years and that I've now grown an interest in photography. He asked if I would be willing to photograph him; erotic photography. At one point, he had asked if I was hairy and he lifted up my shirt and rubbed my belly (which is quite hairy) and smiled.

Well, I think this was all Mr. Make Me dinner had to hear before he just set down his drink and out the door he went, without saying a word to anyone. I can't swear by it because this is something that has never happened to me. And I'm not gonna lie and say that it didn't feel kinda fun to be the center of attention like this. I know that Mr. Make Me Dinner and Mr. French Canadian have a tentative (and very relaxed) date this Saturday night, just drinks and such at Woody's.

I said a few posts back that it was "No More Mr. Nice Guy". I wonder what it feels like to be a manipulative prick.

Hmmmmmmm....

Maybe I'll pay Woody's a visit this Saturday and find out...