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Hello My Name is Rugged Fox

I am a 30-something bachelor living in Vancouver, BC, Canada. Pour yourself a glass of wine and join me on this tale of questionable fashion choices and epic dating fails.

Mean Gays

Mean Gays

They say the best way to learn a language is to immerse yourself in it. That explains why ever since I moved to Vancouver I have become fluent in the dialect of ‘bitch.’ Any city that is home to this many gay men is bound to have its fair share of backstabbing, deceit and finger snaps.

The truth of the matter is, if you’re a friend of Dorothy you need to learn how to protect yourself. Because forget about rednecks, bible thumpers or flying monkeys, if you cannot survive the wrath of another gay man, you might as well go back to the closet you came from.

Last week, I barely made it out alive of my best friend Ruby’s birthday party when I was encircled by a Beaujolais of mean gays. Allow me to explain.

Backstory on Ruby, for your files, is that I first met her working at the Meatball Hut. It took us only one set of folds to realize that we had much more in common than red hair. When Ruby is not moonlighting as a waitress, she runs her own interior design company. With this info in tow, it comes as no surprise that her party’s guest list was seriously VIP. Attending were the likes of rock stars, retail managers, flight attendants and hotel receptionists.

After some initial mingling at her Yaletown condo, I decided to make myself at home with a bottle of red wine and the hors d’ouevres splayed out on the dining room table. Fortunately for me, since everyone at the party was off gluten and dairy, I had an entire cheese plate and French baguette to myself.

Everything was coming up camembert when I was affronted by a Beaujolais of gays. For those of you who are not in the know, a Beaujolais is a French wine or a term used to describe a pack of mean gays who are light-bodied, fruity and taste great in the moment. These men can typically be found half-naked on Instagram or warring over territorial claims to dance floors on Davie Street. Every Beaujolais is headed by an Alpha Gay, who age-depending is also referred to as a Queen.

I must admit the Alpha of this particular Beaujolais was some fierce. He stood a solid five inches taller than me and looked like he would eat me for breakfast if I was more non-fat and less half-and-half. Out-numbered three to one, it was clear these boys knew I was not from their parts. Taking a gigantic gulp of red wine, I knew I had to act fast.

“So how do you gentlemen know Ruby?” I asked, moving my first pawn forward and popping a grape in my mouth to show no fear.

All eyes shifted to the Alpha before returning to me. Thirty seconds passed and nothing happened. If this were the Wild West then all of us would have been hiding somewhere in a tent making out and trying not to get killed; but this was Yaletown. And on this side of Mainland Street you had to come out blow driers blazing.

Finally, the Alpha made his first move. With my Thom Browne glasses, I tracked in slow motion as his perfectly-manicured left hand lifted up from his side and settled on his chin. Tilting my head seventeen degrees to the right, I crumpled my lips and twisted my eyebrows into a question mark. Then, out of nowhere, he lifted his right hand up, pointed at me, and his left hand began wiping back and forth across his chin.

I had never encountered this peculiar dialect of bitch before. Was this some sort of gay sign-language? After he showed no sign of stopping I began to mimic his actions when I felt something creamy stuck in my facial hair. Dear Meryl. Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was a chunk of herbed goat’s cheese that must have missed my mouth and got trapped in the thick trim of my beard.

Reaching out for a napkin, I looked up to watch the grin from his lips spread across the others like a perfectly-timed wave.

“Juste un peu de chèvre,” I squeaked. I could feel the judgment begin to burn a hole through my baby blue cardigan and knew I had I had to get out before it was too late.

Downing the rest of my wine, I pointed to my empty glass and walked away with my tail between my legs. For the rest of the night, I kept a safe distance as the mean gays talked and laughed amongst themselves. Once the clock struck one and the party had winded down, I offered to help Ruby clean-up the kitchen.

“What’s wrong Fox?” she asked after I decided to pick a fight with the dishwasher.

“It was those darn mean gays.” I answered, dropping my head to my chest. “I can’t even talk about it.”

“But Fox, you were the only homosexual here.”

 Lifting my chin up slowly, I looked Ruby straight in the eyes. I began to wonder if we were even at the same party.

"How could you miss them?” I asked, waiving my hands dramatically in the air. “They pretty much monopolized the cheese plate all night long!”

“You mean the exchange students?”

“The what?” I gasped.

“Yeah, yeah the three men. Friends of Derek. They are here on some exchange program to learn English. Just flew in from Prague this afternoon. I guess they could be gay, to be quite honest I didn’t really think about it. They kept to themselves most of the night.”

My hands were frozen, stopped dead in their tracks.

“Could it be ... that I’m a mean gay? I asked Ruby. “A lone Fox?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about but must I remind you this is my birthday party and you do not get to cry if you want to.”

“Girl, your birthday expired like an hour ago. So over it. Now, do you know if there’s any red wine left?”

The end.

Glitter Squad

Glitter Squad

Sad Fox

Sad Fox

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