Steve and the Seven Twinks...

During the summer I had the chance to get re-acquainted with some guys that I met at university.

They are a true band of twinks, minus the derogatory stereotypes of dim-witted, 'fashion' obsessed fuckwits. It struck me as a little hilarious how now they all have degrees and have moved forward in life, they have stayed very much the same.

I somewhat crashed one of their birthday party's (24 I think...) at the host's apartment, the pre-gathering before heading out to the clubs. Any time I'm at one of these things, I feel like an outsider (because I am) both literally and figuratively.

The typical twink uniform hadn't changed much, with their enviously-thin bodies fitted glove-tight into skinny jeans and tank tops. They've all aged pretty well, with none of them looking burnt-out now that the flame of their late-teens has passed. In fact, a couple of them are looking a little more distinguished now that they've grown into their features.

Shockingly, there was a ton of food at this shindig. Granted, some of it was veg platters, but for every healthy item there was twice the amount in flaky pastries and fatty foods. How do they do it? I mean, honestly, they're all rail thin but they ate. I guess their metabolisms are still in teen mode.

We all swapped stories, and as usual these days, it seemed like everyone was doing something worthwhile/interesting/professional except myself. These guys are genuinely nice, so there was no one-upmanship going on; they all appear to be genuinely doing well for themselves, which is nice.

At some point I excused myself to use the washroom. Normally, this wouldn't be a noteworthy experience, but true to my luck and timing I managed to turn it into a bit of an affair.

I pushed on the soap dispenser, palm open to catch whatever came out. I guess I pushed a little hard, or at the wrong angle, because the next thing I saw was a huge jet of liquid soap rocketing out of the dispenser, completely missing my hand and landing perfectly to the left of the crotch of my jeans.

"Fuck," I muttered. "Seriously?" I'm not a klutzy person, but I seem to be prone to having less-than-graceful moments that are totally out of my control. There I stood, jeans soaked with a perfect line of liquid, practically as if I'd pissed my pants. I slapped a palm to my head, grabbed the towel and feverishly rubbed my crotch, hoping to soak up some of the liquid so I looked less like an idiot.

I did the best I could, but the wet stain refused to budge. Thank you God for my sense of suave and timing.

Darting out of the bathroom, I ran for the nearest chair, grabbed a cup and napkin, crossed my legs and covered my crotch. I don't really think anybody noticed, but I wasn't standing up any time soon.

As the first part of the evening drew to a close and the merry band of twinks marched in procession to the elevator, my friend and I said our goodbyes. Now that everyone had had a few (other than me) the hugs were a little tighter and the smiles a little glowy-er. And so, I watched them walk off into the night, like a zoologist observing a rarely-seen species in it's natural habitat. Some were on the hunt, some were along for the ride.

And I was on my way home.