J.Spew

So last weekend a couple of queers and I moseyed on down to Charlottesville to attend a horse race. Normally, when I watch horses galloping around, it’s at Charlestown; where a stiff scotch and a carefully placed bet on a dead sir in the third spread can buy you a butterfly-shrimp plate bigger than your head.

Anyway, we were told this festival had a dress code. When I heard this I immediately knew what I was going to wear; my fantastic madras pants, which I only wear once a year. As soon as I put them on they made me feel like a girl of 16 again, which indecently, was how old I was when I bought them. It really brought a smile to my face to know that my binge drinking over the past decade, which has probably destroyed my liver, hasn’t altered my killer figure at all. (Seriously, any woman would kill for my physique.)

Clad in my fetching pants and polo shirt -- my friends in similarly styled outfits -- we stormed the turf of Foxfields looking like we just stepped out of a catalogue. We were not the only ones. Apparently, everyone consulted the same stylist we did. All 3,000 people work kaki pants and polo or linen shirts. It looked like J. Crew threw up all over a small plot of land in Charlottesville. I’m sure astronauts from space looked down at us and asked, “Why does Virginia have a pastel-colored mole?”

To coax us into going to the races my friend told me it would be an entire day of beer and beautiful boys. (He had me at beer.) Sadly, though, the latter was not true. Of all the thousands of young college boys there, only a handful of them were hot. And I’m using the definition of hot after one has had dozens of beer.

We all agreed the hottest boy was our newly-made friend Patrick. An oddly attractive boy with thick eyebrows and a Jersey accent, he was strong yet possessed a sense of warmth. He was definitely not boyfriend material. He was the kind of boy who would break your heart, but not before he broke your back.