What? No party favor?

Marc's party was better and worse than I thought it could be. I've had my weekend's worth of paradoxes!

I was a bit nervous to attend a party where I knew no one except the host. The minute I walked in, however, I was greeted by an array of single, gay men from their mid-20s to mid-30s. It was really nice. We shmoozed, and I even had a few moments with a few a men.

Marc poured my drinks all night. Three hours and four phone numbers later, I was toasted. I assumed that, since I got more of his attention than anyone else that night AND because he knew how much liquor I had consumed, it was only natural that I would stay the night. Besides, he had had me stay once before; why not now? At the very least, Marc had an extra bedroom, even if I didn't quite make it to the other side of his bed.

What's not hard to believe is that, once again, I assumed falsely that I was the only guy that Marc had been fucking. At the very end of the night, this man-child shows up to the party, probably younger than me, definitely hotter. In an unsurprising move, Marc's interest immediately shifted from me to the fetus. It was clear that Marc wanted me to check out so that he could check in ... right to that embryo's ass.

Luckily, I was able to call, in all of my shame, one of the newly acquired numbers from one of the flirtatious guys I had met that night. I got a ride home, but my car was still at Marc's place in the morning. I had so much shit to do the next morning; all of it I did with a massively bitter hangover.

When Marc struck out the first time, I should have known better than to take any more of his calls. The moral: When shit is looking down, I often wonder if things can get worse. I should really stop wondering.