There is a Tranny hooker out there that might kick my butt over this one, or she might love it. Depends on your point of view.
I am sipping my cup of daily drug at the Starbucks near LAX when a man flounces in.
I kid you not, flounces.
First of all, flouncing in Doc Martin boots is a tough thing to pull off. Add to that a leather jacket that has several hundred little buttons on it and pants that are embarrassingly too god damn tight and you almost have it all.
But then theres the hair.
A bright-pink, fluffy mohawk.
Taking the entire thing in is almost overwhelming to the mind.
He gets in the four person line and begins doing something that looks suspiciously like vogueing.
Are you kidding me?
I go get in line, I might need a cookie, but basically, I just gotta see this.
The question of whether this guy is gay is not even a question.
“Don’t ask don’t tell” has has been replaced with “Shout it from the rooftops, ladies!”
I begin to worry that he will set off the sprinklers.
Its not PC, I get that. But this guy is so over the top, the only thing missing is a full length mink and a peacock on a leash.
I could be wrong , but I think he has begun an abbreviated electric slide.
This is a show all to itself.
I am thrilled, and yet begin to panic as to how to how the hell I can do this justice in print.
And now it is his turn to order.
He orders fairly quickly and moves over.
There are few things in life that are more uncomfortably interesting than watching a really odd individual who is convinced that he is the shit.
And then he begins to hit on the barrista.
The barrista is a lanky young guy with glasses and questionable skin. This is not a kid that is living the player lifestyle.
Mohawk has posted up near the pickup window, and is taking the name literally. He is leaning almost his whole torso into the barrista’s station.
“You have very sensual hands, do you paint?”
THAT is his pickup line.
I begin choking in line, I seriously don’t want to spoke this guy, or god forbid focus his attentions on me.
I can hit homophobic at times, but I am comforted by having been told once by a gay coworker that I am definitely not what a gay nation is looking for. (Which, by the way, is only insulting if you are gay.)
Mohawk is launching into his description of his acting career.
This is getting so badly uncomfortable its damned near perfect.
The barrista has gone totally silent, turned bright red and is seriously falling behind in his coffee beverage creation.
And it is not phasing Mohawk one little bit.
“There is a party at a friends house tonight, if your looking for something to do later…” He leaves that one dangling.
I begin to envision a horrifying tale of roofies and forced sodomy that, from the barrista’s point of view, is pretty chilling even as a concept.
Somehow, someway, the barrista finishes Mohawk’s latte and hands it across with shaky hands and a subvocal mutter that sounds like “No” but I can’t be sure.
Mohawk shifts gears and takes his latte and heads to the door throwing a “TTFN” over his shoulder.
The motherfucker skips out of Starbucks.
He was incredible.
And I will never forget him.