While i was guaranteed eternal advice and happiness in my exclusive group of friends at our tri-weekly lunches and weekend clubbings, I simultaneously indulged myself in the pleasure of being surrounded by an erroneous kind of couple, the lesbians. Stefanie and Andy were the token lesbians in our group of friends. Token lesbians proved to be a great asset to our group for warding off unwanted straight guys looking for a way too easy lay. My friendship with Stef and Andy would give me my way in to all of the lesbian and gay bars in the city notorious for their ***** ***** martinis laced with desire and chilling excitement on pretty girls drink free everyday. Whenever i needed that "unique" night out on the beautiful New York town, Stef and Andy were right there to buy my first beer. Everyone has to have that one token gay couple, no matter man or woman. Some of us choose to flaunt our outrageous choice of friends all over the most elite restaurants and parties across Manhattan as a way to boost our inner self-esteem; while others specifically keep them around to ******* our conservative elders who refuse to give over our much deserving trust funds. Stef, Andy and i had been friends for nearly eight years. I met Stef on my first day of working at the Times, she was a fellow new employee fresh out of intern training hell. From day one, we stuck together like glue knowing that if we played our cards right and made friends with the archangels of New York literary heaven, eventually we'd see the light of God. We had thought the hazing of interning at this stress packed **** hole was horrifying but we had only experienced a slit of what true work was. The slaving over deadlines and editorial reviews had cut our souls in half and drained our eyes of tears. Stepping out of one of the most powerful buildings in New York, the fresh smell of cigarettes and brandy flowing through the opening and shutting doors of the nearest bar half a block away. Given the name and outer decor was a huge signal that this place was not somewhere i would usually find myself after work on a Friday night, the offer of "first round on me" boggled my thought process. Stef persuaded me to walk alongside her as we paraded our way through the busy rush hour traffic of guilty hubbies simply wishing to get home and bang the life out of their trophy wives in hopes that their women would forget the minor incident involving someone else's lingerie ending up in the ***** clothes on Wednesday morning. Boredom had overtaken me personally as well earlier that week when i overheard Stef confirm with someone named "Andy" that she'd be at "The Heel" as soon as she could leave this "constipated place of crap". Much to my surprise, my third eye skills lacked as I was under the impression that A) "Andy" was a boy, B) Stef was straight, and C) I would end up going home with one lucky bachelor tonight who made the wrong mistake of being able to order a ***** *** and coke on ice and dance like his *** drive depended on it. Fortunately, I was wrong on all of the above and while i was repeatedly hit on by pixie cut after pixie cut, i lost my gay bar virginity, gained my token lesbian couple, and went home tipsy as a homeless man on Fifth Avenue.
