Perpetual Indulgence Vs. Decadent Mercy

Sunday Afternoon:
"...Uh... no. It's Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence," I tell Lele for the 5th time, as I walk him down the stairs of my flat. He prefers to call them Sisters of Decadent Mercy. I suppose decadence and indulgence are related, which can cause the confusion. For example, indulging can be decadent. You can indulge in drinking, decadently. And some drinks can be decadent in themselves, like my drink of choice: champagne. Either way, last night we only indulged ourselves in our greatest pleasure: absurdity. (Well, we did drink, too, but not enough to have brought on any moral decline. It’s just that we don’t have any morals to begin with.)

Saturday Night:
Dressed in our evening attire, (Lele: Baby pink ruffled buttondown shirt, supporting a belly made up of rolled up towels, tucked into his jeans. A cowboy hat, sunglasses, pink polka-dotted tie, flung over the shoulder. Me: Tuxedo-style black miniskirt, white button-down, black vest, fedora, sunglasses. Bright red lady-bug slippers.) we pour ourselves some wine in coffee cups and step out, arm-in-arm, to go to dinner at my favorite neighborhood Vietnamese restaurant.

At the restaurant, while we wait for someone to acknowledge our presence at the door and seat us, Lele stares at the food on the table next to us, asking the diners:
Are those caterpillars?

Me:
Really, Darling, I can’t take you anywhere.

Lele:
Darling, I take you everywhere.

Once seated, Lele orders our food, and the waiter, looking at me, asks:
Anything else?

Me:
(Leaning over to Lele) I would like another napkin, darling.

Lele:
(To waiter) She would like another napkin, darling. I mean, please.

The waiter glances at me, nods, and leaves.

Me:
(Loudly) You lie. You told me you were taking me to a French restaurant. (I look around, glare at Lele.) And this is not French.

Lele:
But Darling, the French came, turned the Vietnamese into slaves and made them cook. So here we are. It’s practically French. (Points to the two Vietnamese guys sitting next to us) Don’t they look French to you? I mean, gay, but French.

The Vietnamese dudes give us a dirty look and get up to leave.

Me:
(Exhale angrily) I can’t take you anywhere.

Lele:
And I take you everywhere.

On the way out, the waiter comes over to shake Lele's hand, telling him he must be a celebrity and thanks him for coming.

Later, as we walk up to what is probably the most well-known and popular karaoke bar in San Francisco, The Mint, all eyes are on Lele, who has by now bagged the pink ruffled shirt, cowboy hat, and sunglasses. He is only wearing his gray tank and jeans, and sports "nobbly" goosebumps from the cold, but of course, being Lele, he is not about to put on his shirt. We are greeted at the door by one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence (www.thesisters.org). I give her a big hug and the next thing I know someone's cupping my boobs. I'm a little discombobulated for a few seconds, thinking, Gee, that's quite forward of Lele, but actually, it's the Sister. The gypsy dress I’m wearing (I had pulled a Bollywood, and changed my outfit mid-evening) apparently gets me attention from guys, even in the Castro. Though, on second thought, I'm not sure if a Sister counts as a guy. Anyways, at some point I lose Lele, who can't wait to get inside where all the action is.

Sister:
Is he gay?

Me:
Nope.

Sister:
Are you sure?

Me:
Yup.

Sister:
Is he bi?

Me:
Nope.

Sister:
Could you ask him to come back out and take off his shirt for us?

But it's cold and it's hard to get Lele to come back out, so I join him inside. We sit down, order our drinks, pick our song (Sweet Caroline), and Lele goes up to put in our request. Meanwhile, I take a sip of my Cab, scope out the scene, check out the two bartenders performing their own version of the dance from Night at the Roxbury to a very unmemorable song. I check to see if there are any other straight folks here besides us, but since I have no idea about these things anymore, I give up and swivel my barstool to face the stage and almost choke on my wine. There is Lele, tank top pulled up to his shoulders, smiling as the Sisters rub his six-pack abs.

An hour later, our song still hasn't come up and Lele excuses himself to go to the men's room. I decide I can't swallow any more of my wine and stay sober enough to actually read the lyrics on stage if and when our turn comes up. So I'm waiting, waiting , waiting... waiting… Where the fuck is he? I look up and... oh yes. Of course. There he is, donning the ruffles and cowboy hat and belly again. Of course.

On the dance floor, I'm busy trying to make sure my gypsy dress doesn't flash anyone. I'm only half-dancing, pulling and tugging at my top self-consciously (Note to self: This dress is not made for dancing. Or really anything besides standing in one place, looking pretty) and suddenly everyone’s laughing and I turn around to see that he's done it once again. Lele is standing there looking at me, grinning, his ruffled shirt untucked, the pregnant belly lying very dead and very fake on the dance floor in front of him. So I walk up to him and start undressing him, as it seems that’s what the crowd wants. After all, this night isn’t just all about us. Everything's swell, until the boys of the Castro go beyond the hoots and whistles, and start coming up to the dancefloor towards us. At this point, Lele and I glance at each other, scramble to pick up all his clothes, and make a run for it.

Sunday Afternoon:
Ready to part ways, Lele and I stand at the bottom of the stairs, recounting our crazy adventures. We laugh one last time, he gives me a hug and turns to take a step out onto the sidewalk, and suddenly, one foot hovering over the doorstep he grabs my hand saying:
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Where are my shoes?