Last night, a bunch of my (str8) friends and I went out to Georgetown and hit up Modern to party the night away. A childhood friend of mine – who I’ll call TO – is here visiting for the week, and with him being the requisite party animal, we’ve been trying to keep up with him.

I’m starting to feel really sorry for some of my buddies. Take my boy JK, instance. Ever since TO flew in on Saturday, he’s been going non-stop. Went out Saturday. And Sunday. And Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. Getting home between the hours of 1-3 AM during the work week does NOT sound like my idea of a fun time. Luckily, I’ve been able to wiggle my way out of most of their nocturnal activities...until last night.

So we get to the place around 11:30 and get a table. Place is bumpin'. Two tall carafes of orange and cranberry juice, plus a huge bottle of Grey Goose, and everyone is good to go. They’re playing that funky house-type stuff on the turntables. Not my favorite, but it’s better than all of that tired wailing-diva music. We all toast with TO, smiles aplenty, and take dozens of dorkified pics.

Now I know Modern is considered a str8 joint, but I notice the place is full of metrosexuals, all wearing uber-hipster gear that fits in with the whole theme of the place. And what’s this? A random guy sauntering over and chatting me up for no reason?? Tall (6'2"-ish), mid-20's, cute in a non-mainstream sort of way, t-shirt with a sport coat, faded jeans. Hrmm. Nah, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. We exchange names. He says he’s visiting from Richmond, and feels like he’s in NYC. “This place is crazy!” he says. I tell him about my friend visiting, which is the reason why we’re there...with a reserved table, no less. He laughs knowingly, then gawks when I tell him how much we’re paying.

More casual banter ensues, but all of a sudden he’s all buddy-buddy with me and putting his arm around my shoulder during some Interracial Porn, talking VERY close to my ear. I play it off like it’s nothing, but I can feel my friends’ eyes on me. I steal a glance and most of them are smirking.

“Dude, you’re freakin’ paying that much for that table, lemme buy you a shot.” He grins.

I protest, but he insists. I shrug my shoulders at my buddies and start to walk towards the bar. “Yo, that guy is hitting on you!!” my wide-eyed friend Flicky says. “No he isn’t, you’re stupid,” I reply. Or is he?

We go to the bar and he gets me some shot I’ve never heard of before. But hey, it tasted pretty fruity and yummy. A gal pal of his drinks with us. “I told you it was good!” he yells.

“Holla ‘atcha boy! I’ll get at you next time I swing around your table,” he says, smiling at me all big. Then we do the whole requisite b-boy/half-handshake/half-hug.

I turn around to walk back to our table and TO is right there, with an amused look on his face. We get back and everyone says, “He was hitting on you huh?” I roll my eyes. “Did you get his number??” TO asks. I allow them to roll even further into the back of my head.

But in actuality, I think he was. Not because I think I’m hot stuff (NOT), but because of the sheer abundance of wandering eyes I caught. I won’t get into more boring details, but there were enough aimed at me to make me realize this place wasn’t just metro, it was crawling with gayness. I’m pretty sure some guy even tried to get jiggy wit me while I was on the dance floor (hey, they finally were playing some hip-hop, shut up). Hello! Uncomfortable! Gah.

Think my str8 friends suspect at all? Hah.

And yes, Richmond boy did come around again, but by then I was already weirded out and ran away once I saw him walking towards our table. “He was asking where you were,” Flicky later told SWeet Krissy with a snicker. Oh shut up. LOL.

Feh, I’m too old for this junk. I can’t be staying out that late on weeknights. That’s right, I’m a 29-year-old gramps and I’m proud of it!! *waves crotchety old cane*