Pacific Northwest

Portland is ideal for a sweater appreciative crowd. Raindrops, grey skies, hills with mighty pine trees, coffee shops and crisp winds, make sweater shopping a treat

At the shrine to vintage fashion, the Buffalo Exchange, I met my match. In a sea of skinny jeans, flannel shirts, and denim jackets, I found my dream sweater. While trying to hold back my lust, I stared at the sweater.

It was black wool, with an interesting edgy thread design. More importantly, it fit my frugal budget. “Oh, this sweater is so edgy, and would go wonderful with a button-up shirt and tie,” said I.

Hours later, I prepared for a night on the town. While coordinating outfits, the fashion gods played a cruel trick on me. “Shit, I left all my ties at home, now my outfit scheme has been ruined,” said I.

This folks is another edition of first world problems, brought to you by the glorious first world. Rather than crying, I went out to dinner and didn’t shed a tear over my missing ties.

Portland has always been famous for it’s love of bacon and coffee. Naturally, I had bacon and coffee for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Afterwards, I took an enchanting walk alongside Portlandia’s quiet, but charming pavements.

“Whisky, whisky, whisky,” said my thirsty brain. The flashing lights of a gay bar welcomed me. Only, I was intimidated by the thought of drinking alone at a gay bar. Persistently, my brain kept singing the “ I want whisky song.”

With thirst ravishing my soul, I said, “fuck you” to intimidation and bolted toward Embers, a downtown gay bar. It was a quiet night. Drag queens wandered around, ready for (as expected) a drag revue. Others sat with friends and enjoyed a beer.

Ordering a whisky on the rocks, I quenched my thirsty soul. Glancing over, I noticed an adorable blond guy, sitting opposite me. He wore a tie and shirt. I was charmed by his appearance. Impure thoughts raced through my head. “Gee, I bet he has a great tie collection.”

Avoiding intimidation, I took a seat next to him. Introducing myself, I was expecting him not to respond, positively. Then our eyes locked. “Shit, he’s cute, uh-oh, somebody cue the simply cheesy pop tunes.” Repeatedly, “Honey,” by Mariah Carey capitalized on the romantic moment.

“I want to take you on a surprise adventure,” he said. I shook my head in agreement and off we went into the chilly, Portland night. Unexpectedly, I was struck in the head. It was okay, since it was Cupid striking my head with an arrow.

With bravery in my heart, I kissed him. We locked eyes. It was magic. His surprise adventure, you ask? It was a trip to the video game arcade, which had a long cue. Instead, we went out for pizza and more boozy adult beverages.

There was a mystery, which dumbfounded me about him. “Shit, I don’t know what his name is?” As we spoke in detail about our lives and struggles, I kept trying to brainstorm cleaver ways to find out his name.

As the night wrapped up, I handed him my phone. “Here, put your info on here,” said I. It worked and I never forgot his name again. Even after kissing him goodbye at the bus stop, we kept in touch.

A few days later, he spoke to me with seductive words. “I hope you like pork, I am going to make you bacon mac n’ cheese and ribs,” he said. Unlike myself, he loved to cook. Hence, I was invited over for a home cooked dinner.

After the lavish feast, we relaxed on the couch and watched Troop Beverly Hills. On a very chilly December evening, I was charmed by a fellow, who I was falling for and he could cook.

In the grand scheme of gay dating, bacon, sweaters and a fancy tie are the way to a man’s heart. Cheers to Portland for all the bacon, I’ve consumed and the lovely fellow, I have met.

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