I'm at a small party composed of mostly gay men. There's a doctor, someone pretty respected in his field (something that has to do with the eyes), a former teacher (he used to teach elementary and middle school but gave up on them because teaching little shits took a toll on him and quite honestly I don't blame him), a guy who makes boats, and the masculine equivalent of a housewife who never seems to know what's going on.

The man who put the event together, James, has Guillain-Barré syndrome, an incurable condition that turns your immune system against you. He's battled through the worst of it, defeating paralysis and regaining his ability to walk, but still gets incredibly fatigued when he's on his feet for too long. He's an outspoken advocate of gay rights and will be speaking at an over forty men's club next week and has decided to practice his speech in front of us all.

It's mostly lame gay jokes, but everyone in the room laughs so hard their entire bodies shake whenever he delivers a punchline. Maybe the jokes aren't so lame. Maybe I just lack a funny bone. Comedy is subjective after all, and admittedly I've never been much of a fan. Like horror, there's so much shitty comedy that I'm usually not very interested in the genre. But to give you a taste of what I'm experiencing, here's a few jokes that he's let slip from his lips.

"What's the difference between a boyfriend and your job?"

Cue someone saying, "I don't know!"

"After two years, your job still sucks!"

Ha ha ha.

Hee hee hee.

"Why do so many gay men hire attorneys?"

"I don't have a clue!"

"They love to get screwed!"

Ha ha ha.

Hee hee hee.

And so forth.

Now two guests are singing "From a Jack to a King" and their voices aren't too bad. Everyone seems to enjoy their harmony, but I don't give a shit. I wonder when I became such a Debbie fucking Downer. When I stopped caring about keeping up appearances and smiling and laughing just because everyone else is. James' husband gave a piano exhibition minutes before the duet. He wasn't very good and after his last note died it was revealed he was self-taught and rarely practiced so that made sense. Yet still everyone applauded and made a point to tell him how good he played, how impressive his skills were. Fucking bullshit.

In general, the party's just a bunch of pretentious nonsense. A few women showed up: cousins of James and two overweight fag hags. They're nice enough but they're laying things on thicker than most of the men.

James hasn't hesitated to ask me to pour drinks and snacks and I've even made four frozen pizzas and washed dishes. I'm supposed to be a guest. I'm also his housekeeper once a week, that's why he invited me, but he was insistent that the party wouldn't be work. It doesn't help that I'm the only darkie here and even though I know James isn't like that it still makes me furious inside. But I don't show it. It wouldn't be right. He's not being considerate at all but even still I do my best to keep a smile on my face and remain as cordial as can be to everyone in the condo. It's his home, not mine.

But he could've ordered pizzas from a major chain. He could've had the champagne already poured and snacks ready in their bowls. He could've bought other dishes that didn't need anyone to prepare them. But he didn't. He's perfectly okay with treating me like the hired help even though I'm off the clock. He's perfectly okay with thinking about no one but himself.

I wish there was a pool table here. I want so badly to ignore everyone around me and forget they exist while lining up for a slight cut or exhilarating long shot. I wanna practice some banks. I wanna scream "cross side" while whacking away at the rock and watch, wide-eyed, as it teases me with a route to my desired pocket.

I don't wanna be around any of these people.

I just wanna lose myself in a game of pool.