Pulling A Ray
Pulling a ray:
Definition 1: not holding back telling somebody off who irritates you or getting back at them in a way most people wouldn’t
Definition 2: iconoclastic; going against the grain
Definition 3: over the top
I’ve gotten a reputation of sorts lately among buddies, friends, and even my “girl friend” neighbor about my sometime outrageous behavior. Hey, l’ m retired, financially comfortable and independent, and don’t have to take shit from anybody anymore and l don’t. Being an ex-New Yorker l think also has a lot to do with it.
Like the time a trick who grossly misrepresented himself – let’s put it this way, if he had an athletic body like he claimed l was 6’4 – who l was just about to politely throw out when he said those fatalistic words, “ you sure you don’t get fuked?”
Listen, it says l’m a top in my profiles, if l was versatile l’d say so wouldn’t l, since that makes you more marketable, but l’m not and when some dumbass says that and you tell him no, he just keeps sniffing at your asshole, so after explaining all that to him l then told him to “Get the fuck out!” which he did in four and a half minutes, two of which he spent putting on his sneakers. I guess his mother never taught him how to tie his shoes
Or the time l was sitting in my car – unlocked – in a lonely bar parking lot stupidly checking who “loved” me on my phone when out of the blue a black guy opens the passenger door and proceeds to enter my car. Instead of screaming like a little girl about ready to lose her virginity, l just looked at him with my tough boy New York killer stare and yelled, Get the fuck out!”
He did. (Yes, I know he could have had a weapon or four buddies waiting outside but there was no time to think sensibly.)
Or the time l was walking over to Hunters, our dance club, wearing a pair of my short shorts from The Athletic Man, a clothing store here in Lauderdale near the Ramrod that specializes in clothes for shorter guys like me. I could hear some queen a few yards behind me whisper to his loser buddies, “l wouldn’t wear shorts that short out in public.” I waited till the shithead caught up with me, then with a smile on my twisted face l whispered back to the queen, “You think these are short, you should see the ones l wear to the supermarket.” Fucker. Then l added, “Thanks for paying for my Social Security, buddy.”
Or the time I complained to the real estate board about some slick real estate con artist who had wasted my money, letting me go through with an inspection on a property that he knew wasn’t available. As soon as he heard l filed a complaint, he sent a $475 check in the mail. Most people who had this happen to them would have yelled a lot and beat their dog but done nothing else, but not me.
l pulled a Ray.
So when a buddy of mine, normally the overly polite, overly patient type, got extremely irritated with an obnoxious house guest (remember, we live in Lauderdale where the average hotel room costs two hundred bucks a night), and finally told him to pack up and leave, he reported to me proudly, “I pulled a Ray on him.”
“Just one thing,” l added, “You didn’t tell him, ‘Now get the fuck out.’ “
Or when my neighbor, a highly competent paralegal, got fed up with the super chauvinistic behavior of her boss against not just her but all the other women in this small family owned firm, she didn’t say, “fuck you,” when he fired her, no she went to the Human Rights Division of the Labor Department and filed a harassment complaint.
I’ve always been the iconoclastic type, you know, going against the grain, so when all my leather cohorts are wearing jeans and a harness on a Saturday night, l walk into the Ramrod in a singlet.
And now that l am retired with no job to wake up for, l can have two of my luscious fuck buddy/lovers over on back to back overnight sexcapdes. After all l can rest up afterwards. Just like a clinical nurse buddy of mine who flies around the country monitoring drug studies for the pharmaceutical companies did a Ray when he was finished with work in Omaha and decided to stay an extra day and night where he enjoyed a well-deserved, hot four way orgy.
“I pulled a Ray,” he texted to me the next day. I could almost see the snicker on his face. “It was fun!”
Lucky fuck. And selfish. He could have, at least, cammed me in.
Like my 59 year old gay financial planner often says to me, “I want to be like you when I grow up.”
Hey, l always tell my friends and neighbor if l pull a Ray and it backfires, chances are they’ll get a call about me from one of three places: a hospital, a police station, or the morgue.
But at least I did what I wanted to do, right?