Everyone hates it when the alien shows up at the club. Everyone hates it when the ten-foot-tall bright-green-and-yellow alien (the one with all the tentacles (the one that smells like ass (the one who’s covered in glitter))) shows up at the club (and on Drag Race Night, no less). At least, we certainly do.

For, when the ten-foot-tall, bright-green-and-yellow tentacles, covered-in-glitter-and-smells-like-ass alien busts up into the club and immediately heads over to the counter of the bar to order a Long Island Iced Tea (god, is he just drinking to get drunk (if you’re going to order something that sucks just order a rum and coke (it’s called a Cuba Libre (shut up, you’re so pretentious (is it even a he? (well, honey, this isn’t a lesbian bar (that doesn’t necessarily mean anything))))))), we, the collective hivemind of the club’s patrons, groan and think, Gawd, not this guy. Not again. And on Drag Race Night, no less.

You don’t know, though. You think he’s probably just a little misunderstood (oh my god, what? For real? (gurl… (oh, please, everyone knows Peter just dumped him, it’s plain as day that he’s rebounding))).

So, you saunter up to the counter of the bar and you ask Donny for a cosmo (oh honey, you may only be twenty-three but gay death is here, mama (that’s such an old lady drink (please, Nathan, Sex and the City was only like twenty years ago (girl, are you even old enough to have seen Sex and the City (I caught it on Hulu))))), and you look over at the ten-foot-tall, bright-green-and-yellow tentacles, covered-in-glitter-and-smells-like-ass, wearing-a-Renaissace-by-Beyoncé-crop-top-that-has-glitter-on-it-too alien, and you say, “Hey.”

(Yuck (yuck (yuck (yuck (yuck))))).

He lifts a tentacle and waves. He says his name is Ralph. He says he’s a CPA. He says he works in NoDa or LoSo or WeHo or SoHo or WiFi or something like that (girl, how can you even tell when he speaks with his tentacles?). And that just won’t do. It won’t do at all.

We recoil in disgust and begin our assault, breaking our legions against your tepid shore.

We send in Alex the Twink (who slept with my husband, by the way (shut up, Nathan, so has everyone)) who swirls his gin and tonic at you and intimates that sometimes he tops, but you just turn to Ralph and ask which one of the queens he’s rooting for tonight and he just shrugs and offers you something that might be a crooked smile, if a complex orientation of tentacles (is that pus leaking out of the suckers? (well, yes, why did you think he smells like that? (Girl, in this town I assumed he just didn’t bathe))) could be a smile.

We send in Charles the Hunk, who looks like Tom of Finland had discovered bara art and whose chest hairs peek tantalizingly out of his leather vest, and he leans against the bar and asks, “What’s up, babydoll?”

But Ralph asks what you do and you ignore Charles and tell him that you find creative digital solutions for marginalized creators working in short-form video. And also, that you’re a barista at a coffee shop in your neighborhood, which is just called “College Park” (is this DC? I thought we were in New York (I thought it was Charlotte? (ladies, this is definitely California, come on (technically, College Park is in Maryland)))).

Oh, and your name is Benny, by the way.

Then, Ralph asks you if you like dancing, or at least, you’re pretty sure that’s what the tentacles are signifying when they wrap around your waist and hoist you into the air, pustulent suckers leaving bright purple hickies on your neck and arms and legs and you’re pretty sure one creeped into your shorts to cup your right ass cheek (and you’re just going to let him feel you up like that? (oh my god, I think Benny’s… into it? (smdh this is what happens when we wear our Andrew Christian out to the club!))).

And you laugh and you look down into Ralph’s single, glittering eye, black as midnight and tell him you have two left feet and your friends don’t let you dance after you’ve had a few because you’ll just turn into a messy bitch and need to be dragged home (in our defense, that’s true). And Ralph probably looks back at you and tells you that it’s going to be okay, he’ll do all the dancing, you just need to focus on being the most beautiful man in the room. Just pay attention to him. Only to him.

Ugh.

You giggle. You probably think Ralph isn’t so bad. (Oh my god is that a slime trail?) Ralph just wants love. (Holy fuck, he just tossed Alex the Twink against the wall and Alex isn’t getting up, Alex, can you hear me, say anything, speak to me.) Ralph just wants to dance. (I don’t know about y’all but I’m getting the fuck out of here before anyone else dies.) Ralph just wants everyone to know that just because he’s ten feet tall and bright green and yellow and his tentacles are leaking pus that smells like ass and he has one huge unseeing black eye set into the middle of his forehead, glittering under the disco ball, and he’s currently causing general mayhem and destruction in the club (and on Drag! Race! Night! No! Less!), it doesn’t mean he’s a monster.

(Yes, hello, 9-1-1, yes, I’ll hold.)

“So, you think I’m beautiful?” you ask, your face turning a deep shade of pink.

You don’t know for sure what that motion with his tentacles means, but you assume it’s a yes.

* * *

Ⓒ Elijah J. Mears