In true GCS fashion, I had to host an intimate farewell dinner at Craig’s before my drive to ATL. And I needed a date. The purple camouflage trucker hat had been purchased at Kitson on Robertson. Hell, I even drove all the way to Studio City to get a top from Wasteland, passing by the National Guard holding stance in Brentwood. Let’s just say my outfit was unstoppable.

S was busy with his new café that opens soon. Get to Meymuni Café STAT before it’s too crowded from news spreading like wildfire.

At the command of my editor, KPE, I left my journal at home and ushered myself to the Abbey. Shocker—the second I sat at the bar, both phones lit up like the Rockefeller Christmas tree.

After what felt like 1,000 phone calls and texts, I was ready to have some fun, but it was empty. A few days prior, I’d received a call from a producer friend who suddenly lost funding for his film set to shoot in September. The down payment is needed four months prior. When I FaceTimed BW, his breathtaking, cyanizing eyes masked alarming distress. My crab-caretaker energy jumped immediately to connect him with folks in my Rolodex. Pure instinct.

I later asked BW why he thought to ask me, and he simply remarked, “I just had a feeling.”

Securing $1.6 million for a film in three months is quite challenging. What thought didn’t even occur to me in that moment: G could monetize himself as a connector. All that had been on my mind was easing BW’s anxiety and ensuring his project made it to completion. Maybe I am the master of Goldenizing?

Weather reports of unhealthy air conditions made WeHo seem like a ghost town if the venue space was outdoors. But let’s face it, we all know that gays will show up at a bar for a drink if the possibility of a blowjob at the end of the night is on the table.

Succession planning with Mommy Dearest on the phone, I noticed a sexy man light up a cigarette. We want to buy the rights to NB, an old soap brand. If any of my fellow finance bros out there can get me in touch with whoever owns them, my mother would appreciate it.

“Hold on, Mom. Hey, can I buy a cigarette from you?”

“You don’t have to buy it, and I love that you are on the phone with your mother.”

AJC, the original man, stepped in and took the place of S.

Earlier in the day, I was at Great White catching up with an old coworker, and we bonded with an artist, a casting director, and a TV executive regarding the sexiness of a douchelord in a red Ferrari. AJC > that douchelord because he was kind. Gazing into his eyes are like sinking into orgasmic heaven.

Just like Marina Abramović, we get lost in eye contact. AJC whips out his iPhone to show me how stunning his mother is and how luscious his dad’s locks are. Genetic perfection out of Canada. Oh la la. Marriage, five children, monogamy—covered. I’m wanting to invite my future husband to dinner, but like, is it soon?

Also, my inner circle can attest to this: I’ve had infinity future husbands. They’re so sick of hearing about the cast of the week.

I rarely meet a man as direct as me. AJC invited himself to dinner.

“Hold that thought,” G.

Pick up iPhone, call wifey: “Is there a spot open at my dinner?”

“Yes, bring him!”

Fuck, I don’t have a card for him, and each attendee was to receive a handwritten note from moi that would be read aloud to the table. I wanted to savor that moment because fame is coming, and it’s coming fast. No more outdoor plans without security and an exit strategy.

Cocktails flowed, wedge salad chopped, chicken parmesan split into two plates. The night was like a fucking movie—aka perfect!

Oh no, the tears started flowing as my friends read their Crane stationery notes aloud. I’m a crab, and we blubber every time we’re at CVS picking out a greeting card for a family member.

As the “tears fell in synchronicity with the score,” he grabbed my hand to comfort me. I felt like TS as she jotted down the last track on TPD.

A few characters were missing because of finances, breathing issues from the air quality, or a flight to Montana to close a chapter on a past love affair with a man with a brain tumor. Getting my circle in one city on the same night free is harder than herding cattle before Temple Grandin’s design.

Wifey drove AJC and me to his car and jetted off to her flight to Honduras—perks of falling in love with a scuba instructor in the Cayman Islands. As AJC lingered, my energy felt that he wanted to go dance. But I needed to finish crying in private. I held back the tears and let him kiss me. Dermot Kennedy played in my ears as his tongue gently danced with mine.

He had tried to kiss me at Craig’s, but us Georgia boys are taught discretion, especially as homosexuals. Yes, I did read The Velvet Rage, and yes, I’m phase three. But Trump still has to do more work internationally to ensure safety for us fags. When you’ve had rocks thrown at you in Jerusalem, you kinda learn to lay low—not to mention the heroin addict in Larchmont who tried to spit in my face as he exclaimed, “You’re going to die of AIDS.”

“You’re the best kisser.”

“Thanks, I know.”

I still cried to The Moment I Knew on the way home because of S’s lack of attendance. But then I remembered—in that moment I had AJC. A Capricorn to balance my Cancer.

An hour before KPE sent me to the Abbey, my only source of income at the moment terminated our consulting contract. Wifey said to follow my passions, and the money will come.

The morning after Craig’s, I packed all my valuables in Asher (my 4Runner), pulled a JD, and said, “Goodbye to all that.”