The daily serial fictional based on Chicago's Boystown neighborhood: Boystown series by Danny Bernardo

Follow us    Twitter Twitter

3. Tristan’s Motherfuckin’ Day

Today was gonna be Tristan's day and he didn't give a fuck who knew it. He was looking too cute and feeling too fierce to worry about the haters. "Them bitches ain't gonna stop me," he said to his freshly lip-glossed reflection. "They can try!" And upon assembling the perfect ensemble of complementa

3. Tristan’s Motherfuckin’ Day
Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Digg Gmail Addthis Printer Friendly
Today was gonna be Tristan's day and he didn't give a fuck who knew it. He was looking too cute and feeling too fierce to worry about the haters. "Them bitches ain't gonna stop me," he said to his freshly lip-glossed reflection. "They can try!" And upon assembling the perfect ensemble of complementary pastel v-neck and jorts, he was out the door and ready for brunch hopping.

Donning his red wayfarers, Lady Gaga blasting in his earbuds, he stretched out his arms wide, twirled as if embracing the morning, and declared, "That's right world! It's my motherfuckin' day!" The grandness of this "the hills are alive" Mary Tyler Moore moment was halted by his left flip flop anchored to the sidewalk by gum baking in the morning sun.

If it had been any other day, Tristan would've lost his shit on both the inanimate gum and its long-gone former chewer. Imaginary rings and earrings would've been removed, non-existent wigs would've been straightened; it would've been a spectacle to be sure. But this was no time to be ignorant. He took a breath, counted on each bead of his Buddha bracelet as he chanted the old meditation learnt from his patron saint Madonna (circa 2000): "Kabbalah, kabbalah, kabbalah" and hobbled down Halsted.

The first stop was Nookie's where Braden, Jaison and Efrain were saving a table on the patio. He'd have to make a stop at Minibar to say hey to the A-Gays, but these were his Bitches: they came first. "Hey ladies!" he waved as he crossed the street at Buckingham.

"Heeeyyyy!" came the union response from Tristan's Bitches, as air kisses and arm's length hugs were exchanged. The hot Eastern European waiter brought a second carafe of mimosas as Tristan sat down and the dishing started.

"Girl, you should've seen this bitch after you left HO-drate last night!" Jaison cackled, mussing Efrain's perfectly coifed mane. "Bitch was on fire!"

"Trick, please, " scoffed Efrain, pushing Jaison off of him. "We are not talkin' ‘bout yo' flamin' ass!"

"Ladies! Decorum, please!" Braden scolded, pouring himself another mimosa. His eyes coolly shifted towards Tristan. "And I see someone is much perkier than usual this morning."

"Oooh! Bitch got him a good dickin!" Jaison went for the high five, but Tristan demurred behind his wayfarers.

"And where did we meet our new gentleman friend?" Braden prodded.

"She can't even remember trick's name," Efrain cackled with Jaison joining right in. Tristan should've known better: his Bitches could read him like an issue of Us Weekly. But it was still his day and even if they were right about this brief (albeit highly enjoyable) indiscretion, he had to regain control.

"Speaking of tricks," he deflected, shifting focus to the slightly disheveled preppy boy obviously doing The Walk of Shame right past them. Jaison clutched "the pearls" and then clutched Tristan's shoulder.

"Tristan, ain't that your boo?"

"My who?"

"That cute nerdy guy that's always following you."

"The Doctor?"

"No. The teacher."

"Charlie?!" The Bitches took a collective inhale of breath and lowered their shades to half-mast. Sure enough, it was Charlie, trying as hard as he could to avoid eye contact with all onlookers. Tristan checked his phone quickly as this was out of character for Charlie. A coy make out on the dance floor, sure, but random hook-ups were few and far between. Scrolling through texts, there was one from Charlie that remained unanswered: "HWSNBN! Help!"

"Oh fuck!" thought Tristan. Had he seen...?

"The nerdy ones will always surprise you," tutted Braden.

"He's not that nerdy," defended Tristan. "He's just smart. Usually."

"Well from the way he's walking, looks like he's still drunk."

"And took as good a dickin' as you, boo-boo," added Jaison.

"Ok'rrr?!" added Efrain.

Tristan rolled his eyes. "You guys..."

"You know Tristan," said Braden, pushing his Dolce & Gabana shades back to their proper place. "I cannot help but notice that while your friend there hurriedly makes The Walk in disarray, you're as fresh as a daisy. How did we manage that at such an early hour on a Sunday?"

"That's right!" Efrain said. "No way this Bitch woke up early to run home and shower!"

"Oooh, you had that trick over to your place!" Jaison almost sounded scandalized.

"You graciously excused yourself and walked him out to have brunch with us?" Braden was touched.

"Yeah. I..." Wait. Oh shit.

"What?!" demanded the Bitches.

"I...think...I think I forgot about him. And just...left."

The Bitches cackled at his folly for a good five minutes before Braden had the good sense to ask, "Wait. Where did you say you met him?"

Fuck. "...Grindr..." came the sheepish reply. The Bitches quickly threw cash down on the table and scampered up Halsted to Tristan's apartment.

His front door standing wide open did not bode well for the situation. They all slowly entered, armed with sandals and murses as makeshift weapons. As the Bitches assessed the rest of the apartment, Tristan at once noticed his sixty-inch flat screen and Blu-ray player were missing. At least his collection of Sex & The City DVDs was still there. But with his MacBook also missing, he'd have nothing to watch them on. He cursed himself for never getting renter's insurance. And as the Bitches ran to market to obtain booze (for medicinal purposes) Tristan couldn't help but feel a lot salty. This was his motherfuckin' day. He wasn't going to let some one-night trick ruin it. He picked up his Louis Vuitton encased iPhone and made a call.

"Hello?" came the raspy voice on the other end.

"Hi, Daddy," Tristan chirped, his voiced instantly pouty and up-inflecting.

"Well, well. Hello Son,"

" Daddy, I was robbed!"

"Oh no! What'd they take?"


"Don't worry, Son. I'll wire some money into your account. And some extra...just because."

"Thanks Daddy!" he was ready to hang up when Daddy went on.

"We can talk about it over dinner. Tonight."

"Oh, Daddy, I've already promised my friends that..."

"You can make time. To say thank you."

Sigh. Fine, whatever. "Yes, Daddy," came the actual reply.

"Oh and Tristan? Where that low-cut tank top and short-shorts I love so." Click.

This morning was the epitome of #FML. But the Bitches were back with medicine. There were hours before dinner and so it was still Tristan's motherfuckin' day. Who knows what could happen this afternoon?


So what do think? Be the first to comment!

As a part of our commitment to upholding a high standard of transparency, we wanted to let you know that uses cookies to improve your user experience. We've updated our cookie policy to reflect changes in website tracking laws. By continuing, you agree to our terms and provide your consent to our use of cookies.