Tales from the Dragon Club, Part Two: Do Misty For Me
My first few Saturdays Djing at the Dragon Club started slowly and uneventfully. I played plenty of industrial dance, heavily favoring “Twitch” and “Land of Rape and Honey”-era Ministry, Skinny Puppy, Thrill Kill Kult, Nitzer Ebb and the like. Sprinkled between those were some classics from the early ‘80s, including plenty of New Order, Smiths and Yaz. The Britpop Madchester scene was making some serious waves around this time, so dancers were treated to a healthy helping of the Stone Roses and Charlatans as well. Before we knew it, the crowds were getting larger and more money was being spent at the bar. Mama-san was very happy with her new DJ.
I also started meeting people the way I always did when I moved to a new town or found myself in a new situation – I took requests. You see, whenever I would find myself friendless in a new city, whether it was Cleveland, Indianapolis or even Tongduchon, Korea, I would try to score a DJ gig at the local bar because for some unexplained reason, everyone wants to be friends with the DJ. You meet plenty of people pretty quickly that way, and Korea was no exception. After a few scant weeks, I found myself surrounded by a group of medics, male and female, who frequented the Dragon and lived for the music and the booze. There wasn’t much else to do in the cold, snowy winter of Tongduchon in those pre-internet, satellite dish TV days.
Somehow, and trust me, I wish I could remember the details, I ended up getting close with a 21-year old PFC named Misty. She was from Denver and had the same sense of humor and musical taste as me, two very important traits one needs to hang with me for any significant amount of time. Now, it’s horrible that I don’t even remember how or why we ended up going out – maybe that’s why I make a bad boyfriend if you’re into anniversaries and things of that nature. I just don’t make it a point to recall past details. But hey, there we were and before either of us knew it, we were a couple.
Misty and I hung out with two other couples, Lisa and Thom and Kristin and Keller. Lisa was called “Edie Brickell” because of her uncanny resemblance to the then-hot earthy alternachick. I took to calling her “Darling Buds” because of her small, perky boobies and our mutual love of the group of the same name. Lisa was a sweetheart, never a bad thing to say about anyone, ready to listen and be a good friend to whomever needed her. Her boyfriend Thom, however, was a player. And a hot one at that.
I didn’t know Kristin and Keller as well, but they were pretty mellow and didn’t request stupid shit, so I liked them. But Keller was key because he introduced me to Matt, or as everyone called him (to his dismay), “Sonny Spoon.”
“Sonny Spoon” was an awful mid-eighties TV cop show that starred Mario Van Peebles, Jr. as a master of disguise. Matt had the good fortune to be a dead ringer for that smokin’ hot piece of ass. What can I say? We ran with a lot of celebrity look-alikes. Needless to say, Matt was very hot, very nice and for some strange reason, very single. Soon, I’d discover why.
Our group got larger and larger, and since I was lucky enough to live not in the barracks like everyone else, but at the station transmitter with my NCO and two other broadcasters in a house-like environment with my own kitchen, living room and bedroom, Misty and I became the center of the group. We would hold court at my place weekly, hosting anywhere from five to twelve friends for some pre-Dragon Club drinking and partying before we would head out, en masse, to the Dragon Club for even more drinking and partying. It was as good as it got in Korea.
About one month into our relationship, Misty and I got fairly drunk together as I was spinning one Saturday night. As the night progressed, we got cozier and cozier, kissing and groping between Cure and New Order songs. Eventually, 2 a.m. rolled around, the MPs kicked everyone out of the club, and our crew was walking back to base. When we hit my place, the group said their normal goodbyes. That is, except for Misty. Misty wanted to come inside with me. Cue much “ooooooh”-ing and “go for it, dude”-ing from the group. Drunk, I thought, “What the hell. Come on in.” I had nothing to lose.
Except for my virginity. Yup, I was a 21-year old virgin.
Now, the reason for this is fairly simple. I knew I was gay, but was always too terrified to pursue anything sexual. In my teens, it was a combination of Southern Baptist dogma and fear of being gay in a small town that held me back. In the Army, it was simply forbidden. Being gay got you kicked out, ASAP, and that meant no college money, no G.I. Bill and a waste of four years of your life. So, I just kept it in my pants.
Except for this night.
I may have been a sexual neophyte, but you’d never have known with my smooth moves. I played the experienced lover, culling all my knowledge of female sexuality gleaned from reading dirty “Longarm” and “Buckskin” western paperbacks throughout high school, focusing on the detailed descriptions of the cowboys’ naughty bits. So I knew where things were and how to work them (slowly). Misty never knew what hit her. I, however, did.
Looking back, I have to wonder how I did it. I suppose when you’re younger, you really can do anything you set your mind to. I just set my mind to gay porn star Phil Bradley (Phil, if you're out there, call Daddy), closed my eyes and let friction do the rest. We didn’t use protection, which in retrospect, is entirely ridiculous. If I had gotten Misty pregnant, you’d probably be reading an insanely different blog than you are today.
Doing the nasty only cemented our relationship, and I fooled myself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, I could actually suppress the gay urges I had and have a nice, normal life with Misty, a white picket fence and a house in the suburbs.
Misty had other plans.
Coming up in Part Three: Misty freaks out, everyone comes out and for the first time, Johnny feels shame for being “straight”.