Andrew Lloyd Webber

Back when I was a bartender, every gay bar had country music night. Even our semi-popular place got packed to the rafters. Nobody cared about the music, because even the tiredest queen somehow turned hunky in the hat.

We had our night on Thursdays, and like clockwork John would appear. He looked like Mr. Drysdale from "The Beverly Hillbillies" so it took me a while to notice him. He'd stare at me from afar, tip me with ten dollar bills, and glare daggers when other guys approached me. Eventually the invitation came.

"Ah got third-row tickets for 'Evita,'" he drawled. "How's about you and me goin' out?"

John was Stanford educated, but the accent seemed to come with the hat. I liked attention a lot more than I liked musicals, so without even thinking I said yes. When date night rolled around, though, something had gone horribly wrong. "I told my friend Mike about tonight," John announced. "He said he'd never seen 'Evita,' so I gave him our tickets. I picked up two more for us, but they're a little bit further back."

I gave him the smile I usually reserve for altruistic friends who, as a birthday present, give a goat to an African village in my name. I said it was fine, though I'd never been more disappointed by a man wearing clothes. Throughout the show I seethed as I squinted, watching dull gray shapes cavort over half a mile away, and in his car outside my apartment I got revenge.

"My place is just a few minutes from here," John offered, the streetlight sparkling off a square-cut amethyst ring. "If you want to come home with me."

"I shouldn't," I said, grabbing his hand and shaking it. "But I had a wooonderful time."

The next Thursday he dropped by the bar again, bearing another offer I couldn't refuse. "Ah got second-row tickets for 'Cats,'" he said. "How's about us steppin' out again?"

This time I agreed with some reluctance, hoping his prior benevolence was a one-shot deal. But once again when he picked me up The Confession was the first thing out of his mouth: "My friend Carl said he'd kill to see 'Cats,'" John said, "and I just couldn't stop myself. I bought a couple more tickets for us, but they're not quite as good."

I counted to ten and then nodded, sparks shooting out from my gritted teeth. From the upper balcony we might have been watching dancing bedbugs. Again, later in the evening was payback time.

"So, maybe tonight we can get together?" John offered. "I've got champagne and a fireplace and a big, soft bed."

I knew what I had to do again. It wasn't particularly hard. He was the owner of a cardboard box company in Monrovia, and that's what he looked like without the hat.

"I couldn't," I said, grappling for the doorknob. "But thanks sooo much all the same."

I can't explain why I saw him the third time, except hope springs eternal in the dumb. And this time I got lucky. When the curtain went up on "Phantom," John and I were front and center. Afterwards, he got lucky too.

When I woke up the next morning in the unfamiliar room, I was all by myself. Next to a lukewarm cappuccino on the bedside table was a note:

"Had business to see to, but I'll be back tonight. Make yourself comfortable. Don't try to go anywhere, though, because the alarm's turned on."

Naturally I was horrified, trapped like a tiger in a cage. I searched high and low for an escape route: I searched the media room, with the wall-sized TV and popcorn machine, the walk-in closet with a wall of leather chaps, and the anonymous room under the stairs that seemed to hold nothing but cases of bourbon and economy packs of paper towels from Costco. When I found the kitchen with a double-wide fridge stocked like Gelson's -- crisp white boxes full of prepared salads and rotisserie meats, a battalion of plastic bottles with fresh-squeezed tropical juices -- I decided maybe I wasn't in such a rush.

After that day, John and I sort of became a couple. I gave up the job bartending and he supported me. I tried to get out a few more times, but my heart wasn't in it. I think I really only turned serious after Andrew Lloyd Webber peaked.