Cumming to a Bar Near You

Ten hours later I'm still shaking.

I never thought I'd say this, but poor, simple RomanHans -- hitherto relegated to scrubbing floors in the mansion of life -- has met Royalty.

Last night Raoul and I go to a screening of "OSS 117," a French film described as a cross between James Bond and Naked Gun. Overall it's very good but it has some hysterical moments, plus a terrific retro soundtrack. We get out around tenish, which is waaay too early to go home, so we decide to head elsewhere. I vote for Walgreens to get Benadryl; Raoul mentions Eastern Bloc. It's an unpretentious gay bar in the East Village decorated with taxidermied animal heads and a vaguely Communist theme. Hey, the bar I used to work at had brass details and hanging ferns, so I'll be the last one to complain.

We order a couple drinks, and as we're discussing the movie I spot Alan Cumming over Raoul's shoulder.

When I come to Raoul is spouting gibberish. "Chicken lips poltergeist platform shoes eczema. You're not even listening to me."

"Alan Cumming is right behind you." Then, to the back of his head, "Don't turn around just yet."

"Ohmigod," Raoul exclaims. "Ohmigod."

"Ohmifuckinggod," I correct, shaking like Katherine Hepburn on a Tilt-a-Whirl. "Oh my fucking god."

Raoul is English. Which means he's learned manners, so he's happy appreciating famous people from afar. Me, I'm a full-blooded American, which means I'll happily intrude on their shit.

"Oh, go on over," Raoul says understandingly. "Introduce yourself."

There's nothing like facing a Wonder of the World to put your self esteem in high relief. "I can't. He's gorgeous and brilliant and one of the world's great actors, and I'm an oversized tube of lard."

"You're a terrific writer, and you've got a blog!"

My eyes threaten to roll up into my head. "Great. Why don't I just tell him I've got a stamp collection, and a turtle named Brady too?"

I suck down my gin and tonic as I watch a few young, brave souls approach him. With each, he turns to his laptop perched on the bar, and frantically types away. They get a quick hug before they part. My competitiveness beats out my insecurity: As God is my witness, I'll get in his address book too.

I make a mental list of conversation starters as I inch my way over. What was it like working with Kubrick? Did he realize he totally redefined theater with his turn in Cabaret? Did he ever have three-ways with awestruck fans? He could ignore Raoul if he wanted: the man did his best work alone.

He sees me and greets me like a long-lost friend. "Do you want to register to vote?" he asks in that sexy Scottish brogue.

"Absolutely!" I reply, though the answer would have been the same if he'd asked me to pick up his drycleaning, or French-kiss a soggy dog.

He asks for all my information and types it into his Mac. My excitement matches his natural high energy. We're bouncing around. We're rubbing arms. Still, he's reluctant when my tongue tries to fight its way into his mouth. He hugs me, hands me a gift bag, and it's over.

For the rest of the night I'm floating on air. I finally agree with that Midwestern advice columnist who claimed seventy percent of Americans preferred hugs to sex. Hell, throw in a gift bag and I'll bet it goes over a hundred percent. As Raoul walks me home I root through the bag. Seriously, it's like Christmas. Cumming the Fragrance, Cumming All Over body lotion, a CD, a magazine.

I squirt on the body lotion and I'm transported by the scent. Masculine, and warm, and sharp. No flowers within a hundred miles. Maybe there's some cedar, or amber, or greenery. What can I tell you? Nobody will ever insure my nose, especially if they charge by the square foot.

When we get to my place, Raoul senses that something has changed. We part at the door, and I go inside and spend the night lying on my bed and sighing. The more I think about it, the more awestruck I am. One of the Holy Trinity of gay celebs, registering people to vote in a neighborhood bar. The man is from Scotland, so if anybody has a right to ignore our mess he certainly does. He's the opposite of every other celeb: they see you looking at them, give you that "Get a life!" frown, and then scurry off, like your massive, unkempt tackiness poses some kind of danger to their svelte, stylish selves.

No, Alan Cumming gives out gift bags.

I got added to his mailing list, so I'll let you know if he ever gets to a bar near you. Me, I'm basking in the afterglow, left with indelible memories: his rakish smile, his tousled hair, his Cumming all over my body.

Let's see Joe.My.God top that.