Seriously, do I have "I'm Freaker Friendly!" tattoed on my forehead? Is my breath infused with a weirdo attracting pheremone that science doesn't know about yet? If that's the case, I need to chop off my head or just stop breathing so damn much.

Last night I went to William's by myself for a quick 2-4-1. Yes, we all know that by this point, I'm pretty much "asking for it" when I go there alone, but I wanted to get out of the house for a bit. I had no more than taken my first sip from my Limon-n-water(with a lemon!), that I became aware of a man standing dangerously close to my left-hand side, staring at me. I did what any other uncomfortable person in my predicament would: I looked his way.

"Hey", I said with an empty nod.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he slurred in the accent of a Midwestern Drunk that I knew all too well.

Where I'm from, "Hey" means "Hey, Creep. I don't want to talk to you. I just acknowledeged that you are, indeed, breathing.", not "Hey, I like having alcohol bought for me by guys I don't know."

"No thanks. I've got two drinks already" I faux-apologetically replied while making sure he noticed my glasses were indeed full.

"Are you sure? They're free. No? Ok, your loss." He pleaded while pointing to a not-so-crisp Twenty.

He turned away to get the bartenders attention, and when he noticed that she was way at the other end of the bar, he turned back towards me.

"Free drink? Ah, I wonder if they have coffee." he questioned.

It was through his repeated begging and my determined denial that I realized that he was not a midwestern drunk--he was German and very drunk. His frustration with the lack of service grew, and he definitely voiced it. Not loud enough for anyone outside of me could hear it, but I noticed.

"Fuck!" he muttered under his breath, followed by some German gibberish that I'm sure would make Hitler proud. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

At this point, I was mentally ready to react by diving behind the bar in the event that he pulled a Luger from the crotch of his pants . I was never a Boy Scout, but I see no harm in always being prepared.

Do you hear that? It's the sound of a cannonball of a question about to hit my square in the jaw, and won't realize it's implications until long after it was asked.

"Are there any hotels in this neighborhood?"

What an odd question. Whatever would he need a hotel for in Uptown? Is he lost?

"No, man. Downtown. There are plenty of them Downtown, but none around here" I replied, dumbstruck.

See, now I was thinking that maybe I had read him all wrong. Perhaps he was just a friendly German tourist that had lost his way after all? That still doesn't answer why he'd be looking for a hotel room at 11 o'clock on a Tuesday night, but what did I care? People are weird.

His annoyance levels through the bar's high ceiling due to still not being served, he gave me a tap, tap on the shoulder, an "Ok, buddy" and one last muttered "Fuck." and he was out the door.

After he left, I talked to the manager, Mike, about him. Turns out that he was in there just last week, drunk, and drinking coffee. He was acting odd then, too. He thanked the bartender--by shaking his hand-- for making the "best coffee he's ever had". And he wouldn't let go. Mike said that he stood there smiling, shaking his hand, for like a minute.

Mike also said "Oh yeah, he's gay."

And that's when it really hit me--I was just propositioned by a drunk, gay German guy to have dirty, dirty hotel room sex. He was into men, and I was his attempted, and subsequently, failed conquest for the night. The dirty Twenty he held was probably earned through a hard Monday night of glory-holing.

Ew.

I bet he wouldn't say "Danke Shoen" in the morning, the fucking Kraut.