New Hampshire: A Love Story

Here’s the thing, Connecticut: I love New Hampshire, and if things like the location of my family and friends were taken out of the equation, I’d move there and become a recluse in a hot minute. So when the Gay Guru invited the CuT ladies up to his family compound for a weekend on the lake, I got a wee bit excited. But things did not start out on the best foot.

You see, the PrissyBitch’s cat has Munchausen’s Syndrome and whenever he realizes she is going away and leaving him alone, he fakes an injury or illness–sometimes planning weeks in advance and inflicting wounds on himself–to get her attention. This time around he had an absess (which he got under suspicious cat-like circumstances) on his leg that needed to be lanced, and he (conveniently) needed anti-biotics twice a day. And with that news, the PrissyBitch had to bow out of the party.

This was, of course, devastating news to me as I have become completely unaccustomed to going out without someone as pale and WASPy looking as myself by my side. Beyond that, we’ve got our whole travel-routine worked out and know how to glamour the locals True Blood-style and work our way into their hearts. But alas, Gay Guru and I had to head out on our own on Friday (with Asian Persuasion following on Saturday after she got her weekly wedding fix). Connecticut got angry that we were leaving and unleashed an ungodly torrential downpour upon us as we headed for Massachusetts. But our neighbor to the north smiled upon us (probably because we didn’t have PB, its mortal enemy, with us) and we could see the road ahead of us again.

We stopped to get gas, and some junk food and then headed back out on the Mass Pike. Back in the trusty Subaru we headed for the Granite State and stopped just over the line at the New Hampshire Welcome Center where there seemed to be an abundance of young, heterosexual love happening. It was quite disturbing. They were making out in practically every corner, and on every stone wall. None of them appeared to be hookers, either, so we were understandably confused. You just don’t see that kind of  thing at CT rest stops. For his part, Gay Guru was foot-tapping like Fred Astaire and there wasn’t a single closeted politician to be found.

Needless to say we got out of there ASAP, and then decided we should stop and get drunk in Portsmouth. Now, Nutmeggers, I’m giving you fair warning: this is where the love story heats up. I have fallen head over heels for this town. You have to understand that I 1) am a through and through New Englander who loves nothing more than old buildings, jacked up streets, and fishermen 2) Portsmouth has a plethora of extremely attractive men and not so attractive women 3) I love what I call “manageable cities” that are nice and walkable but aren’t sprawling and infested with crack dens.

Anti-Couric fireside.

We had no sooner gotten out of the car and passed up a couple of crowded looking bars than we had run into an extremely handsome and helpful fellow. Tall, thin, shaggy haired, and pretty-eyed we were both smitten. We didn’t even hold it against him when he gave us the wrong directions to The Press Room. Despite his poor directions he did fill us in on the average rent in the area, and tell us he’s actually from Rye. His sailor-chic/mountain man vibe pretty much “had us at hello.” Eventually, though, we had to go our separate ways and we ended up in a bar with several of the Gay Guru’s future husbands.

One was roughly seven feet tall, and looked like he was probably a volunteer firefighter–at least in my estimation. Another was one of these heterosexual bears we’ve been hearing about. He looked like he could be related to Kevin Youkilis which, in NH, surely makes him a local hero. There were some other ones but one can hardly keep up with the Guru’s fickle heart. There was also this strange groupd of hipsters with stupid glasses, and stupid hats who bugged me. In New Hampshire, I want my men to be manly–not tarting themselves up with lots of accessories. But then there was Goatbeard. He was an otherwise clean-cut, handsome fellow with an out of control goatee. While I’m sure the ladies on the mountain-biking trail might have been into it, it just looked creepy at the bar.

Eventually, though, we had to head back into the wilderness and to the Guru compound. You may think I’m joking when I say compound, but you’d be wrong. There are no less than three houses, a store, one mountain, and many motorized watercraft.

Asian Persuasion in a net.

After some delicious huevos rancheros courtesy of the Guru’s modern family, we spent most of Saturday morning waiting for the Asian Persuasion to show up. We busted out the laptops, talked over a variety of CuT business, and then jumped up out of our seats and screamed as the Asian Persuasion finally cruised past the house. (She wasn’t that hard to spot as she was the only Asian around for miles.) Luckily, she didn’t go too far, and once we got the Guru to stop fussing over his new fan page and Twitter feed we made it down to the compound beach.

For me, getting to the beach can be a bit of an ordeal. I require a lot of sunscreen and someone to help spray me down. And I need my book, but once we got there it was pretty much rest and relaxation all the way. I zoned and read while the Asian Persuasion attempted to turn herself brown, and the Guru talked tax law with his family. Once we got sufficiently hot we went in the water–and my companions mocked my cable knit bathing suit–where we floated around until we became prunes and made a lot of inappropriate jokes. You know, just an average day.

GayGuru lurking in the loch.

Then it was time for the wave runner. Neighbors from all over the lake were coming over and trying out the beast (it’s still shiny and new), and finally the Gay Guru took us out for a spin each. I don’t know what happened on the Asian persuasion’s trip but my face went numb.

Dinner was fast approaching, and rather than do something lame like eat at a table, we hopped on the compound’s pontoon boat with a shiton of pizza and headed out for a cruise. That’s how we roll.

A trip to New Hampshire needs a few things: beer, water, trees, and fire are chief among them. So we capped off the evening sitting around the fire with some Maker’s Mark, Amaretto, and cell phone related YouTube hilarity. But we’re not used to being outside and in the sun for so many hours in one day and we were ready for bed by about midnight. Had the PrissyBitch been there she would have, no doubt, been irate that we were sleeping before dawn.

Sunday started out with delicious egg sandwiches but followed much the same trajectory as the Saturday. We did a little bit of work and then went and laid around beside the lake for awhile before actually getting into the water. Unfortunately, though, we had to start thinking about bringing our CuT Weekend to a close, and head back out onto the road. It was pretty smooth sailing but we’re still not sure where the Asian Persuasion is.

So, if any New Hampshire-ites out there detect a hint of Asian flair in their moose burgers please drop us a line at thecutmag@gmail.com

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