I was wearing Cumming; what better scent for a night on the town? Or at least
the East Village. I don't often go out prowling and carousing. After all, at my age, it's the early bird special at Denny's, some light bingo with Dorothy and Rose, the first half or so of Judgment at Nuremberg on TMC and then I nod off until it's time to change my Depends.
But last night, a good party nap under my Sansabelt, I hooked up with a posse of twenty-somethings and let everyone's favorite snow bunny and bar hero, Rocco, seduce me into an evening of public humiliation.
The evening started out well enough. The new hip and ultra-trendy East Village bar, Eastern Bloc was to be our rendez-vous point. I was geriatrically on time and found myself alone with the bartender and a Polynesian Pop 'N'Fresh trailed by his raucous and guffawing fag hag. I sat on one end of the empty bar, Pop and Guffaw sat at the other end. The bartender stood by me, as far as possible from the "we can be as loud and as annoying as we like" mutants.
He went into twist and rind mode, gutting and carving lemons, limes and oranges while we reminisced about the political queer activist days of early '90s Wonder Bar (before it became Easter Bloc.) I used to love Wonder Bar. Some adorable little political activist would convince himself it was progressive and queer patriotic to fuck a dinosaur so I would always score.
The bartender theorized that Eastern Bloc was empty because the word wasn't yet
out that they had begun happy hour (it was now 7 PM.) Of course, I had to pay full price from my Grey Goose Martini because Happy Hour discounts only applied to swill and rubber mat run-off. (I need to stick with Therapy or get over top shelf brands.)
The dark clouds of gloom and doom started to loom when the Eastern Bloc bartender, who was wearing a Rawhide T-Shirt, launched into a promo for that Chelsea bar. It's where he goes to drink. Unpretentious neighborhood bar minus the Manhattantude. When a bartender promotes a competitive bar, you know you've got problems.
Of course, since there were only four of us in Eastern Bloc, five if you include the mounted Zebra head over the bar, the only 'tude in the room was my growing nostalgia for an early evening game of Bocce with the Italian American Society World War One vets in Tomkins Square Park. (A short walk from Eastern Bloc.)
Finally the second member of our East Village gay bar swat team, Greg, or as I like to call him, Kielbasa Boy, arrives, only fifteen minutes late but it felt like an hour. We drink. We catch up. We wonder why there's a Zebra Head mounted over the bar in the midst of Vintage Russian Revolution decor.
His royal cuteness, Jeremy, finally arrives, the next member of the posse, just in time to save us from a Richard Simmons video. Note to gay bar owners, managers and bartenders: Richard Simmons is about as funny as someone else's vomit on your lap.
But, for some inexplicable reason, the Richard Simmons video helps me make sense out of the Zebra head. My mind works in mysterious ways. Jeremy quickly slurps down two Long Island Ice Teas so that we're all on the same page. His 21 year old self can handle about one good drink, so he's quickly the life of the party, grabbing everyone's private parts, risking life and limb.
We then skedaddle and hit some fantastic new East Village Italian somewhere off
Avenue A between 6th and Houston Street. I have no memory of the name, thanks to Grey Goose, my top shelf companion. But we downed some fantastic carbs in the basement of an old tenement building with way too many steps hidden by way too few light bulbs. I didn't fall. I don't know why. I should have. The ghosts of Jewish immigrants who had likely died in this building over a hundred years earlier kept me safe.
Jeremy, who grew up in a trailer park (I know. Hot. Very) ordered a mountain of home-made mashed potatoes and a platter of lox for dinner. (I know. Strange.) Jeremy loves Manhattan mashed potatoes and marvels at how they taste when they're not made from hot water and powder. (I know. Trailer park. But so very cute and so very hot.) When he asked about the lox, he thought he was getting a salmon steak. I could smell Sunday mornings with my grandmother, although she
would have been mystified by the combination of lox, capers and a steaming mound of mashed potatoes. She would have shrugged her shoulders and remarked, "The things 'they' eat. Velveeta. Aerosol cheese. Oy. Goyim."
The cellar dining room at Casa Wherethefuckarewe was packed and the three of us were crushed between two large herds of breeders. Thank God for smoking bans. The hetero pheromones were overwhelming and quickly taking the edge off our club mood. So we fled and headed to our three star, hot party of Wednesday night destination. Shirtless twinks. Go-go boys galore. Drop dead sexy bartender. And Rocco and Thomas, the coolest night crawlers in Queerdom.
Things go wrong
Old people often experience unexpected and silently deadly moments of unfortunate flatulence. I hadn't noticed any personal indiscretions but now that I was flying south with a large flock of grey geese, noticing details was no longer in the cards. Does Anna Nicole notice when one of her nipples hits the floor?
Admittedly it was a rainy, gloomy way too warm Wednesday night in January and overall the city was slower than the drive out to the Hamptons on a Friday night. But this was ridiculous. Back2Basics is a new hip party at The Boysroom and I was getting comp booze and more eye candy then my Depends could contain. And there was Greg and Jeremy and Adam, the host and bartender and...uh...and...uh...and uh....oh wait...down there, in the dark, in the distance, like the North Star, I see boys. One? Two? Oops. One is a girl. Oh wait, more...uh...more girls. Not "girls" but the ones with pussies.
The place is dead. Was it me? Did the dirty old man alarm go off when I stumbled through the security grid and the packed room fled through the rear exit? Did my
ass betray me and clear the room? Was it my cologne? Cumming? An evocative mix of leather, rubber, tobacco and man juice with subtle notes of lube?
I should have realized that the night was doomed when my cunning black Moto Razr vibrated with Rocco's text message. "Thomas is on the way, but I'm too tired to go out tonight. Heading to bed." The Colombian Poster Boy. Jose Cuervo's major stock holder. Mr. Queer Manhattan Nightlife was heading to bed at Midnight. I called Hell. Nope, it hadn't frozen over. I texted him back. "Free coke." "Jeremy has fisting hips." "The go-go boys ass feels like Cashmere."
Rocco stands us up. Something about a school night. I shudder. I think Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
Thomas arrives to do his story for Next or HX...he works for one of them. Jeremy is several Long Island Ice Teas into horny and begins prowling. Red football Jersey is straight. Black crew neck sweater muscle wrestling stud is straight. Abercrombie and Fitch boy is "bi-curious" but with his slutty girlfriend. Jeremy ends up chatting with a 70s refugee who looks like he's just left the Saint at 11 AM and forgot his tambourine.
More girls arrive. Did we screw up? Is it Clit Night? Nope, explains the host, that's Monday's.
I am not a quitter. However, I am Jewish and assume this is all my fault. At the same time, I decide to make the most of it. I do have a penis after all and the go-go boy has started polishing the pole.
I whip out my Powershot and begin to hum "Vogue" hoping it well get hot young gay
boys to pose. It works. At the very least I'm going home with digitalized eye candy so that all of you stay-at-home assholes can see what you missed.
Thomas also pulls out his thing and starts to work around the emptiness in order to capture coolness and hipness for an upcoming issue of whatever weekly gay rag he represents. He looks at his watch and realizes that it's nigh on hopeless and also turns his camera on the shirtless host/bartender and Dave, the go-go boy.
The good news: Adam, the host, is easily one of the most beautiful and sexy men in Manhattan. And he's incredibly funny and charming and worth the visit. Adam is also insane, which is what I love in my crushes. A good part of the evening was spent listening to Adam talk about his annual 10 day purge, ridding his breathtaking 22 year old body of all kinds of unimaginable toxins. Greg and I sit in jaw dropping wonder as Adam describes how, for ten days, he fasts, drinking nothing but this
homemade concoction of lemon juice, maple syrup, crushed peppercorns, lighter fluid and "Fantastik Antibacterial All Purpose Cleaner with Lemon Power." He gives us both a sip. It's pleasant. As often happens when I'm out, I wonder at the disproportionate number of free-roaming nuts on this tiny little island.
Adam goes on to happily recount the first few days of this purge, a time when his ass furiously ejaculates copious amounts of dank, dark toxins. By day three, it's pure clean, clear water. It's now day five and I'm thinking that this Greek God is eminently rimmable. So clean. And a perfect ass. Greg is having similar thoughts. We share a smile and a chuckle. Adam sports a gay wedding band, but hubbie Clint is nowhere to be seen. I wonder if married means his ass is off limits.
More good news: Go-go boy Dave with an ass that feels like cashmere is not only
one of the best looking go-go boys in town, he's sweet, charming and has a great sense of humor. Of course, Greg and I were his only source of tips that night, but his charm was clearly sincere. Dave and I spend some time stroking and carressing his ass and my sweater, marveling at the similarities. Thomas kept interrupting and asking if Dave could be taller and inside of him. Thomas doesn't like his boys to be short, which for Thomas, who is about the same height as that Chinese mutant basketball player, eliminates just about everyone in the world. Poor Thomas. Since I'm all about twinks sitting on my face, height is of no relevance.
Eventually, having exhausted Adam and Dave's charms, Greg, Jeremy, Thomas and I fled into the silent night from the silent bar and swung by Eastern Bloc for one more gander. Still empty. We check ourselves for symptoms of melting. Yes, it's raining, but fags don't melt in the rain. At least we weren't. So where the fuck was everybody?
Thomas needs a story. We head for Phoenix. It's packed and in mega meat factory mode. Because it's January, the landlord is pumping in heat, but it's mid-50s outside and the bar is as steamy and as stifling hot as a bath house orgy. Except everyone is dressed and there's no overt penetration.
I can sense that I'm minutes from my own bed. It's pushing 2 AM and there's just not enough frivolity to keep my old carcass going. Jeremy and his xx Long Island Ice Teas has gone into feeding frenzy and is interviewing candidates. Thomas sees a fag he hates and wants a photo for his blog without getting hit, cause the hateful fag hates Thomas back. So Thomas uses his huge Bambi eyes to get me to digitalize hateful fag. I do. Hateful fag catches me (likely the flash tipped him off) , glares at me hatefully and slithers into the crowd. He decides it's wrong to strike a Golden Girl.
The heat begins to overwhelm me. But the final nail in the coffin comes when a fag
hag breezes by, hooks the back of my cashmere sweater on her Moroccan Bazaar of bangle bracelets, spins me around like a Dreidel, damages my sweater and flees into the night with her boys. Women.
Cashmere casualties, the night is over. I leave Thomas in search of a story and Jeremy in search of...
You can catch me tomorrow at the 4:45 Denny's Early Bird Special with Thelma and
Louise. OK. OK. You caught me. We don't have Denny's in Manhattan. In fact, I've never even been to a Denny's and have no idea what it is. However, I hear my flyover state friends talk about it all the time so I thought it would give my story some color. Everything else is true. And I will return next Wednesday to The Boysroom so that I can get to know Dave and Adam up close and personal. Please don't show up. Rocco stay in bed. I want it all for myself, you lazy queers. And if you can't make it through a little Wednesday night drizzle for the likes of Adam and Dave, you don't deserve to be called gay.
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