Proceed at your own risk

MIMI LE DUCK AND MY PRAYER FOR EARTHA KITT

One of the newest and most attractive Off-Broadway theaters in Manhattan, the New World Stages on West 50th Street, home to Naked Boys Singing and Altar Boyz--two fantastic shows--has made a terrible mistake.

Mimi Le Duck. I'll "mostly" resist the obvious jokes about fowl and turkeys.

The story is simple.  A clinically depressed middle-aged Mormon woman who does duck paintings for a home shopping network and is trapped in a mind-numbing relationship with a very gray man is prevented from committing suicide with a machine gun by the ghost of Ernest Hemingway who is trapped in Idaho until he can prevent someone from committing suicide and inspire that person to go to Paris and invent a new life.  He does.  She agrees. They go together. Once in Paris our Mormon housewife discovers a community of very old people who think they are various kinds of water fowl, an artist who sculpts giant penises out of clay and occasionally fucks a Spanish dwarf and a cross-dressing oyster shucker who thinks he's a character from an Agathe Christie novel and is also haunted by several dead oyster shuckers.  Our protagonist, the suicidal Mormon lady from Idaho, abandons her faith, discovers wine and champagne and becomes a duck--Mimi le Duc, to be precise.  And then the story gets really complicated, ending with the audience contemplating suicide.

The cast is extraordinary: An extremely talented group of actors who were apparently arrested late one night by the some theater gestapo and then led off to some nightmarish world for execution.

Horrifyingly, Eartha Kitt, although she only had two numbers, was among the dead men walking. I worship every purr that flows out of her but surely her own funeral will be more exciting and glamorous than this performance.

This may be the cruelest thing I've ever written, but one has to ask how a team of consummate professionals can bring a musical to previews in a major New York Off-Broadway venue and not notice along the way that the production is one of the most dreadful shows to drop on to a stage.  And when I say drop, I mean like a thousand frozen turkeys thrown out of a helicopter over a shopping center parking lot crashing down on cars and unsuspecting shoppers.

How does one describe Mimi Le Duck?  The lyrics are mostly a relentless barrage of cliches.  The music, at best, seemed a disastrous attempt to mimic Sondheim as interpreted by a tone deaf Jehovah's Witness.  I will concede that there is one, maybe two songs that would work in a late night cabaret setting.  But like Ms. Kitt, they were buried alive.

Paris, the primary location for the show will likely never recover from this assault.  The "setting" appeared to be some Bizarro World version of a garbage dump with bits of Montmartre and the Latin Quarter strewn about, framed by the bright red feet of the Eiffel Tower.  Mimi Le Duck miraculously manages to suck every bit of romance and magic out of the notion of a bohemian Paris.

For a good part of the production, poor Ms. Kitt is wheeled around standing erect and stiff on some sort of cart leaving one with the impression that she's barely alive and unable to move.  It may have been intended to simulate a bird in a cage, but it was more like a legend trapped in nightmare.  One could imagine that it was the corpse of Eartha Kitt's career.

Fortunately, Ms. Kitt does escape from this freakish trolley and is finally allowed to move a bit under her own steam, confirming that she is still alive--assuming the humiliation of being in this show doesn't kill her.

One other bit of good news: I was invited to this fright fest and did not pay.  Funny thing though:  As my host and good friend Rafael-- who is a musical theater junkie and sees everything-- and I were waiting for the show to start he asked me what was the worst musical I'd ever seen on or Off-Broadway.   As I reviewed my 50 years of show-going, he mentioned that his choice for worst show was "Ring of Fire."  I was struggling with my answer as the music came up.

Fortunately, by intermission, I had my answer.

As we were leaving the show, the crew was passing out free CDs--as many as you could carry--so I was able to to listen to the music a few times at home in the desperate hope that it would grow on me, and it did, like a flesh eating bacteria.

My prayer for the 79-year-old Ms. Kitt is that she lives long enough to appear in one more concert or show that allows her swan song to be something other than this tragic event.  I also pray that Ms. Kitt is still strong enough at 79 to muster enough Catwoman to rip open her agents throat and devour him mercilessly.

I left the theater on West 50th Street humming Springtime for Hitler, contemplating calling in a bomb threat (pun passionately intended) so that the theater would be shut down long enough for the cast to creep into the  night and preserve some dignity.

If you're the sort of theater fanatic who has a fetish for really bad shows, Mimi Le Duc is a must-see.  But be warned, the Eartha Kitt abuse will break your heart.

The show is scheduled to "open" tonight, on Halloween.  Someone surely has a bizarre sense of humor.  This show is all trick and absolutely no treat.

RENTBOY.COM AND MY HIGH SCHOOL FANTASY NIGHT

Ever since I was voted "Most Sophisticated" in my senior year of high school, I've had a soft spot for popularity contests.  While I've won many professional awards throughout my career, they've all be "judged" competitions and were just not the same thing as having all your friends and acquaintances voting to name you Most Sophisticated.  Never mind that "Most Sophisticated" was a 1966 euphemism for big old Broadway-loving drama queen.  I won.  They loved me.

So when I learned that the Internet's no. 1 male escort site, rentboy.com, was  inviting its members to vote on the First Annual International Escort Awards I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia.  Unlike American Idol and the People's Choice Awards, this was a popularity contest that I could wrap my lips around.  Just like high school: memories of Dale in the locker room with his hairy chest; Rick, the captain of the wrestling team in his singlet; Ed, the bad boy track star who went on to become an attorney for Richard Nixon.  I was back in high school, only this time I could "invite" the winners home.

Sunday night at Roxy, the site of the awards ceremony, was just like the yearbook awards ceremony in the Franklin High auditorium: screaming kids, joints passed around, tabs of acid, speed, spitball fights, wedgies, jocks, nerds, over-achievers and the desperately needy. Instead of chaperons, sugar daddies but it was a similar age range.

Just like high school, we even had a prom queen--well, a drag queen-- to keep the action moving: Shequida.  Coincidentally, Shequida was very much like my high school prom queen: gorgeous, over-dressed, vivacious, bleached blond hair and the biggest whore in the class.  Shequida even bent over for a guy who looked just like the captain of our high school football team.

Oh, the memories.  The memories.

And not to disparage the venerable Roxy, but the prom decorations were about as amateurish as the ones we had in high school.  But again, there were spooky similarities. In high school our senior prom was "Over the Rainbow" and at Roxy the theme was "It's Raining Men."  And was it ever. Everywhere you looked.

And like the prom, the nerdy yearbook reporter was also in attendance scribbling away with his little poofy pink pen. Only this time it was Michael Musto of the Village Voice.  I'm not sure if Mr. Musto was reporting or shopping but he was clearly hormonal. I tried to engage him a friendly chat, but I was clearly about 30 years too old to merit his attention.

The Escort Awards categories weren't quite the same as high school, but they were close enough.  In high school we had, in addition to Most Sophisticated, Biggest Flirts, Best Looking, Everybody's Pal, Best Dressed, Best All Around, Most Offbeat, Most Athletic and a few others.

At rentboy.com's First International Escort Awards 2006 we had Best Bottom, Best Top, Most Versatile, Sexiest, Best Porn Star, Biggest Dick, Best Fetish Escort and Best Escort.

How little things have changed since my senior year of high school, 1966.

We even had exchange students from Australia, Brazil, the UK, Hungary and Germany.

Over 54,000 perverts voted for these awards.  A full list of categories can be found on the rentboy.com website.  And as for the winners, not that it matters but my favs were Jason Carter (pictured above) who took Sexiest Escort (and he was,) Adam Faust for Best Fetish Escort (and he could blank my blank with blank and then blank down my blank any blanking time he wants,) and the amazingly sweet and astonishingly built Talvin DeMachio (pictured below) was voted Best Escort.  A full list will be posted on the rentboy.com website in short order.

Pictured below are Tom Weise (sporting the cross,) the owner of rentboy.com with three of the winners (from left to right) : Best Fetish Escort, Biggest Dick and Most Versatile.

Now you're wondering if I went home alone.  All I can say is that I did go home alone after my senior prom and it sucked.  Becky Anderson in her turquoise gown was just not something I wanted to see naked.  All I will say is that contrary to common belief, you can go home again, and you can change the past for the better.

My thanks to rentboy.com, the escorts and their friends, Shequida and the Roxy's bad decorations for taking me back to my senior year of high school--except this time I was out and able to turn my fantasies into realities.  Oh, and this time I'm sure the punch was spiked.  At least that's my story.

OUR BARS SUCK?

Gaybar.com, a Canadian website that bills itself as "The #1 Resource For Info on Gay Clubs Worldwide" has just released it's first report on the best gay bars in the world.  And guess what?  New York sucks.

One Manhattan bar made the list, Therapy coming in at no.7.  Every gay bar in Manhattan was beat out by Chicago's Side Tracks, Dallas' Sue Ellen's, San Franciso's The Mint, Minneapolis's Boom, a lesbian bar in Brooklyn called Cattyshack and West Hollywood's I-Candy.

After Therapy, coming in at 8, 9 and 10 are Seattle's Wild Rose, Houston's Brazos River Bottom Club and Decatur, Georgia's My Sister's Room.

So what's up with this?  Is gay bar life in Manhattan too unfriendly? Too old?  Too yesterday's news?  Is Therapy our best bar, even though it's only the 7th best gay bar in the nation?  Are gay bars in Manhattan more "specialized" than in other cities?  And I suppose by Therapy's standards of design, many of our bars are either kind of rough and tumble and seedy and/or rather small.

In any case, the competitor in me is not happy.

By the way, according to a recent survey of New York queers, Therapy was named the 4th best bar in Manhattan after GYM Sports Bar, voted no. 1, XL and Splash Bar in 3rd place.

DUMB GAY MARKETING

So who's brilliant idea was this?  How can we beef up sales for NAKED BOYS SINGING tickets?  How about we ask gay men to drop $69 a ticket to see a famous gay porn star romping naked in a non-sexual, flaccid performance?  Wow, that's a draw.

Now don't get me wrong, I love this show and have seen it many times, but part of the thrill is seeing hot actors who would otherwise perform dressed singing, dancing, butt flashing and penis wiggling in the nude.  Now if you want to beef up sales, promote someone who I can't otherwise see naked and erect over and over and over again.

Nonetheless, if you'd like to see gay porn star Spencer Quest naked and flaccid and non-sexual, he's joining the New York City cast of NAKED BOYS SINGING on October 13.  No smoking, no cameras, no recording devices, no cell phones and, sadly, no fluffing allowed.

WILLIE NINJA

Few people know Willie Lamb and Willie Ninja, both visionary New Yorkers,  but just about everyone knows their work.

Willie Lamb designed the Empire State Building.  Willie Ninja is the man who taught  Madonna how to Vogue.

One of the creators-- if not the godfather--of voguing, Willie struck his last pose on September 2, 2006  at the age of 45 after a long illness.

Madonna may have brought Voguing into the mainstream, but every time some girl in a Milwaukee shopping mall strikes a pose, she's been touched by Willie Ninja.

In March of 1990, my then boy toy hounded me to buy tickets to a special night at the Roxy.  I'd never been to the Roxy and had no idea what it was.  I'd been out just three months.

Hell, at that point in my life I'd barely heard of Madonna and I'd certainly never heard of the House of Ninja.

The Roxy was launching Vogue that night. Paris was burning.  Madonna was working her fans and reinventing herself yet again.

Keith, the boy toy, promised me a life-changing experience.  He delivered on that promise.  Among other things that was the first time I did Ex.  That night Willie Ninja, Madonna and several thousand voguing Chelsea queens and club kids catapulted me into my club years.

I owe an awful lot of trouble and debauchery to Willie Ninja for which I will be eternally grateful!  He may have lived a short life, but like the other Willie's Empire State Building, Willie Ninja's moves have become iconic.

JOAN RIVERS: IS THAT MY VAGINA OR A BUNNY RABBIT SLIPPER ON THE FLOOR?

I braved the hellfire of New York's 120 degree nightmare yesterday evening  and went to see Joan Rivers at The Cutting Room.  My friends and I were fortunate enough to be placed just under her microphone so we were officially designated  the "gay" table by Ms. Rivers.  She immediately showed us her Manolo, Armani and Gucci labels as well as the surgery scars so that we could get past the wondering and focus on her performance.  This was a mitzvah because it would have been a crime to have been distracted even slightly from her uniquely New York Jewish Lenny Bruce-esque brilliance.

The other three up front tables included the Jewish table (displaying their rocks and the obligatory shiksa goddess,) the illegal immigrant table (near the exit) and the bridge and tunnel table (snacking on Velveeta throughout the performance and sitting behind a column with a partial view thinking they were lucky.)

For those of you who have never seen this brilliant raconteur live and uncensored, you've missed and are missing the definition of comic genius and legendary diva.

Furthermore, The Cutting Room is a workshop club where the great and soon to be great try out new material before they cut and censor for the likes of Leno and Letterman.  So you're not just getting Joan, you're getting Joan Joan.

And in the case of Joan Rivers, her masterful use of words like cunt and fuck reminds us of why those words were created.   She turns them into comic poetry and leads you to feel that our common use of those four-letter words and pejoratives in general has drained them of their power.

Basically, during her hour on stage at the Cutting Room she rips society several new assholes.  Her huge talent is to eviscerate celebrities, politicians, issues, herself and our absurd American lives with astonishing cunning, agonizingly funny wit and an odd kind of Jewish great great grandmotherly affection.

Among other things, Joan Rivers is proudly 73 and makes any one of us who complain about aging ashamed.  She hates old people, the smell of their urine, ancient sagging vaginas and having to listen to her addled peers like Dick Clark fight through his stroke-crippled brain to say Happy New Year over an endless and ferociously embarrassing stretch of time.

One of my much younger friends at our gay table asked why anyone with so much money would keep working.  I remembered the reason why dogs lick their own balls: because they can.  And they do it better than anyone else.  Joan Rivers slaps you out of your lethargy and reminds you what a professional really is all about and just how brilliant comedy can be when it's done from the soul.

Ms. Rivers will be punching audiences in the gut most Wednesdays through September 27.  Don't be ass. Go.  Also, little  miss QVC who has made gazillions exploiting third world children to produce low cost fabulous fake jewelry is not taking a salary and the proceeds from ticket sales go straight to Gods Love We Deliver and Guide Dogs For The Blind.  So you can assuage your guilt over enjoying her attacks on PETA, the elderly, the goyim, AIDS, Mexicans and the stupid knowing that your money is going to noble causes.

Last night Ms Rivers was suffering from a rhino virus contracted from intimate contact with Christie Brinkley's most recent husband.  She was not looking her best, so I refrained from photography, other than to capture a shot of her cue cards which were carefully taped to the floor in order to address her failing short term memory.  Unfortunately, she forgot they were there.

Two final notes:  Ms. Rivers confirmed the rumors that Tom Cruise is gay pointing out that she once attended a baseball game with Tom and Nicole and while she put mustard on her hot dog, he used Vaseline on his.  Nicole, of course, ate nothing.

And if you're sitting at the gay table, Ms Rivers is accepting applications for Liza's new husband.

QUEER NIGHTLIFE DAILY DOSE: FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS

Promising yet another assault on my liver, a new lounge party opens tomorrow night, Wednesday, July 19, at 49 Grove in the Village.  I strongly urge you to give it a shot for three irresistable reasons:

1. I will be there looking for Paris Hilton.  It's the official launch party for "Stars Are Blind."

2. Vito and Nima will be entertaining the crowd with their new act:  trying to revive a beached whale (that would be me) after my third Cosmo.

3.  Free Cosmos from 10 PM to 11 PM, which, combined with these beds will be the reason I will be in need of revival.  And assuming Vita and Nima succeed in getting me up, I'd love to meet you.  But I won't remember you.

NEW YORK NIGHTLIFE: THE MISSION CONTINUES

You've likely not noticed--partly because I hadn't realized it myself until this past week--that I'm on a mission, albeit a very silly one.  I've decided that before I die or my liver gives out, whichever comes first, I want to sample Martinis at every gay bar, club and lounge in New York City.  Along the way, I'll comment, I'll judge, I'll photograph and from time to time I might even have some fun.  And when I don't have fun, you'll be the first to know about it!

I blame this impulse on Joe who hoodwinked me into a debaucherous slosh down Christopher Street some months ago.  It was an interesting proposal:  to visit and drink at every bar on the world's most famous gay drag during the course of one night.  After a long period of not bar hopping, this bar crawl gave me an itch--and not from taking someone home.

I've even created a new category for my blog: QUEER NEW YORK AT NIGHT.  I'm  not going to follow any guidelines or recommendations according to what's hot or not or what's in or out.  I will shower, wander and then stumble into places at random and probably on the "wrong" nights and the wrong times and with the wrong crowd...but that's kind of what this is all about. If a place is open and taking my money, I'm entitled to have fun.

And places that serve Martinis in Martini glasses rather than plastic urine sample cups will get extra points.  On the other hand if plastic is served to prevent the go-go boys from kicking broken glass around the bar, no demerits.

This past weekend's mission took me to 1984, something of an institution on the gay scene and definitely not "new."

Well, I had a blast.   OK, no go-go boys, but the  DJ, Chip Duckett has a personality that washes over this historic old space with a sense of fun and pleasure that would be hard to beat.

I look for three kinds of men when I go out: friendly, funny and sexy.  1984 delivered in all three categories.  I wondered what kind of crowd would come out for a weekly dose of Bronski Beat, Abba, Bow Wow Wow, Pet Shop Boys and Yazoo: A damned cute one!

Some background from the party's website:

"1984 began at the now-defunct Crowbar, transferring to Pyramid when Crowbar closed. The doors open at 10pm, with the dance floor opening around 11pm. The basement features video screenings, often around a special theme (such as "ABBA rarities" or an all Pat Benatar night) The club is open until 4am.

1984 is STRICTLY 21 and over. Please be sure to bring ID, no matter what your age is the club ALWAYS cards!"

OK that part is not true. They did NOT card me.

However, once inside I was greeted by a huge smile from the cashier/list keeper.  He had me at hello.  As I wended my way past the bar to the dance floor, I found a wife beater.  Frankly, I could have called it a night after that.  In fact, the wife beater made me so wet that  it's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't slip and fall climbing up the ladder into the DJ booth so that I could photograph the crowd.

Chip is a major dose of happy and is now on my list of new best friend candidates.  I'll keep you posted.

A little history is in order. One of the reasons I was drawn to 1984 was the location, the Pyramid Club, a legendary nightspot that has been an East Village fixture for at least 30 years and early on a famous venue for cutting edge music and performance art.

During the 80s it was also the birthplace of New York's drag renaissance showcasing Lypsinka, Lady Bunny and RuPaul.

In fact, Pyramid Club is most famous in drag circles as the place where a bunch of coked-out and well-pickled drag queens led by Lady Bunny stumbled out early one Sunday morning, stepped over the bums in Tompkins Square Park and staged an impromptu drag festival--the first Wigstock.

The Pyramid Club was also haunted by the likes of Andy Warhol and little Ms. Ciccone.  It also holds a special place in rock history as the venue for Nirvana's first New York City concert.

Being very old, I love history and I love places that reek of it.  Throw in a hot cashier, a crazy DJ, a room full of gyrating cute boys and at least one wife beater and it's Nirvana all over again....at least for me.

NEW YORK NIGHTLIFE: ATTITUDE, TITANIC, FREAKS AND CHEERS

After several of weeks of hiding out from scorching heat, torrential rains, flood waters and mobs of tourists, I considered freak expert and photographer extraordinaire Rafael's invitation to explore the night over the July 4th weekend.  After all, the city would be empty, the bars would be relatively quiet and it would likely be fun despite the heat and rain.

Furthermore, my beloved Bulgarian, Vladi is in New York again for the next four months and it seemed like a great way to celebrate his return.

I buffed my head, pulled out my blackest silk shirt and off we went.  Rafael had been  told by the freaks who did trendy Opaline on Friday nights that their new Saturday night gig in the East village, Boysroom would be the place to be seen and to see the people who everyone wants to see even on a July 4th weekend Saturday night.

And they were right.  Even though the new Boysroom is about the size of a cramped Manhattan studio apartment with a VIP room just a tad larger than my bathroom, the place was packed with an overabundance of pretty boys and the freaks who feed on them.

 

But I jump ahead of myself. 

At first we hooked up at Eastern Bloc, the bar that HX, New York's most objective (you paid for our review so tell us what you want us to say) nightlife magazine calls "The coolest new bar this side of the Iron Curtain. Strong drinks, happening crowd...".

Eastern Bloc delivered as promised:  cutting edge design, shirtless muscles pouring overpriced cocktails, the serious sullen stunning DJ and generally unfriendly but very pretty boys; everything that New York gay nightlife is reputed to be.  The music was interesting, contemporary versions of hits from a variety of 20th Century decades.  And the eye candy was not the East Village of my childhood.  No pasty-faced socialists and activists here, rather perfectly coiffed and stylishly casual lean and pretty.

Rafael was smitten with the bar back who was doing an excellent version of Christopher Atkins from Blue Lagoon.  Vladi was of little use.  Although everyone was admiring his 6 foot 3 inches of smoldering Balkan good looks, he was mesmerized by the vintage porn on the monitors.  Apparently, gay bars in Bulgaria do not show such things, especially money shots.  Rafael's guardian angel was watching over him in Eastern Bloc as one blond haired, blue-eyed Eastern European-looking boy after another strutted in.  Oh yes, if you are a perfect, innocent looking, but not innocent Eastern European type, do send Rafael an email...and don't forget to douche.

Well, ever an abundance ofl aloof blonds, vintage gay porn and remixed retro music wears thin after a  while, so off we went to board the Titanic...oops. I mean the Boysroom.

Don't misunderstand, like the Titanic, Boysroom has all the elements of a huge success:  Miss Guy was delivering great music, the place was packed with gorgeous boys and the freaks that eat them, the go go boys were perfection, even the one who was an extraordinary specimen of super high synthetic energy (in fact he continued dancing to his own magical and imaginary beat long after the music died and the crew had abandoned the sinking ship.)  My only complaint:  I hate plastic glasses, especially when you're drinking Cosmos or Martinis; it's like wearing flip-flops with Versace couture. (More on flip-flops later.)

Mostly the crowd falls into one of three categories: the fuckable, the get out of my way and the freaks.

Boysroom even delivers some friendliness; not much, but enough to make an old baby boomer like me comfortable.

And, I've come to well understand that you don't expect a smile, social graces and common courtesy from sleek young men full of hormones, coke, crystal and cheap liquor--the kind that will likely lament not being able to find a boyfriend the morning after the morning after (I'm accounting for the long half-life of the unholy wedding of drugs and alcohol.)

Anyhow, I'm very happy with the freaks and the go go boys.  And I usually bring my own collection of sleek young beauties.

MANHATTAN NIGHTLIFE: WAS IT MY COLOGNE?

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.