I really don’t want to see this old man bleed

Happy Birthday, Bitter Commie Grad Student!  Here’s an idea: make a brunch reservation at the time when the Ivy League Crew is usually at home about to wake up! But it was the only place where the Ivy League Crew has (ever) bought food.

 

So Sunday afternoon marked the beginning of the Bitter Commie Grad Student’s self-proclaimed birthday week (Nizche said something about artists that seems so appropriate in this situation, but I forgot it… while writing another song).  I have every intention of arriving at Maracas at 1pm because a) this is one of the few instances where the start time for a drinking activity is not culturally relative (e.g., gay time, CP time, Dominican time, etc.) and b) they only give you 90 minutes of open margaritas/mimosas!!

 

Of course, I don’t actually leave WaHi til like 12:53.  And of course, the A train is making all local stops.  And of course, we end up “being held because of train traffic ahead of us… please be patient” even though it took damn near 20 minutes for the train to come to the station in the first place.  1:50.  Awesome.  But the waitress says she’s gonna extend the free drinks til 3.  Nice!  Especially since everyone else had already pretty much finished their food, and I’m one of the few in the Ivy League Crew not trying to skip meals during beach season.

As more margaritas come our way (and of course, they can’t come fast enough), we start making more and more explicit sculptures with the little plastic figurines they put in the drinks.  Bitter Commie Grad Student gets sung happy birthday to by the very non-Mexican wait staff, and he gets a little piece of cake.  He sits by me, and I feed him the carbs, fat, and milk with a spoon (‘accidentally’ smearing it on various parts of his face).

 

Then the bill comes.  The great thing about Maracas is that they do a whole strobe light show with sparkers and shit for your birthday and that everyone’s brunch with unlimited drunks, uh, drinks is under $25 (maybe even under $20… I can never quite read the receipt by the time it comes).  The bad thing is they charge you for the show.  “$12 for a damn piece of cake?!”  Don’t forget the shot of cheap tequila. 

 

After that, the group migrates to Pieces. Obvi, if 3 hours of open bar wasn’t enough for me on Thursday, 2 hours of open margaritas def isn’t enough on Sunday.  I pound a few drinks with the crew before I suggest going to Folsom Street East. 

 

“Let’s go!”

“Yeah!”

“It’s only $10!”

“Bye.”

 

I can I please have friends who aren’t in grad school?  Oh wait; I do!  So I holler at ASFKAB, and of course he’s there.  I tell him I’m on my way up.  Get out of the train and call.  No answer.  Text when I get to the gate for about 10 minutes (it’s pouring rain, btw).  No response.  So I go in, figuring I’ll see him in the crowd.  Then 10 min later, my phone vibrates, We’re on our way to Brooklyn.  Really?

 

I take a deep breath and wait for my head to clear.  Then I realize that I really don’t need other people to have fun in a street fair full of furry 40 year olds!  Oh, I guess I should explain Folsom Street. 

 

Honestly, I don’t know much about the original one, which I think is in San Fran, and I’m too lazy to google it right now.  I’m guessing there’s a street in Castro (San Fran’s center of gay gravity) called Folsom, and every year they have a leather festival.  It gets kinda raunchy.  Now, they have one on the East Coast. 

 

The first thing I see when I walk in is a guy in a wrestler’s outfit pulled down to show the upper half of his very hairy ass walk up to a booth.  He’s talking to the guys behind the table for about 10 seconds before this guy (I’m assuming they didn’t know each other) walks up behind him, says something brief in his ear, then gets down on his knees, burying his face in cheeks to feast on fur.  I stood there under my umbrella, jaw-dropped, wishing I had an I-phone.  Or a hairy(er) butt.  These are all (richer) friends' pictures, btw.

 

There was a very aggressive and angsty drag queen on an outdoor stage who was making fun of people in the audience.  As I watched the show, this elderly couple (I mean, they had to be in their 60s at least) starts whipping each other.  The one with the leather vest was getting lashed (okay, not that hard and he had the vest on to shield him, but very consistently) by the other one. 

 

A (real) girl with a great voice and 4 dancers performed.  Then came the real show.  The drag queen called out a bunch of porn stars (and judging from the bodies attached to these names, maybe I should start watching leather porn) who came to the stage one by one to receive their applause.  Then she was handed a miniature version of the Empire State Building (illustrated above), and her next statement was, “We’re gonna have a little contest… [this is going exactly where you’re thinking] We’re gonna see who can take this the farthest up their hole!”  The crowd goes WILD!

 

The whipping continues. 

 

So then, they pull out a huge shower curtain, and some random guys are holding it at waist level.  All hell is breaking loose behind that goddamn curtain (or maybe they didn’t even take their underwear off… but I like my version better, so we’ll go with that).  Guys heads were disappearing (or getting pushed down), guys were bent over, holding on to the curtain rail, there was some definite thrusting action going on. 

 

The whipping bottom then takes off the leather vest and kneels. 

 

That’s about the time I ran into Ms. W (who just received her MSW and works at a sometime watering hole of the Ivy League Crew… originally connected through an Ivy Leaguer that you guys haven’t met yet) and his crew.  I tag along with them because I really don’t want to see this old man bleed (and Ms. W is fun when she wants to be).  Some of the highlights of our adventure: guys in scuba/latex gear; guys in gas masks shaped like animals; scantily clad real girls (we think); a Treasure Island Media poster featuring a close up of unprotected anal penetration (it was blown up so big, the hole had to be about the size of a human head); and muscle bears EVERYWHERE!  We didn’t bother with The Eagle for whatever reason. 

 

I was feeling kind of torn between going home (work tomorrow!) and going back to meet up with the Ivy League Crew, which I was sure was still out.  We’re walking up 11^th ave past the Jacob Javits Center.  We approach an intersection.  Ms. W is walking ahead of everyone yapping about something inane, and I’m looking very confused about the traffic light.  We had a blinking hand, but I looked up at the stoplight, and the perpendicular traffic had a green light.  I don’t remember whether I got a hold of Ms W.’s shirt or not, but there was definitely an SUV coming at at least 20 MPH.  The SUV screeches to a halt, and we all scream.  Ms. W was within 2 feet of her life (well, her wellbeing).  She scurries back to us, and the first words out of her mouth were, “We had the fucking light!”

 

I can’t.

 

Just as we’re recovering from Ms. W’s near-death experience, she announces that she’s going to see some movie that I didn’t have the attention span for (with some friends that I’m guessing I also didn’t have the attention span for).  She took her leave of us, which interesting b/c she was really my only connection to the rest of this group (though, I had met her roommate a few times before).  The roommate, who was stoned within 3 neurons of consciousness, took us back to their apartment and refused to leave.  His Hot British Friend (who spoke remarkably understandable English) was all about going out and drinking more, as was I.  Finally, after about a half hour of staring at each other, the Hot British Friend and his other friend convince Ms. W’s roommate to come out.

 

Note: I am not that good of a friend.  If you tell me you’re not coming out, I’m ditching your ass.

 

When we catch up with the boys at G (so not my scene, but that have this really Küte party on Sunday Nights with my fav: DJ Xavier), they are all about ready to be mopped off the floor.  According to some drunk girl, they had invaded the Hangar, one couple made out with Bitter Commie Grad Student, another couple had broken up, and people were dancing like we were at Pop Rocks (I mean, G is definitely a bar/lounge… not a dance club).  I look over in the corner, and Bitter Commie is making out with TOoMA (the short cute friend from Musical Mondays).  Wait, let me rephrase: TOoMA was straddling (not-so-)Bitter Commie, giving him a frontal lap dance, and making out with him like the Bel Ami star that she was in college (hey, you gotta pay that tuition somehow…).  You know that booth in the back of G that you can see from the bar?  Be careful where you sit. 

 

I run for my life back to the bar for a screw driver (who the fuck doesn’t have drink specials on a Sunday night… it’s not that “Küte”!) to help soak in the situation.  Then Puertopean comes over and starts boy watching with me, except he’s drunk, too, so he has absolutely horrible taste.  With every joke, he’s slapping me on the back, and that shit hurts (he’s a big guy)… but I kinda like it.  After about an hour and a half, I realize that this is way too much to handle on a school night, so I drag my ass home.  Did I mention I only have a week to rest up for Pride?  Yeah.

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