“I’m about 10 minutes away from taking off my pants.”

Somehow, it was full daylight for a few hours before I actually managed to get to bed.  Urban Sprawl had made a Facebook event for a Pier-like gathering on the Great Lawn of Central Park for 12:30 in the afternoon (huh?).  I set my alarm for 2, but ended up getting up a couple of hours earlier.  ASFKAB had invited people on Facebook to some water fight, so we figured it would be a good coordination of events (but I’ll be damned if I get my swimwear wet).  

 

I dragged myself downtown to Prada Bag’s fabulous Hell’s Kitchen apartment to drop off supplies for the party (alcohol, balloons, Ivy League fruit salad [i.e., citrus soaked in alcohol]) before grabbing a C train to the Upper West Side.  I look to my left in the subway and with whom do I make eye contact?  Dill Pickle!  Yes, Dill Pickle and Bologna were in the same damn subway car as I.  I walk over to greet, and I see Biter Commie Grad Student standing like 4 feet away.  Weird.  Turns out everybody was about an hour and a half late for this event (it took us a good 20 min to find them from the train).   We get settled, towels and sheets get spread, drinks get poured.  I didn’t feel like finding a bathroom, so I sat down and did a quick change on my sheet, which apparently was a big deal because it became the topic of conversation for the next 5 minutes.  Then I took a look at our surroundings.  Baby, baby, kid, baby… not the ideal environment to be young and pretty (read: drunk and loud).  But we did it anyway!  At one point, Bottomless Pitt, in a speedo, bent over for something.  According to people who were paying attention to that half of the Lawn, toddler was scared by the gravitational pull and ran away screaming.  Poor kid.

Eventually, clouds start rolling in.  I heard thunder, and a minute later, some drunk ‘girl’ was like, “maybe it’s a sun shower.”  Well, how about you stay near this tree we’re under and wait it out while the rest of us go to Prada Bag’s.  Bye. 

We get to Prada Bag’s place, and it’s torrential downpour outside.  Inside, it’s about 80 degrees at 90% humidity.  I was wearing linen/cotton pants and cowboy boots (with my Manhunt tank top that I got at LA pride last year... all the gay black girls get the irony), so I was like, “I’m about 10 minutes away from taking off my pants.”  About two minutes later, Tighty Whitey shows up from the water fight completely soaked, so she takes off everything and joins the party in her speedo. Brilliant!  The rest of us are like, “Fuck this!” so we turn it into D. Kareem’s underwear party.   

Prada Bag has a chalk board in her kitchen instead of a wall, so people start drawing.  There ended up being a picture of a topless tranny with nipple piercings, a unibrow, and a dialogue bubble that said: “Yo estoy caliente un tranny.”  Yeah, it doesn’t make sense in English either.  And some bitch (Urban Sprawl) tagged a photo of it as me on Facebook.  Thanks    

2 gallons of Ivy League Fruit Salad later (i.e., 8:05… even though I was making a conscious effort to leave at 7:45), we jump in cabs and make our way to Big Apple Ranch.  There were people getting a lesson in the lobby of the building, but we raced up (in the elevator, of course) to the 5th floor where the dance studio was.  Apparently it’s free if it’s your b’day weekend (thank god b/c I literally had a dollar on me).  I grabbed Don Juan from San Juan, the most obvious, uh, follower, and started counting. Within 3 minutes we were doing whatever 3-count step they were eventually doing to a 4-count song (substitute triple and duple meter if you understand that better).  Then the line dance lessons start. 

Flashback: for those of you who don’t know, I tried (somewhat actively) to make it as a cruise-ship singer/dancer.  That means I went to 3 auditions and decided to finish college.  Why, you may ask… Well, besides having a so-so voice, I’m the worst at picking up more than 2 8-counts (that’s two eight-counts) of choreo at one time, but the next day, I’ll spit out the other 14 8-counts that I didn’t pick up.  Back to the present, I seriously felt like I was in a professional dance audition!  And Don Juan was picking it up better than I (bitch)!  

9:00 rolls around, and they open up the dance floor.  Absolutely none of the 18 guys with us know what the fuck is going on (and we’re probably the drunkest ones there).  ‘Trish (the Pediatrician) makes it no secret that she is not pleased to be there and that my friends’ attendance is a testament to their amazing love for me.   

So around 10:15, I admit defeat and declare that a) it was a good idea in theory and b) we’re ditching and going to Chi Chi’s.  The Bitter Commie Grad Student (whom the Bottomless Pitt was supposed to make sure didn’t impose her two drunk feet on anyone at the dance… Bottomless Pitt was nowhere to be found at this point) declared, “We’re not going to Chi Chi’s!”  “Okay, you’re not going to Chi Chi’s.  You stay here, but the rest of us are. Let’s go, girls!”  God knows what happened to her after we left, but she showed up 15 min later at the door of Chi Chi’s (and somehow the bouncer let her in!).   Chi Chi’s lasted about an hour at most (if I’m not mistaken… I was a big fan of the Fruit Salad) before I decided to ditch my own party and go to No Parking.  

I have no idea what happened there.  One thing I do remember is Don Juan and I getting shots from Lionel (and the salt shaker not working at ALL!).  Then I realized that Lionel is literally working behind the bar as a bar tender and should be tipped appropriately.  I called over one of the hot-as-hell bartenders to tell him that I wanted to put in a tip for Lionel hooking us up.  I slapped a $5 on the bar.  I blinked.  The $5 had turned into 2 shots.  And not clear ones either.  “Did you get us shots?”  “I guess so.  Cheers!”   I feel like we closed down the bar again.  

Don Juan and I were starving (Ivy League Fruit Salad only holds you for so long… and I had been partying since like 2 in the afternoon), so we went to the restaurant across the street.  She had to have some kind of Latin esandwish, which took forever.  I was just happy they had rice and beans with chicken stew.  Did I mention that I ended up with intestines on my rice and beans at the place on the same side as No Parking?  Yeah.  

Maybe Barack will pick her for poet laurite too!

I hardly know where to even begin describing the actual weekend that was my 25^th birthday (that's right: I'm no longer allowed to use "boi" in any screenname from now on).  I slept walked through doing absolutely nothing at work on Friday and headed home for the most delicious disco nap ever.  Urban Sprawl and Don Juan from San Juan agreed to meet up No Parking around 11:45.  The fact that Don Juan was coming was extra sweet because he definitely got the attention of the owner of the bar, Lionel.  This meant we would get to do free shots while Don Juan stroked his long, thick mane (and yes, that was the only thing he was stroking night… the only thing on another person, at least).  PS, we love Don Juan sans free drinks too (read: bitch, you’d better not fuck this up!).

 

So I get there and greet all the bar tenders, telling them “It’s my birr’day!  Happy birr’day!” in my awful Dominican accent.  It was surprisingly un-crowded, but the crowd doesn’t usually get thick until 1 anyway. Urban Sprawl shows up (running on just gay time, not Dominican time… I know you’re working hard on that, US), followed shortly by Fung Wah.  Fung Wah had texted me, What’s up for tonight, and I told her No Parking, totally not expecting her to trek up from way So of Ho all the way up to the 170s.  Well, tada!  The drinks start flowing, Rs get rolled, and dollar bills get stuffed into naughty places (and not just on the go-go gods, either).  12:30, no Don Juan.  1:30, no Don Juan.  If my memory serves me well, which after those long islands and that screwdriver, it probably didn’t, she didn’t chasse through the door until about 2:38am!  I know No Parking is fun later, but damn!

 

Pretty soon, the moment we’ve all been waiting for arrives: Lionel makes her entrance *applause*.  Don Juan couldn’t have played it cooler if I had trained her myself!  What a champ, or so I thought.  What I didn’t realize until Don Juan told me later that night was that when Don Juan had arrived, there was a line of about 20 people outside (as per usual at No Parking at that time), but Lionel just happened to be a the door and just happened to let Don Juan slide in.  So I guess we missed the blushing, the giggling, and the awkwardly high-pitched, “Hi!” 

 

Lionel greets us and goes to check on things behind some door (which just happens to be the same door behind which the go-go gods get changed… oh what you could charge for that surveillance footage) before tying his hair back and getting behind the bar.  I’ll admit: I have a thing for just about every bartender (okay, okay, that bar back too) at this bar, but I have to say that nobody looks hotter pouring alcohol at No Parking than Lionel.  So we’re all trying not to miss a moment between the go-go gods and the bartenders when out of nowhere clear shot glasses appear from behind the bar.  Petrón, of course.  And of course, Lionel takes a shot with us, and with none of that pour-it-on-the-floor-while-no-one’s-looking or act-like-you’re-chasing-with-a-beer-and-spit-it-in-the-bottle bullshit either (b/c you know I was watching for that!).  We had to beg him for salt and limes though (she likes her tequila straight[-acting]). 

 

At one point, this very short, medium-brown-toned woman with light curly hair (or it may have been dreds… I can’t quite remember) had done something rude early in the night… probably pushed past me without an ‘excuse me’ or something like that as she was walking by.  We decided we didn’t like her attitude for the rest of the night (we being me), and we named her Maya Angelou.  So every so often I would say something about Miss Angelou to the boys.  When Lionel came over to bring us more shots, I said, “Look, Miss Angelou’s joined us for a drink!  Maybe Barack will pick her for poet laurite too!”  Lionel kind of laughs and says, “That’s my mother.”

 

Not long after, Urban Sprawl played gay ninja and disappeared to Queens without a trace.  Fung Wah decided she couldn’t deal anymore and left when he saw a hint of ugly lights.  The end of the night is kind of spotty (I’m sure you can understand), but at 4:30, Lionel was making sure the bouncers shooed out everyone that was trying to be cool and stay in the bar.  “These two are with me, but anybody that doesn’t work here…”  Yay for actually being cool (even if only by association)!  I was done around 4:35 (Lionel was pouring wine), so I took my walk down St. Nicholas Ave.  Did I mention I was wearing spray-on white jeans?  Yeah.

It’s my goddamn birr’day!

25 Things I may or may not have done because just because it’s my birthday:

• Changed my facebook status every hour

• Winked a the hottie on the train

• Showed up to work late

• Spent 10 min tearing up my room trying to find my wallet only to realize that I wore slacks and not those jeans the day/night before

• Missed my subway stop for work (making myself even later)

• Made cookies for the office

• Made Exlax cookies for the office

• Yelled at Microsoft Office 2004 for trying to insert “Office 2004 Test Drive User”

• Pronounced “birr’day” with a Dominican accent

• Worn tight pants to work

• Flirted with the overflow of print advertising freelancers at work

• Unbuttoned an extra button on my shirt(s) that were tailored way too goddamn tight for the office anyway

• Yelled at Microsoft Office 2004 for trying to insert “Office 2004 Test Drive User” again!

• Read blogs all day

• Made fart sounds when people walked by my cube (particularly older[-looking] non-executives)

• Flossed in my cube

• Suggested that a friend show up to the Central Park water fight with a water gun full of lube (water based washes out better)

• Had allergies (ugh)

• Made fun of pleated pants in earshot of someone wearing pleated pants

• Whistled Muh Nama Nah to get it stick in other peoples’ heads

• Did a hair toss with my boss

• Is that not 25 yet?

• Given up on this list

not even going to pretend like I know what happened (part 1 of 2)

I lost my Puerto Rican Day Parade virginity this year.  Of course, I was coming back from tOWGA’s place.  He’s half Boriqua, but his white side must have been taking over that day b/c he definitely dropped me off in the Upper West Side around 1:30 on his way to the gym.  I booked it across town to meet up with Urban Sprawl.  It was actually a lot more tame than I expected, but then again, it was almost over by the time I got there (goddamnit, I missed Kat de Luna!).  Props to the lesbians for holding down the how you doin’ representation!  After lunch in Hell’s Kitchen, Urban Sprawl and I met up with Tighty Whitey (ironically named because he may be mistaken for being uptight b/c he doesn’t drink, and he’s Jewish, so he’s not quite white… at least not ‘up nawth’).  

We had forgotten how early it was (about 3:30), but we managed to find a bar that was open, Gym.  Eventually ASFKAB meets up with us (literally off the train from Fire Island, weekend Chanel bag and everything) for a couple of drinks.  Tighty Whitey got wrapped up with a friend, and Urban Sprawl had dinner plans, so ASFKAB and I ditch and go to The Eagle.  Mm, beef.  No really, they sell burgers and sausage out front on the grill.  After repeated attempts to benefit from the wind machine on the roof terrace (which was being blocked by a not-so-hot bear), I headed home to not do laundry.

Click here for part 2.

not even going to pretend like I know what happened (part 2 of 2)

Had to make this 2 parts because blogger only lets me have so many tags per post.  Ugh.

On a Monday afternoon, I get an email on facebook that a visiting friend of a friend with whom we were all vaguely familiar was leaving NYC and that we were going out to wish him farewell.  Why couldn’t this happen on Saturday?  Whatevs.  So after a good bit of back and forth, it’s decided that Musical Mondays at Splash is the destination.  I meet up with the Bitter Commie Grad Student and a short (cute) friend of his who knows quite a few people there (and who ended up getting kicked out for fighting some fat chick after I left).  Supposedly this leaving friend, along with Urban Sprawl, was meeting us at 7:30.  A long post less long, I stayed there about an hour before my Jewish finance friend (redundant?), Rosebud, resurrected herself from the dead (i.e., the CFA… an acronym that I never expected to appear on this blog) and joined us.  Rosey and I ditched (just as said friend arrived) and tried a couple of other places.  I wanted to go to WOOF!, but Rosey was being all “waaa, it’s empty in there!”  So what if there are 10 people in the bar; 5 of them do porn(NSFW)!  Barracuda was no better (actually worse: no porn stars) so I decided to throw my own porn party uptown (slash call it a night).

It was a pretty quiet week, thankfully, until Thursday.  After the gym, I met up with Urban Sprawl, who was out with a rather large group at Blockheads in Hell’s Kitchen (oh look, a block from my gym!).  Luckily I came right at the end because the rather large group ended up with a rather large bill.  I hate sorting a check with a group and will avoid it at all costs (even if it means settling for water with lemon and street meat later).  Anyway, I get a call from the Pediatrician (‘Trish, an older 20s medical resident whose target audience can be categorized as ‘Barely Legal’), who was “in the process of breaking up with [his] boyfriend” (does the boyfriend know this?) and looking for a party.  There was talk of inviting the group over, but as always happens with a large troupe, everyone is indecisive.  I can’t, so I ditch, and a temporarily torn Urban Sprawl is not far behind.  Over Sveka and Sprite, we share stories about ‘Trish’s time at Gay Days and my time getting “arrested” at the beach last summer.  

Around 9:45 (oops, we told ASFKAB, Dill Pickle, and Bologna 9:30), we headed to the subway and randomly ran into the Bitter Commie Grad Student.  The 3 of us loudly make our way down to View Bar in Chelsea.  Apparently Bologna wasn’t lying in her email from earlier when she listed her recent close encounter of the 8th (and thick) kind as one of the things to celebrate that night b/c we had a short convo about her love of poppers.  Fun!

5 or 6 $2 frozen cosmos later (thanks, Fung Wah), they rolled me down the street to Splash for the blackout party (yes, yes, the copyright case is pending).  I’m not even going to pretend like I know what happened at Splash.  Somehow, I made it up the stairs and ran into our friend Dina LoHands who insisted on taking me to Cafeteria, not for food but for more drinks (it just happened to be after midnight, which means it just happened to be my birthday).  The thing about Miss LoHands is that he always knows people wherever he goes, yet it’s never clear whether he has just met them and they adore him or if they’ve known him for years and adore him.  She’s that kinda girl!  It’s also not clear whether she’s in her 20s, 30s, or a really well preserved low 40s, but even the DMV doesn’t know her age!  

Dina LoHands picks up these straight girls and starts buying everyone drinks, laughing as she tosses her AMEX black at the bar tender.  At some point, I remember that I do indeed have to work the next day, so I thank the gracious Miss LoHands and take my leave.

As I’m walking to the A train, a friendly guy pulls up in a Toyota Highlander (not hybrid) and offers me a ride home (this isn’t the first time this has happened after a sloppy night at Splash).  He dropped me off and pulled his dick out.  Uh, thanks but no thanks, bye.  Did I mention you have to at least buy me a drink first?  Yeah.

if they’re gonna ask me to join in on a 3-some, I’m gonna be so mad! Part 1 of 2

Friday was definitely a recovery night.  After a very short disco nap, I tried to catch this live performance series called Uptown Live in Harlem, but apparently it was cancelled. So on the train ride back home, I contemplated going to No Parking, even if I slept til 1 and caught the last couple of hours, but I decided to get my rest instead. 

 

And it was a good thing, too, because Saturday was the Ivy League Crew‘s beach debut.  I invited Peace Corpse (named for her impressive resume item as well as the gay part of her social life), and she agreed to come!  Now, Peace Corpse is this white guy from the South I met on online who moved to NYC at the end of last summer for grad school.  We grabbed drinks after work, had some awesome convo, went out later that night, and ended up hooking up.  We haven’t hung out since… I don’t know, maybe September, but we got into this pattern of me inviting him out with the Ivy League Crew, and him always having something straight to do (or working on a paper… or just being lame b/c it’s a Tuesday night… who does that!).  Anyway, I was very excited b/c he seemed like he would really mesh with the Ivy League Crew (being an ivy leaguer himself).

 

So the plan was to meet at Penn Station at 9:50 to catch the 10:12 train.  I planned to get there early b/c I wanted to buy cups at Kmart for beverages.  My perfect plan to get to Penn Station in 20 min didn’t quite go as planned (since ALL the red trains decided to skip 59^th st… thanks Urban Sprawl), but I did run into Peace Corpse at Columbus Circle. Penn Station was a goddamn zoo when we got there!  I’ve never seen the lines so long.  Even the secret LIRR ticket machines were crowded.  Don Juan from San Juan called, and we met up with him (i.e., he cut the line we were in), and I taught them how to buy a Beach Getaway Package.  We ran into a few members of the outer circle who had already gotten their tickets, and we told Urban Sprawl (who was at the end of a very long line) that we were going to be in the last car so that we could get a couple of those 6-person buffet seats. 

 

Well, about halfway down, we realized that there weren’t that many people going to Jones Beach because we started seeing empty cards.  We still trekked down to the end car to be easily found.  Apparently Urban Sprawl and his people couldn’t be bothered to walk down to our private car, so we only had about half the group for the train ride.  Don Juan from San Juan and Peace Corpse sat across from me in 6-seater in the middle of the car.  Conveniently enough, the train stopped at Woodside where Ernie joined us (avec his partner, Bert).

 

At one point during the ride, Med School Mess told us about his first night at Chi Chi’s when he thought it would be fun to fake signing to this guy across the bar.  The guy starts signing back. Oops, he’s actually ‘speaking’ ASL, and Med School Mess doesn’t have a clue.  He ends up trying to have a written conversation with the guy.  If you’ve ever heard Med School Mess talk after two drinks, you can only imagine how illegible her handwriting is (appropriate for her field).  Needless to say, that convo didn’t go far at all.

 

Train, train, bus, bus, BEACH!  Actually, a funny thing happened on the way to the East Bathhouse (no, that’s really what they call it!).  We’re all standing at the back of the N88 bus.  I had been drinking a bit on the way (oh, like you’ve never started at 11am), so I really wasn’t editing myself (sorry, kids).  This guy in his 40s was like, “So, where’s the hot beach around here?”  I respond, “Well, it depends on what you’re looking for.”

“What do you mean.”

“Well, the mainstream beach is any one of these stops.  The how you doin’ beach is a bit past East Bathhouse.”

“What’s the how you doin’ beach?”
“Um… the alternative beach?”

Apparently he was ‘straight’.  He was also ‘in his 40s’ and ‘had no ring on his finger’.  Straight up the ass. 

“Could he not hear us talking!” Med School Mess exclaimed when this guy got off the bus.

“Of course he could tell we were gay!  We’ll see him trying to sneak over to our side of the beach later, talkin’ ‘bout “How you doin!”” I answered.  We amused a few fellow East Bathhouse-bound passengers.

 

There must have been at least 15 in our crew.  We passed by a group of demi-hotties about our age, but for some reason, we walked another 30 meters before we set up camp.  Urban Sprawl’s friend MicHELLe (named so mostly because he got drunk as HELL, but partly for a reason that will soon be explained) said something hilariously witty, so I pushed someone out of the way and extended my hand.  “I’m sorry.  You’re black, and I don’t know you.”  We quickly made friends, and pretty soon he was gleefully partaking in my Gatorade bottle of Svedka (I had just bought a case uptown for ridiculously cheap). 

 

Well, at one point, our very wild friend, Breederface, decided to leave the side of his friend (who was trying to teach us this really cool game where you only talk to new people in the form of one-word answers… très fun) decided that he had to pee and that the dunes were the perfect place.

 

FLASHBACK!  Did I ever tell you about the time I got arrested on the beach *cue harp music, dream wave transition*.  It was a day not unlike today.  Large gay group on Jones Beach with music and alcohol.  I always just go to the rope that sets off the dunes from the rest of the beach to pee (of course, looking out for police first).  A friend of a friend had met us on the beach, and she wanted to go over the dunes to pee.  I stumbled over with her, and we took care of business.  Then one of my friends (not connected to the Ivy League Crew, but I had invited him out) and his friend came over to pee.  Then they pounced on the friend of my friend, who put up no fight.  I sat down on a perch to enjoy the show.  Right about the time the friend of the friend's shorts came down, I see 2 guys on 4 wheelers pull up. 

 

We head back to our towels to get our licenses.  They take about a half hour to check our licenses and write us up tickets by hand.  The whole time, the friend of the friend is all like, “Do you know who my father is!  He works for the government!  I’ll get him on the phone right now!  Daddy!  Fish and wildlife is giving me trouble.  I need you to make a phone call.”  Did I mention he was closer to 30 than 20?  Anyway, my address on my South Carolina license was my parents’ address, so a month later (drinking on the Pier), I get an angry phone call from my mom.  “Just mail me the ticket, and I’ll take care of it.”  Well, a month later, she had forgotten to mail it, and she ended up just paying it herself.  And she wonders why I’m spoiled.

 

So it wasn’t a Naomi Campbell walk across the beach, but it definitely put a damper on the day. 

 

So, back to the present.  Breederface had obvi not heard this story yet.  “How much was yours?’  “I don’t know: my mom paid it.”

 

After that, Bottomless Pitt insisted on “doing another Destiny’s Child” (see Hide Your Public Liquor) back to the bathhouse.  Med School Mess was in the water, so we ditched her and hired her replacement, MicHELLe.  On our way, these two hoodrats  stopped us and asked us to take a picture with them.  I was a bit confused b/c 1) I wasn’t sure if they knew we were gay (straight guys wear speedos, right?) 2) stuff like that only happens to me at Black Pride and 3) shouldn’t LaShawn and LaDawn be on Coney Island or something?  Anyway, we took pictures with them. I cursed myself for leaving my copy of Kanye West’s first CD at home b/c I totally recognized their voices from that interlude: “Workout Plan”.

 

We eventually make our way towards the bathroom, but the sand is about 150 degrees Celsius.  I sprint while they do a little sand-so-hot prance in front of the straight people.  It wasn’t until I was washing my hands that I realized how extremely small my speedo was.  I mean, it fit, but it was just a very, um, slim cut in the front.  When we got back, Med School Mess was not pleased.  “Bitch, you can pee in the ocean!”

For part 2, click here.

if they’re gonna ask me to join in on a 3-some, I’m gonna be so mad! Part 2 of 2

For part 1, click here.

We were checking out a couple of guys that were about 20 meters east of us. Not sure how the convo started, but I probably called one of them over b/c I thought he was cute. Turns out they were friends of ASFKAB! In my usual style, I was flirting and not-so-subtly checking out one of their asses (he had a NICE one!). Turns out he was Polish (off the boat), and Urban Sprawl made a joke about the need for historical accuracy in that other countries usually invaded Poland. We end up talking in a circle, and at some point, it popped into my head (since this had happened at the beach last year) that I should shank Bottomless Pitt. Riiiiiiiiight NOW! The looks on everyone’s faces were priceless (especially BP, who was now bottomless and topless). To make a long blog post less long, she believes this event directly led to her making not-so-soft core porn on her blanket with ASFKAB’s friend, Bro Vandecamp. I had to turn around when I heard, “Don’t get off me. I don’t want them to see my erection.” . o O (Maybe Pitt is bottomless) Soon thereafter, Bottomless Pitt calls me over in a hushed voice. I’m thinking, if they’re gonna ask me to join in on a 3-some, I’m gonna be so mad! Turns out they were planning a cook out at Wesberry’s Westbury estate and wanted us to come over. And I was offered a ride back to Manhattan! Peace out, Ivy Leaguers.

‘Twas the end of the afternoon, and we packed up to go. MicHELLe was falling over from my generous Gatorade bottle, I had done some serious flirting with a Polish kid, and Bottomless Pitt was more than ready to go. It was at about this time that Fung Wah (not named because he’s Chinese, but because he lives in Chinatown, like the bus) showed up. Good timing. Fung Wah and Prada Bag (yes, she works in fashion) decide they want to join the BBQ. The “$10 cab to my house” ends up being $10 per person, but it was a spacious house with air conditioning. First order of business was to take a shower. Somehow, even with SPF 50, I got tan lines (see the "Shocker 2.0" picture above and to the left for skin tone reference). We had some more drinks, there was lots of grilled meat, I flirted more with the Polack, subtly sliding my phone across the table to get his number. I loved that I didn’t have to say a word; he just typed it in, typed in his name, and slid it back with the contact still open (so I could add “from the beach” to his name in case I forgot).

While I was not-so-subtly flirting, Bottomless Pitt was getting a blow job in the shower.

Westberry decided to stay in Westbury. Un4tunately there was only room for 5 in Bro Vandecamp’s vehicular, so Fung Wah and Prada Bag had to take the train back. I’m not even sure they’re friends, but they either love or hate each other after that LIRR ride. On the ride back, the Polish guy had a headache, so he requested classical music. Another one of ASFKAB’s friends, who was our fifth passenger, asked why we were listening to “fancy” music, which we all found… amusing.

I was supposed to meet tOWGA at Suite before our party at our Columbia Law friend’s apartment, but I ended up telling him to meet me at CoLaw’s (if you’re from SC, I’m winking at you) b/c we were running late. CoLaw, Bottomless Pitt, and their friend Bunifa (whose name shall be explained soon enough) were part of a group that called themselves the Hot Ghetto Mess Drinking Team during their Ivy-League undergrad years, so I knew I was in for quite the spectacle. The invite on Facebook included a picture of a watermelon bottoming for a (plastic) bottle of vodka. Wow.

I had forgotten that CoLaw or any of her roommates may have had straight friends until I got a firm handshake from some guy there. Because I obvi needed more to drink, I had some generic red juice from a cooking pot. And by generic I mean strong. tOWGA eventually came and spent much of his time in the kitchen saying ignorant shit to people that mostly couldn’t hear him (see why we like each other). After a couple of hours, I started to rally the troops to move on to Suite. Apparently, all the straight people had been scared off into one of the rooms b/c the gays had taken over the living room. Oops. I stuck my head into the room to tell Bunifa we were about to go. She had a small bottle of Maker’s Mark in her hand. And no cup. Amazed.

So we get to walking, and Bunifa is literally screaming (in delight) at Pubic Finance. Shrieking. Yelling. I whispered to Pubic, “I don’t think she’s gonna get into the bar. You might wanna be prepared to flag down a cab,” but he just shrugged it off.

We get to the bar, and there’s no bouncer. They were in the middle of a drag show, but the real show was happening in our corner. The DJ made all kinds of announcements to keep the middle aisle clear, and of course Bunifa takes this as an invitation to dance and prance there. The drag queen was pretty gracious and engaged her a bit, but Bunifa was a mess. At one point, she just spat on the stage. About 5 minutes later, the drag queen almost slipped on it.

A glass fell and broke. Oops. Another glass fell. Okay. When the 3^rd glass fell (keep in mind that she’s still screaming every so often and stumbling very so often… a friend later told me that she was actually throwing the glasses) the owner comes up and tell her to get out. They had stopped the show and everything. She starts out calm and offers to pay for any damage that was done, but the owner isn’t having it. He’s being assertive and on the verge of yelling, and she’s really not getting it. Pubic Finance offers (repeatedly) to be responsible for her and make sure she doesn’t do anymore damage (btw, she’s wasted too, but less obviously so). Finally the bartender (slash security) comes over and is a lot more aggressive. The whole time, she’s demanding, “What did I do?” to which they respond, “You need to leave!” It was actually kind of hilarious b/c when the owner came, she was standing, and when he approached her, she turned into the damsel in distress, shying away from him and acting timid. She backed into a seat on the wall as the crowd started yelling “kick her out!” When the bartender (slash security) came over, she was still sitting. He got up in her face, and that’s when she accused him of humping her leg. Really? So she gets up and starts to walk towards the door, yelling something about suing the place. I was genuinely scared. Not so much because I thought they would kick me out too. More because I thought she was going to start swinging and it would turn into a messy brawl. Hello: I had braces for 3 years in middle school, and I cant really work out with a broken rib. That rules out ALL fighting.

The show goes on after they get her out. The drag queen falls HARD at one point and says, “I’ve been waiting for that to happen for 3 years, so thank god I got it out of the way!” Then she jumped off the side of a buffet into a split. I couldn’t. So tOWGA and I left. And Bunifa, Pubic Finance, and PF’s BF were still outside the bar. Wow. Oh well, time to go to Connecticut (okay, okay, Westchester).

Because obviously she needs to get more $2 margaritas in her system

ASFKAB had her birthday at View Bar.  Even though I was tired as HELL from our Wed night outing, I drag my ass to the gym because I really don’t feel like dealing with the gym after work on Friday.  I show up around 8:45 and ASFKAB and his boy situation ) are there with a rather large group of gays.  I meet and greet his friends, and as usual, I have trouble remembering whom I’ve met and whom I haven’t.  Usually I just act like we’ve already been introduced.  I’d rather be rude than embarrassed.  Note: ASFKAB's Facebook relationship status "upgraded" just today,  so I guess they're official.  

 

I get myself a $2 frozen cosmo and start up an awkward convo with a group of guys (because the Ivy League Crew doesn’t show up for anything before 10), and I really ended up connecting with this one guy.  We talked, we kee-keed, we tossed hair.  It was kinda awesome b/c he played queeny for comedy’s sake, but he was really (really) cute.  I wasn’t sure which hand to play until his friend beckoned him outside for a smoke break.  Friend Box! 

 

Finally members of the Ivy League Crew start to trickle in.  Bottomless Pitt arrives first and comes back from the bar with two unknown frozen drinks in glasses!  Bitch, how the fuck did you get glass when I’m the one that flirts with the bartenders every week! 

 

I have to admit that I am very guilty of facebook stalking.  If you’re a friend of a friend whose profile is open to the public and you’ve said that you’re attending an event, I’ve probably looked through your pictures (and posted one on hotornot.com). One profile in particular stood out to me.  This friend of ASFKAB had a very Manhunt-esque profile pic.  I scrolled though and found a youtube link to a stand-up routine he had done.  It was pretty funny, but what really got me was a) how handsome he was, b) his great body (ass like whoa!) and c) how fucking queeny he was on stage!  Of course a big Nelly is a lot funnier to laugh at than a butch queen, so I figured he was putting it on.  Unfortunately, he literally came into View Bar, kissed ASFKAB on the cheek and walked out.  On his way out, I creepily introduced myself and told him I liked the standup.  Turns he remembered me from last summer because we were sitting together on a trip to Fire Island (or I was drunk already and he heard my convo from across the LIRR car).  Shit.

 

ASFKAB is getting about as drunk as a girl should be on her birthday.  At 11:05, I realize there are over 20 people in our gaggle of gays, so I start rallying people to go to Splash in 15 minutes.  ASFKAB’s all like, “Let’s go at 11:30.”  Because obviously she needs to get more $2 margaritas in her system. 

 

We finally walk over to Splash.  One of ASFKAB’s friends complains, “Are we walking all the way to Splash?”  “Well, honey, if your heels are going to hurt you that much, you can take a cab, but we’re walking.”  The Ivy Leage Crew heads downstairs as usual, but ASFKAB’s clique is a little more into the mainstream, so they stay upstairs.  It was about 15 minutes before the Ivy League Crew joined them.  I wasn’t trying to be tired in the morning for upstairs at Splash, so I peaced out.  Did I mention I hate gay music?  Yeah.