they tried to leave me and catch the ferry

The next morning, I woke up less than refreshed but happily donning only a speedo and a smile.  Drinks started pouring around noon.  The Architect brought some new clients by and then disappeared with them.  I wanted to say goodbye, but he didn’t have his phone on him.  I bade all the housemates farewell (including the very hot Pakistani young'n whose Muslim name got confused with mine the whole time I was there… even by the Architect) and left to meet the Ivy League Crew on the beach.

After a very brief stop at the Banker Gays’ house, I found the boys on the beach, which was pretty easy because Urban Sprawl never lies down.  For some reason, they thought it was okay to bring glass bottles on the beach (though white people don’t have to worry about laws or police and such, one of them did end up floating in the ocean, which is so not cool).  The cooler was filled with about twice as much vodka as mixer.  That, in combination with the lack of containers to pour/mix into, led to straight up shots (okay, gulps), which lead to Bitter Commie Grad Student stumbling (and grumbling) around the beach.  A lot.

That guy with the grey hair has a pretty nice body for his age.  And he keeps looking over here.  Is he annoyed by our music or checking one of us out?  Oh, wow, he’s definitely checking me out.  Hmm.

We stayed out til about 4:30 before Bitter Commie Grad Student started howling that he needed to leave the beach, so we packed up and went back to town.  I saw the Architect in the window of the Pantry, so I went in to speak and to grab an over-priced sandwich.  I walk in, and of course, the Graying Guy from the beach is there.  The Architect goes back to his shopping while I end up in line right in front of Grey.  We get to talking, and he’s very surprised that I’m not staying around for the Ascension Party.  "Well, I'm not going.  I'll probably just hang out at my house, but you should definitely go!"  Did you hear it's $100?  “But it’s a fund raiser!”  Bitch, it’s still $100!  I think keeping a black man out of bankruptcy is a 'good cause', too.

Y'all caught that, right?  My house?  Good.

Graying Guy and I walk out to the benches near the ferry where I learn that my friends had gotten more malt beverages.  And pizza.  Thanks, guys… I wasn’t thinking about getting food, but thanks for asking.  You know I’m lactose intolerant, right?  So Graying Guy and I talk sporadically (I'm turning between him and the Crew) until the Architect walks over and very subtly places himself between me and Gray (who had noticed the Architect in the store and probably purposely kept his distance) for a short convo before he headed back to the Palace.  Gray didn't have much more to say before I left with the Crew to 13 Atlantic Ave for some party we got fliers for (with free drinks!).

I really think we were the first people to arrive that weren’t working the event.  I saw the kid who was handing out fliers.  I saw what looked like the perfect place for a bartender to be standing (i.e., a bar).  But I saw no bartender.  We took a meander around the house, but after a  few minutes I asked as politely as I could, “Is there a bar here?”  The kid gives me a blank look for a full 2 seconds before finally realizing that he is the bartender and should be making our free alcohol.

It was a very cute set-up.  The entrance was on a deck with a pool, which they had partially covered with a platform (where the bar was).  There was a branded backdrop for red-carpet-type pictures, and they even hired a professional photographer (who asked me to “make that weird kissy-face thing you were doing before… that so hot!”).  The whole thing was a huge promotional event for various products and services, which were displayed throughout both levels of the house.  At one point, I looked up on the second level to see Urban Sprawl on the bacony lotioning his whole body with the tester moisturizer.

Products were sampled.

Drinks were had.

And cute boys showed up.

And Montel arrived with a Crew of his own.  We had seen them briefly when they had just arrived on the 5:30 ferry (for a day trip… huh?  Then again, he wasn’t exactly on time the last time when I invited him to Asbury Park).  I talked with him and his Crew (the only other black people there) for a while, mostly because I couldn’t deal with my Crew.  Bronx Newbie had stuffed his book bag with about 12 bottles of water. Urban Sprawl was obsessed with making someone’s small dog yelp by splashing the water with his feet.  And Bitter Commie Grad Student was just being a grumpy drunk (I see why she never made it to the beach before).

Then they tried to leave me and catch the ferry.  Not like they forgot about me and just happened to walk out together.  I saw Urban Sprawl grab his wheeler cooler and run through the house as if he was trying not to be seen rather than walking across the deck.  That’s what I get for being not-black-out-drunk?

Of course I catch up with the sneaky bitches before they make it the 150 meters to the dock to catch the ferry, which isn't due in for another 5 minutes.

Urban Sprawl, this is not Broadway above 157^th St.: you really shouldn’t be blasting your boombox.  Well I suppose if it’s “Emotions” by Mariah Carey that’s fine. Why did I run to catch up with them again?

It’s a long ride back to Manhattan for East Village Latina’s going away party.  I have all kinds of comments about the situation, but I’ll just leave it at the facts: she’s going to law school in Boston.  I dropped in on Bitter Commie Grad Student’s place for a quick change, and we all headed to Barrage.

This is when the night turned into a montage of flashes (brought to you by Svedka).  I remember seeing everyone who’s anyone among the Ivy League Crew.  I remember France Pants trying to convince me that one could inquire as to if a guy was “any cute” (this wasn’t a drunk thing, at least not for him… he looked it up and emailed me the next day about it).  I remember opening a tab (that didn’t get closed until the next afternoon).  And I remember being upset that my second screwdriver was $2 more than my first but not making a big deal about it.  I remember seeing East Village Latina for about 3 seconds, and I remember Bottomless Pitt rattling off a laundry list of substances he was on.  Whoa.

Did I mention I woke up the next day sounding like Harvey Firestein?  Yeah. 

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a 6’2 black guy sitting in my kitchen

For some reason, I was particularly excited about going out on Thursday.  So excited that I rushed home and broke out my paint-on white jeans.  After a disappointingly short disco nap, I hopped a train downtown to View Bar, a venue I hadn’t seen in quite some time (okay, I guess 2 weeks isn’t that long).  Adding to the category of trashy things I hadn’t seen in a while, MicHELLe was there!  Hey girl!

For some reason, the Ivy League Crew has started congregating towards the back of View Bar.  This week we ended up directly in front of the bathroom door (WTF?  It wasn’t even crowded!).  So guys would come up to the door and ask us if anyone was inside like we were the collective restroom attendant.  “I’m not sure… I don’t think so.”  That made for a few priceless moments, including me imitating the you-walked-in-on-me shriek as soon as one poor guy opened the door. 

MicHELLe and I had a very special moment a View Bar this Thursday.  He confessed to me that he’s a rollercoaster enthusiast.  Now, I really really like rollercoasters: I’ll usually make it a point to get on every rollercoaster when I go to a theme park (except for 6 Flags’ Kingda Ka… we have issues).  When MicHELLe said enthusiast, she means she’s traveled the country with her dad riding legendary metal machines.  “It’s the one nerdy thing about me.”  Honey, you went to an Ivy; I’m sure you can come up with at least a few more.

We stayed at View til about midnight and migrated to Splash (downstairs, of course), which was surprisingly roomy when we got there.  Sweet, more space for dancing!  Unfortunately, my pants were way too tight to really get into it, but I managed to work up a good sweat before too long. At one point, Bronx Newbie asked me if he should go to No Parking “on the way home” (perhaps attempting to get me to come with him since I live in the area), but when I saw him making out with a friend of a friend, I figured that’d be one stop he wouldn’t be making. 

Morehead made an appearance, and it was the first time I had seen her since her Birthright Israel trip (gotta love a culture that calls international travel a ‘birthright’).  Looks like she had brought back a souvenir: a tall, strapping Israeli soldier.  Funny, it was impressive when Morehead said it, but don’t they all have to be in the army at some point in that country?  Anyway, part of me wanted to ask if Morehead was sharing her new boy toy, but I settled for a lingering hug and a sleepy train ride uptown. 

Friday, I managed to slip out of work an hour before expected.  Train, van, ferry, and I’m in the Pines on Fire Island!  The Banker Gays had their weekend, and I had promised Rosey I’d stop by their house at some point.  It was about 9 when I got out there, and I texted the Architect to see if they were still at Sip 'n’ Twirl in town or if they had made their way back to the house yet.  No answer, so I made the long trek out to the Palace.  Mind you, I’m walking through a wooded area with no streetlights (or streets, for that matter) by myself.  Not like, oh, there are a couple of boys 20 meters ahead of me, but like not a goddamn soul in sight for the last half of the journey.  I have this fear of getting mugged for my flip-flops and sunscreen on Fire Island, but I figured if I walked faster, I’d get to the house faster. 

I get there, and the Palace is pitch black.  Not even a bedroom light from someone being lame and staying in.  FUCK!  Then after about 20 minutes, this white guy I’d never met before comes up the poolside entrance.  I threw out the Architect’s name before even mentioning my own in my introduction to set him at ease (I know I’d be freaked out if I saw a 6’2 black guy sitting in my kitchen).  Within a half hour, everyone was back, and dinner preparations were in full swing. 

This weekend, the Red Bear had come out to the Palace with one of his exes (who was also a bear).  Red Bear has a very impressive muscular build and an even more impressive coating of bright orange hair.  What makes him so hilariously endearing is that as soon as he opens his mouth, you expect a Prada bag to fall out of it.  Part of the dinner conversation was he and his Ex going back and forth about who was The Daddy for the weekend.  I had all kinds of pornographic fantasies playing in my head, but apparently they’re strictly non-sexual now (damnit). 

Of course, dinner happened sometime around 11, and no one left the table for at least an hour and a half.  The young lawyer of the house (he may be in his early 30s) was seeking advice from the housemates about his attire for the underwear party, and the Architect was being brutally honest.  Being that the young lawyer and I aren’t particularly close, I wasn’t sure about whether I was allowed to laugh at that or not (but I did anyway).

The Architect whispered in my ear as we left the Ex and another housemate out on the deck alone at the end of the night: “What the Ex doesn’t know is that the other housemate and his boyfriend aren’t monogamous, so that’s not just ‘friendly late-night convo’ he’s having.” Did I mention everything about the Palace is amazing?  Yeah.

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trying to avoid some “Harlem White Boy”

Due to my commitment as Host of our friend Strep, I missed a big Thursday night wear-a-deep-v-neck birthday party for a friend of the Ivy League Crew.  From what I hear, everyone was 'in rare form' (that must be a reference to uncooked meat b/c the condition of being fucked up is hardly rare for these girls).  Friday, I went home and slept for a few hours before meeting Don Juan from San Juan for a surprisingly dull night at No Parking (not crowded at all and they charged a cover).  Saturday night, I stayed in and slobbered over Men’s Olympic Gymnastics and swim (and was outraged that Ian Thorpe retired… how he doin’!). 

Sunday, I was feeling much better.  I had planned to take my Hippy Cuz on a Water Taxi ride with the boys to Riis Beach.  Ernie was the one who got all excited about the spectacular views when she planned it, but in the end, she flaked for Brunch and told us she’d meet us at the beach.  It ended up being Hippy Cuz (who, by the way, is actually a girl and my younger cousin... only in town for a few days), Urban Sprawl, and me.  So we said fuck the view; we’ll take the subway.

We get to Riis Beach, and it’s far from Beach Weather.  I had heard it was normally a black beach (I’d never been there except for Black Pride), but today was almost exclusively Latin, which was perfectly fine with me (ask Urban Sprawl about her stereo envy from that day).  Ernie joined sometime between the short rain shower and the maditory evacuation of the beach due to lightning.  So what did we do?  We hopped a bus to Long Island City to drink at Urban Sprawl’s place!

The 4 of us sit in the back of the bus, and some of the Latin guys came to sit beside me.  I moved over to make room, and one of them said, “Thanks.  You know, even the big guys can fit in a small space if you know how to make room.”  It took me a good half a second to trigger the How You Doin’ response: “So, do you know how to make room?”  “Oh, yes, but my friend over there: he’s a pro!”  Within 5 minutes, everyone was introduced, and they had broken out an orange juice bottle and a Subway cup of red wine to pass around.  Oh, and did I mention they had 2 magnums of red wine in the bookbag over thre and a friend with a boom box playing Bachata? 

Turns out the guy I first talked to was their version of Dina LoHands.  We all chatted (well, it was mostly he who talked) the whole way through Queens (no, really… we had to traverse a complete diagonal of Queens on this bus).  Thank God Hippy Cuz had the sense to take very small sips from the wine because she was staying with our grandmother and had to return before she got robbed or raped on the way home (the only fates that await a young woman after dark in Queens according to our grandmother). 

We declined an invitation to dine and drink with them in Woodside.  I would have gone just for an adventure, but we did have a ton of our own food, thanks to Ernie, who never comes to the beach without a 3-course meal for 5.  At Urban Sprawl's place, we had a very nice lunch/dinner as well as a couple of drinks.  Ernie ditched, Bottomless Pitt replaced, and we went to Chi Chi’s.  Bye, Hippy Cuz.  YOu can drink next year!

I probably shouldn’t have drank anymore (I was trying to take it easy since I was just coming off that infection), but I just couldn’t turn down the 2-4-1 special.  Bottomless Pitt tried to ignore the doorman she made out with a less than month before (the doorman didn't appear until after we had parked at the bar), but I greeted him egregiously and enthusiastically: “Oh, well look who it is!  How you doin’!” *wave* Of course, Urban Sprawl had the flask.  And of course, he didn’t need it.  He could barely keep his head off the bar by the time Bottomless Pitt and I got our second drinks (well, Miss Pitt may have been on her 3^rd or 4^th by this point).  For some reason, we thought the best place for us at that very moment was HK Lounge.

Apparently Hot Mess was not dead like we thought!  I had no reason to partake in the open bar (none of us did), but here comes Urban Sprawl with a vodka cranberry (most likely spiked).  I took it from her and gave it to Bottomless Pitt (I was more worried that she'd spill it than drink it).  Bottomless Pitt, meanwhile, was preoccupied with trying to avoid some “Harlem White Boy” that he had recently humped.  5 minutes later, the kid has his legs wrapped around Bottomless Pitt’s waist, and Miss Pitt is gleefully flinging her not-so-new boy around the dance floor.

Did I mention I can't deal anymore and I need to go home?  Yeah.

Note: you may find the "Topics of Discussion" (to the left) and the Cast of Characters to be of help in navigating this blog.

How to Comment on the Blog

So, I had a reader recently tell me on Facebook that s/he really liked the blog (thanks!) but s/he didn't know how to comment. It’s possible that other readers feel the same, so here's a short tutorial. Scroll down to the end of an entry (well, read it first). Look for the link that says "comments" just above the "labels" and just to the right of "Posted by Blackout Blog At [time stamp]" and click it. Leave a comment with or without your name. A diagram is below for your convenience. Congratulatory or critical, I'll post it as long as it's not totally against the spirit of the blog. Did I mention we LOVE comments? Yeah.

Beige Must Die (part 1)

Bitter Commie Grad Student had written a Rant on a subject that is very close to the whole Ivy League Crew et. al. in one way or another.  This subject was Beige.  Basically, it’s a bunch of psudo-celebs, people who think they’re fabulous, and Banker Gays (in the general sense, not the specific clique that’s connected to us, though they seem to frequent and like it too).  Very stuffy and boring, at least for me.  Every time I’ve been dragged there, it’s been more or less against my will (i.e., somebody’s birthday).  If you haven’t guessed, it’s one of the things I’m not a fan of: Gay Night at a Straight Bar.

Bitter Commie got a lot of response to his Rant (definitely check out the comments) and subsequently made a Facebook event called “Beige Must Die”.  The gist of it was that we’d invade en masse and make it fun for ourselves, pretty much destroying the stuffy vibe for one night.  Somehow, I ended up wearing a very boring t-shirt and jeans to work that day (let's just say I keep a change of clothes at my desk), but I had just received a package at the office from my favorite website that I won’t disclose (stop stealing my style!).  One of the things I had ordered was a set of white linen(-looking) overalls. 

Should I do it?  Fuck yeah.

I had some down time at work, so I took a look at About a Boy and His Briefs’s blog, and it mentioned National Underwear Day.  Times Square, runway shows, giveaways for everyone, all day.  Within 10 minutes, I had plans to join up with Don Juan from San Juan (who works close by) and walk down to the festivities.  Long story short, we walked down there to find that it wasn’t in Times Square this year.  The website mentioned Espace very vaguely (no address or anything), leaving out that it was an evening event that required an RSVP.  Upon return to the office, I found a flyer on Gayz of Our Lives and sent it to everyone I knew.

After work, I met up with Loosefur (which was exciting b/c we almost never hang out in person) and walked down to Espace.  I had emailed my RSVP and called to follow up, and some phone-manning twink (that's how he sounded, anyway) said that I was automatically added to the list and that there was no confirmation email.  When we got to the door, we weren’t on the list.  Loosefur was first, and the girl told him to go talk to some other girl with a clipboard.  The same girl didn’t see my name on the list or my company, so I started on this rant about how I had emailed and called twice.  She stopped me after about 3 seconds and waved me in.  Sweet. 

Loosefur was not far behind, and we headed straight to the bar.  Jack and Diet for her (she mumbled something about corn syrup, but between you and me, she really could stand to shed a few pounds), cranberry juice for me *no clapping*.  We found a spot near the catwalk, and of course, Loosefur runs into a gaggle of Hell’s-Kitchen-to-Fire-Island Gays.  Loosefur introduces me, and I receive the most apathetic handshake I’ve ever seen (I know we're below 96th st, but come on). 

Eventually the Syndrome joins us, and the show starts.  Most of the men are extremely hot (as the should be when they aren't talking). Loosefur is going on about legs, I can't stop talking about ass, and the Syndrome is loving everything.  To be honest, some of the girls are really hot, too.  Everyone  seems to be into the red head, but my favorite is the brunette who maintains an expression of utter joy while she walks.  It's as if she's just discovered she's pretty and is living it to the fullest.  “The bandages must have just come off,” Loosefur joked.  

After the fashion shows, Loosefur is checking out the white guys.  She even temporarily expands her tastes.  My favorite snippet of the evening starts with, “I usually don’t get into Middle Eastern guys, but…” (I like to think I'm having a positive influence on her).  Meanwhile, the Syndrome and I have a "drunk" dance party (great DJ).  Oh, and don’t forget the ambushing of the servers with food (bitch didn’t eat dinner at the office)!

Continued below in part 2.

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Beige Must Die (part 2)

Eventually, we left for Loosifer’s place so I could pick up my bag and change.  Nix the shirt, change into white underwear, voila.  After Loosifur’s dog damn near bit my leg off (luckily, the bitch isn't quite as racist as her dog), Syndrome and I peaced out to meet up with Bitter Commie Grad Student before heading downtown to Pieces.  We rally the troops there for a quick drink, and guess who shows up with a car?

6 people pile into Don Juan from San Juan’s Honda Civic (luckily, I had shotgun), and we head east to the venue in question.  As soon as we get to the right block, they all jump out to "hold a place in line".  I, on the other hand, stick with my girl so she doesn't have to find a parking spot alone.

After a 5 minute panic search for Don Juan’s license (which she didn’t find until the next day), we join the others in line.  Bottomless Pitt is pissed because she's “sobering up” and because she has to pee.  She storms over to Dtox on 2^nd ave to down a Long Island and relieve herself.  Meanwhile, one of the doors to B-bar (the venue where Beige is held) is painted a beautiful dark blue, so I get Urban Sprawl to take a picture of me in front of it (I have a thing for taking pictures in front of vivid solid backgrounds). 

I get the news that Dill Pickle is about 20 feet ahead of us, so I go up to say hi.  Apparently, the rest of the Long Island Gays couldn’t deal, so they ditched for Pieces.  She informed me that the line hadn’t moved for 20 mintues.  Even the “VIP” line was growing to a swarm at the door ( I’m guessing it’s the fire marshal’s fault).  Bottomless Pitt, sporting her Hot As Hell pink tank top above a pink-and-black cheetah design tank, added her two cents: “That’s the VIP line?  Just a bunch of useless, tragic people who think they’re more important than us?  Yet look where they are: outside, just like us!”  Well said, Pitt.  Rather loud, but well said.

Then it starts to rain.  As Missy said, “Chill, I got my umbrella.”  What she didn’t say was that I got it from Duane Reade, and the bitch has a diameter of about 4 feet.  Sorry, guys.  Around about 11:45, we give up and go to Dtox, which turned out to be an actual gay bar (not a gay night at a straight bar).  Cute venue, but kinda boring (then again, it was Tuesday… and I’m sure having the Cock on one side and Urge on the other didn’t help). 

Did I mention I was still sick and left for home around 12:15 (so I missed Britney Houston's performance)?  Yeah.

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What, you don’t piss in the shower? Well, you should.

Click here to read Part 1.

Boris locks up the motorcycle, and we go into Gym Bar. Turns out the guy he’s meeting up with used to go to my gym! Totally didn’t get a how you doin’ vibe from him, but he was definitely a fan of Boris. And guess who else Boris knows? Lucky the Leprechaun, the same bartender at Gym that one of my exes is best friends with. How do I always get into these situations at Gym (remind me to tell you about the time there were 4 ex incidents at the same time there)?! Luckily, it wasn’t awkward at all. I sipped my cranberry juice while they had their beers *no applause*, and it was all very friendly. Lucky even chopped us up some cucumber slices and baby carrots to munch on.

Boris and the hottie from the gym ride off to dinner in the E.Vil somewhere (though dinner could have not involved food at all), and I decided to take a look at the shops along the Catwalk while I waited for Bottomless Pitt to come west. Half an hour later, the two of us make our entrance onto the roof deck of The Eagle.

“So, do you PNP?”

“PNP?” (as if Bottomless Pitt didn’t know what the fuck that meant)

“You know, party and play.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, well have you ever?” God, this random is creepy. “Do you know where I can find some snow or some rock?”

I had no interest in talking to this scary dude, but I just had to interject at this point: “Wait, what is rock?” I really hope he’s not talking about what I think he is.

“Crack, man. Rock is crack!” I knew white people did crack, but I thought that shit was in old broke-down mill towns (hi, Lewiston, Me… go Bates!).

The guy ends up giving Bottomless Pitt a beer and about 10 minutes of awkward conversation until he wanders off to look for his “friends”. Maybe he shouldn’t spend his child support money on drugs (oh yes, he told Bottomless Pitt about his 4 kids already).

The next tragedy to impose himself upon us told us within 10 seconds of meeting us, “I live on Long Island in my mother’s basement.” He instantly tries to convince us to take our shirts off. “If you and your friend do, we will.” Mama’s boy did without hesitation (unfortunately, he’d been spotted more at the bar than the gym). He friend was a bit more reserved (read: sober); however, bystander volunteered his shirt. I’m not one for tops anyway, so I relented with Bottomless Pitt.

“Hey, do you ever piss in the shower?” I’m sorry? “What, you don’t piss in the shower? Well, you should. It’s great; you don’t even need to hold it.” He puts his hands on his hips and starts sort of swinging back and forth. “Is that what you do when you’re peeing in the shower?”

Oh. My. God.

"Dude!” I say to him, seeing a guy in his 60s coming by us. “I need you to bend over in 3… 2… now!” Mama’s Boy hits dude right in the crotch with his (surprisingly nice) ass. And he just stays there until the guy moves by him, unphased.

“Do you wanna smell my armpit?” This is why I love going out with Bottomless Pitt. Nobody else I know gets asked questions like this. “Come on, dude. I’ll smell yours!” “Yeah, Pitt! Do it. Just sniff his armpit,” I chime in. Miss Pitt was not having it.

Eventually Mama’s Boy stumbled to Penn Station, and we took that as our cue to leave. Did we go home? Pssh, you act like you’ve never read this blog before (welcome, if you haven’t)! We went to Chi Chi’s.

Bottomless Pitt orders a mimosa, but they’re still out of champagne from the last time she attacked the bar, so she gets a vodka soda instead. Out of nowhere, this short, balding white guy comes up to Bottomless Pitt and wraps an arm around his waist, saying something vaguely provocative. No introduction. Just fondling. They go back and forth for about a minute before he turns and actually introduces himself to me. He’s all over Bottomless Pitt, but soon he turns his attention in my direction. He ends up sitting on my lap on a stool at the bar and (I guess you could call it) grinding on me.

Bottomless Pitt and I are both laughing our asses off. In classic D. Kareem fashion: “You know, I think my friend Bottomless Pitt here would be much more comfortable with this situation if you took your shirt off.” Done. Even with the equity points he gains with his “consulting” job, I know I can't go there (sober). Honestly, he may have been better off at the Eagle, but he "accidentally" stumbled in on his way from the Pier (or the PATH). About 10 minutes later, he realized that we were just yanking his chain (and that that phrase was not about to be taken literally), so he pushes us together as he storms to the back of the bar in search of another Oreo. My favorite part was coming out of the bathroom to see him talking to another guy with dreds by the pool table.

Did I mention I had taken the next day off in anticipation of a hangover? Yeah.

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