For every big event that happens in NYC, I always come up with ideas for group costumes, but no one ever follows through. For example, Gay Pride was going to be homo thugs in the colors of the gay flag (each person picks a color and dresses appropriately… the Ivy League Crew et. al. is far from thuggish, btw). For the Black Party, since most of us couldn’t or weren’t willing to put up the money for leather gear, I thought it’d be fun to make bootleg harnesses out of cock rings and hardware bungee cord (preferably neon). Four or more obviously non-leather queens prancing around the Black Party in this getup would be great fun, right? Okay, maybe I’m a bit delusional, but I made a Facebook event to shop for supplies, inviting the most likely candidates (i.e., people who had responded yes or maybe to the Black Party invitation) and gettting 2 confirmations and about 7 maybes. The plan was to meet at Pieces at 7. We’d knock out the shopping, and I’d only be a little late for the St. Patrick’s Day dinner SoHo Crush was having.
I ended up leaving my place a bit early and catching an express train, so I got to Pieces around 6:45. I got the usual 170-decibal greeting from 5-foot 8x6 as I bellied up to the bar.
7:00 – Nobody.
7:15 – Nobody
7:28 – I finished my drink and hopped a train to SoHo. Pissed.
7:34 – A text (paraphrased): Gonna be late… had to eat… meet you at the store. (Maybe AT&T held up delivery of that text for an hour.)
7:48 – I’m over it because I’ve been egregiously late in the past, myself (but I usually text). I get another text from a different friend: Where are you?
After that failed attempt, I found extraordinary comfort in whatever was in the green punch SoHo Crush was serving. SoHo Crash and Pretty Betty were fretting over the corned beef and cabbage while the rest of the guests mingled and chatted.
"Hey, weren't you one of those guys who did that dance at the last party?"
After eating way too much for the tight shirt I was wearing (I’d forgotten how tasty corned beef is when it’s not in a hash), I took SoHo Crush’s insistence that everyone buy a $5 card for a round of Bingo to be my cue to exit.
Bottomless Pitt texted me, so I called him back (which is rare for me).
Me: Hey, uh, where are you?
Pitt: I’m on the East Side. Me and the Hot Ghetto Mess Drinking Team [from his Ivy-League undergrad days] have been doing a pub crawl since noon. What do you have going on? No, you’re a hot ghetto mess! Ha!
Me: Is that [girl I know] yelling?
Pitt: Yup. Wait, is this the subway? Uptown? Yes! Bye! Okay, I’m back.
Me: Come to the Village. The Architect’s having people over.
Pitt hustled his way across town, and we conquered the 5th-floor marble-stair climb to the Architect’s ironically small apartment (considering the size of his house on Fire Island).
“Hellooooooo,” the Architect greeted, ushering us into the kitchen with a kiss on the cheek. He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Right now it’s only the Jerrys, as [the Architect’s best friend whose large house on Fire Island is across the boardwalk from his] calls them, but, D. Kareem, I think you know everyone here. You can introduce.”
“Who the hell do I know named Jerry?" The Architect gave me a look. "Oh, the Geries?!” I almost choked on the drink I didn’t have yet (thanks, host). “Wow, that’s not nearly as flattering as your ‘Sexy Sexagenarians’ name! Then again, it is [best friend].”
I introduced Bottomless Pitt to the rich, white-haired queens who regaled us with stories of Old York. The stories of all the drugs they did to make it through 8 hours of dancing at the Black Party were particularly entertaining, and they gave us a very vivid explanation of what 'Trail Mix' was. The Architect piped in with a walking-back-from-Cherry-Grove-was-the-only-reason-we-were-in-the-Meat-Rack story that involved the phrase, “here, sniff this.”
Somehow in the time I had a single drink, Bottomless Pitt had downed 3 beers (I only saw 2). We took our leave of the Architect and his, uh, very experienced friends and headed to HK Lounge for Mike Dreyden’s birthday party. Bottomless Pitt was totally anti, but I offered to pay the cab. This is when I remembered I had left my AMEX at Vlada. On Wednesday.
I walked in the door, and within 2 seconds, furry arms were wrapped around my neck.
“I’m so glad you could make it!”
“Oh… well, my pleasure.” I was taken aback that this gaylebrity knew who I was (even if only by hair face). Though it was doubtful, I asked, “Is it still open bar?”
“Ugh, not anymore. That was a whole nightmare. Oh, and I read your blog!” Oh my god…. What did he read! What did I say? A gaylebrity read my blog?! “I’m so going to use that whole Facebook Limited Profile thing!”
“Oh... glad I could help!”
M. Dreyden went off to go play host, and Pitt and I got a drink. Turns out it was the bartender that always recognizes me from the gym. You know, the hot one that says hi, smiles, winks, and never gives me a free drink? Yeah. Her. Luckily, Peppermint was just grabbing the mic and warming up the crowd.
“Where’s the birthday boy?! Get him up here! You guys wanna see a show? DJ, put on a song!” Mike got about 10 seconds of spotlight before they cut Peppermint’s mic back on. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no! We did not bring you up here to lipsync Madonna; that’s what I’m here for. We wanna see some ass! You guys wanna see some ass?”
Ass we wanted, and ass we got. And according to M. Dreyden, “This is 40-year-old ass.” Not only did we get ass; we got discounts to some spa in Chelsea (tossed, to lux for me), a discount for hot nude yoga (tempted, but I have issues with prolonged nudity around people I’m not planning to fuck), and a 3-day pass to (Sh)Equinox!
Excuse me, which way is the steam room? Thanks.
We made our exit after the giveaways and with the intention of going to Chi Chi’s, but ended up at the Hangar’s late-night happy hour.
And we had a celebrity sighting along the way!
Come on, Charli Baltimore is still famous!
Did I mention I have no idea how I got home? Yeah.
Speaking of gaylebs, I met Colton Ford once, too. Click here.
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