Yet another Friday night of people being scattered. I certainly didn't want to stay in, so I hit up Rockit for the open bar before heading down to Chi Chi's where a trans-woman hit on me. I swear, if I were as popular with men as I am with them, I'd be On Saturday, I went to the gym, wearing my workout gear and packing my street clothes. When I got dressed after, I realized the sleeveless hoodie I had packed had no zipper. Someone had tried it on and broke it last time I wore it. Yup, I was that guy on the E train who may as well not even bother with a shirt. But the worst kind of douchebag is the kind who is ashamed of his douchebaggery. So I rode the train and walked down Christopher St. like a proud, spike-haired, orange-skinned, Staten Islander.
Urban Sprawl met me at the Pier, and Mr. MTA found us about a half hour after we sat down. I figured he was just saying hi as he passed through until he put his stuff down and sat down. The then proceeded to talk for the next 2 hours. At first, I definitely felt like my boy watching was being infringed upon, but he ended up having a few really good MTA stories.
Bottomless Pitt met us, and we ditched for Pieces for a couple of drinks.
“What’s this blog I heard about, and what’s my nickname?” 5-foot 8x6 yelled as we walked into the bar.“I keep a blog of our adventures, and your pseudonym is 5-foot 8x6.”
“What’s that mean?”
I then had to explain to him that his demographic is believed to be well hung. In front of Real Girls who were sitting between us and the bar. I really needed that first drink.
After a few drinks, the 3 of us dropped by Urban Sprawl’s to pick up a bottle of liquor he had brought for a house party in Stuy Town. I’d never set foot in that part of the City, so I was looking forward to the Nautical theme party. On the way, I made the boys stop at Walgreen’s so I could buy some safety pins for my zipperless hoodie. It’s one thing to be a douchebag on the streets of New York; it’s another to walk into a stranger’s house with your tits out.
I should mention that Urban Sprawl was the only one who (vaguely) knew the host who had invited him, and when we walked into the party we saw few familiar faces. Some of the guys had their shirts off. We made our drinks and walked into the crowded living room.
Bottomless Pitt: “I think we’re the only people of color here.”
Bottomless Pitt had just manscaped his chest, so he took his shirt off “because it’s itching.” In the 20 mintues that we were there, no one talked to us outside of an “excuse me” to get by. Morehead soon arrived and saw the shirtless boys, wasting no time doing as the Romans.
“Oh, look,” some random said, smiling at Morehead, “other guys took their shirts off!”
Me: “And you’ve had your shirt of for how long?
Bottomless Pitt: “Exactly.”
The combination of the smoking in the corner and the depletion of the mixers was too much for me. Morehead and I ditched for a cab to Chelsea for a house party that Tighty Whitey had texted us about. There were far more familiar faces at this party, and the unfamiliar ones were much more friendly. A tall, in-shape, handsome, salt-and-pepper-haired man introduced himself as the host. Me likey.
Around 1, some woman busted into the apartment screaming about the noise. I mean, she was pissed! A Real-Girl friend of the host (who could barely stand at this point) confronted the woman, and it almost escalated into a physical fight. They were able to get the woman out of the apartment, but she was banging on the door for a minute or two. Morehead and I took this as our cute to leave. Two or three flights down, the woman had her door open, making snide comments to people walking down the stairs.
After an uneventful drink at Barracuda, we hopped on the 1 train and called it a night. Did I mention I was leaving for Las Vegas the next day?
Check out a drama-filled night with the Ivy League Crew. Click here.
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