Med School Mess had sent out a Facebook invite on a Tuesday in anticipation of the 88-degree afternoon that Saturday. Of course, we were headed to the Pier. After a friendly breakfast with Duplex, I prepared a Gatorade bottle and headed down to the Village to meet the boys.
When I arrived around 3:30, the Pier was packed! One might expect to have trouble finding one's friends in such a mob, but mine were the loudest and darkest group on the grass. Once I stripped down to my speedo (what, I want an even tan, too), everything turned into constant ridiculousness, including us doing the dances to “Bad Romance,” “Damaged” and “Telephone.” But with all the ridiculousness going on with our crew, I stopped in my tracks when I saw nightlife personality Markus Kelleman show up in a pair of briefs and a collar of black feathers! I couldn’t deal.
Prince of Persia, who had hosted BRITney's military-themed surprise party in her Upper West Side studio, hung out with us for a bit before she disappeared, and a few of us got her text about a gathering at a nearby apartment with outdoor space.
Med School Mess: “We should split a bottle and go!”
Me: “Hold up. Do you not remember how she invited us to that party on Halloween in Hell’s Kitchen and neglected to tell anyone that she was still in Brooklyn? The last thing I need to do is spend money on a bottle to have some queen get all weird because a group of guys of color she doesn’t know showed up to her door. Why don’t we call Miss Persia '06 to make sure that a) she’s there, and b) she knows we’re all coming.”
I didn’t hear the conversation myself, but apparently they made the call and confirmed. So this cute, twinky white guy opens the door with a Wishbone dog in his arms, and all 10 of us come in single file like we're in a scene from Animal House. We all filed through the railroad-style apartment to the sizable back yard.
Me: “Hey, do you have any cups?”
Hostess (with the slightest hint of attitude): “Well, I wasn’t exactly planning for people to come over, and I really don’t wanna use glasses.”
Morehead’s Chelsea Boyfriend (with geographically-appropriate attitude): “Well do you have ice?!”
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| image from theyounthappenings.blogspot.com |
. o O (Dude, expecting a gay 20-something who’s actually planning to host something to have ice is a gamble. And not a good one.)
Luckily, and not at all surprisingly, Urban Sprawl had brought small Styrofoam cups for the container of screwdriver he’d made to share on The Pier. We’d brought our own mixers (we're self-sufficient partiers like that), so people started pouring drinks and helping themselves to the 4 extra-large pizzas the host had sitting out.
Halfway through our first drink, Prince of Persia came out of the apartment and told us we had to leave. I pointed out that we were a large group, but Bottomless Pitt wasn't having it.
Pitt: “Fuck that! He knew how many of us were coming! Why else would he have ordered all that pizza! There were 4 goddamn people before we got here! We obviously weren’t ‘cute’ enough for him to host.”
Me (not so subtly to Prince of Persia): “Well, does anyone wanna host? I mean, we could go to my place in the 170s…”
Prince: “You guys can come to my place.”
We filed out of the house to the sound of the host saying, “Bye!” to each of us a little too cheerfully (not unlike a cunty flight attendant). Prince of Persia wasn’t coming with us immediately, but he had given Urban Sprawl his keys.
We got to Prince of Persia’s studio, and it was obvious he wasn’t expecting company. But at least he had stripped the bedsheets (god knows what kind of incriminating forensic evidence one could have found... and by god, I mean our resident queen of gossip, Urban Sprawl). I stayed for about a half hour before I left to meet DCR in Chelsea.
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| image from winewriter.wordpress.com |
I arrived to dinner at Nisos with DCR (remember him from Sydney?), his 3 gay friends and a straight guy. As soon as I picked up the menu, it became clear why I’d never been inside this restaurant that I walk past at least weekly. The others were ordering appetizers, entrees, drinks (drinks at a restaurant?! A Blackout Budget no-no!). Thankfully, there was a cheapo page a variety of sandwiches and lighter dishes.
When the check came, I heard, “Everyone got an entrée and a couple of drinks right? So how much is that per person?”
Me: “Um, I got a wrap...”
Grrber had told me about how going out with his rich friends usually involved wine “for the table” and him paying over $50 for a single entrée. This was not happening to D. Kareem. But we figured out the bill rather quickly. I ended up putting in $20 for my chicken caesar wrap and tap water.
It happened to be the birthday of a friend whom I had met at Calipornia's FiPi party, so I made my way to Barrage to join his party. About an hour in, I ended up making out with a nicely-bulked, tall, dark-skinned guy who ended up giving me his number because he couldn't host and didn't want to travel to WaHi (ugh).
“Well, if I’m not gonna get laid, I may as well get drunk. And I don’t wanna hear anything about me not being into black guys ever again! Take notes, Bottomless Pitt.”
After procuring another drink, I was introduced to Socialite Commentary. We'd exchanged blog comments a couple of years ago, so it was funny to meet him in person. I'm not sure I'd even seen a picture of him. Turns out he lives in DC, and turns out he’s cute! For a while, I thought I was getting a vibe from him, but then I observed that everyone he talked to was getting that vibe. Frankly, by the time we walked out at 3:45am, I couldn’t wait to get home to my computer and my large, empty bed.
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| image from rockthetrend.com |
By the time I got to Highbar the next day, the open bar was over, and Bottomless Pitt was over it. After hitting up a couple of bars and grabbing the one meal I ate that day, we went down XES for karaoke. It was downright desolate there.
I sang "Telephone" (at the end of a weekend of yelling, I growled it an octave lower AND did the dance, not realizing that the super-talented Broadway hopeful that I’d hooked up with a month earlier was present and silently judging… but then I realized he came with another guy, and I got over it) and ditched for Küte at G Lounge.
Of course, I ran into Duplex. He was with one of his 6’6 friends who happened to be a very masculine voguer. After 3 drinks there (fuck!) I somehow got dragged to Hiro (luckily, they knew the doorman).
Duplex’s friend: “Is that Alek?”
Me: “Who?”
Duplex: “I can’t really see—”
Duplex’s friend: “OHMYGODTHATSHER! I can’t! Does anyone have a camera. I have to get a picture of her. I’m a model, and she’s like a supermodel. This is so huge!”
I happened to have my camera on me, so he went over to go ask for a photo. She was very nice and posed for a couple of shots. I literally didn’t realize who she was until I looked at her on the LCD after I took the photos.
Duplex’s friend gushed about it the whole night.
Duplex: “Babe, what time were you go to work?”
Me (groggily): “10.”
Duplex: “I think you’re late… Yeah, you’re way late.”
Did I mention I hate Monday mornings? Yeah.
Click here to check out the first time I met Prince of Persia.
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