Bring your strap-on! (NYC Pride 2010)

Pride in NYC is always on the last weekend of June. It was a rather insane weekend, and I lost Friday night’s post. Here are the important details.

Hardy was a friend of Prince of Persia’s who was visiting from out of town. I call him Hardy because he looks like he wouldn’t be too uncomfortable in Ed’s designs… he’d actually look really good in Ed Hardy gear. Anyway, he was renting Burnadette Peters’ boyfriend’s condo for the weekend. I was into him, but I couldn’t tell if he was giving me the you’re-fun vibe or the I-wanna-see-you-naked vibe. MicHELLe could see there was chemistry, but she wanted a piece. I told him to go for it: “He’s not chasing me: I’m over it.” I was soon distracted by a boy and separated from the group.

That Saturday, we went to a party with more terrace space than actual apartment space in Hell’s Kitchen (very sexy hired bartenders) before heading to Prince of Persia’s place. Shortly after I arrived, MicHELLe told me that she ended up home with Hardy.

As they were making out, “Burnadette Peters’ boyfriend storms in in a drunken rage and is like, ‘You!! Who are you! What are you doing here!’ So I grabbed my shit and ran! I had to get dressed in the elevator.”

Later on Saturday night, MicHELLe realized that it was not, in fact, Bernadette Peters’ boyfriend who was yelling at him: it was Hardy's drunk friend who was also staying in the apartment. Of course, Prince had already told me the story by the time MicHELLe was informed, but I definitely couldn’t be the one to miss her reaction break her heart with bad news.


We laughed, we went to Posh, and I was drunk enough to do the “Single Ladies” dance with the boys (who will still do it at the drop of a hat stone-cold sober) for a free shot.

I was elated to find that the A was running express on Sunday morning, so I got to the Village that much faster. It was early enough so that it wasn’t insane, but late enough for people to be lined up to see the parade. As I was walking through NYU territory, I noticed a familiar face on the frame of a short, worked-out white guy. About 3 seconds after he passed me, I turned around.

image from eyecandy.abzolute.net

Me: “Davey?”

Him: “Yeah… hey.”

Me: “Hey! I thought that was you. I watch your videos on YouTube. Love what you do.”

Him: “Oh, well, thank you.”

Me: “Actually, I have a website, too. I’m a blogger. Here, let me give you a card.”

Him: “Awesome! Thanks.”

Me: “Well, I’m late for a thing, but good to actually meet you!”
Him: “You too! Happy Pride!”

Actually, it didn’t matter what time I arrived, but I have this thing about exiting before the awkwardness starts getting exponential. But of course, I was so caught off guard that I didn’t think to get a picture. Or invite him to the brunch I was headed to (especially since he was by himself)!

There was quite a crowd at RSTLNE’s new place when I arrived. I was starving, so after a quick round of double kisses, I got myself some of the amazing food that Bottomless Pitt had been slaving over all morning.

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was how damn hot it was in the apartment. I was wearing my Blackout Blog tshirt, but that was for advertising. Most of the people at this party knew about the blog already, and I wanted to keep it fresh for the rest of the day. So I reluctantly took my shirt off.

We all had a great time at RSTNLE’s, and the Ivy League Crew et al were among the last to leave. I’d been invited to a house party on Christopher and Gay that had a cover: $10 or a bottle between 2 people. I figured it was at least worth checking out, so a few of us got some bottles and walked over.

Navigating the village during the Parade takes more skill than any wilderness orienteering challenge. Everything is blockaded, so you have to be careful how you approach intersections. I had us walking about 5 blocks out of our way (via Bleeker St for those of you who are familiar) to avoid the parade madness because we had to get on the other side of it.

We walked into a very crowded (and hot) apartment and handed our bottles to the bartender in exchange for wristbands. Yes, wristbands at a house party. Then there was a line to get drinks, which was easy to confuse for the line for the bathroom. But there seemed to be a fun mix of people and fun music. I finally remembered to look out the window because we were right on Christopher, but the parade had already ended.

Every year, the Pleasure Chest hands out these paint stirrers that say “Spank someone happy!” I may or may not have broken more than one from enthusiastic use over the past few years. Anyway, people were trading spanks and having a good laugh about it. Someone who knew the host (apparently a lawyer), gave him a tap on the ass as he was walking by. He turned around, grabbed the stick, and smacked the guy in the face with it. The whole time wearing a strange smile.

“That’s what happens when you hit me.”

After theparty was starting to die down, the host accosted someone who had just arrived with a drink in his hand: “Hi. I need $10 from you, or I’m going to have to give that drink back.”

I figured it was best I left before I had too personal an interaction with the host. Just as I was leaving, Calipornia texted me:

Apparently, the Ski Bums are well known because everyone I told about this party seemed to be familiar. Anyway, there were tons of Chelsea bears present, but, of course, the only guy to talk to me had a twink-ish build. Cute, dark-skinned and friendly, but I couldn’t focus on him with all the fur around.

After some hot bear meat a burger and a drink, Calipornia and I left for G Lounge. That was too packed to be fun, so we headed to a James Tate party at The Lott (the bar formally known as Porky’s… remember those Sunday-night Hot Mess parties?). There was a $5 cover with the flier, and when we walked in, we saw scores of guys in their underwear. The same brand of underwear.

Calipornia: “I think there are more go-goes than actual patrons here. Not that I’m complaining!”

There were seriously go-goes everywhere, and many of them were very sexy (and actually had butt!). The go-goes on the bar had bottles of fruity mixed drinks that they poured into patrons’ mouths. Quite a few of my ones went towards tipping.

After a drink and quite a few go-go pours, we made our way to Vlada. There was a curtain at the entrance with 2 tables. One gave out bags for the clothes check, and the other actually checked your bag once you were out of your clothes. Downstairs was pretty tame, and I stopped there for a drink. Calipornia darted upstairs as soon as they took her bag.

Cali (5 minutes later): “Holy shit! There’s a curtain upstairs where it’s extra dark. Boys are going at it! Get your ass up there!”

When he said going at it, he was not exaggerating. It was to the point where someone next to me mumbled, “Shouldn’t he be changing condoms between bottoms…” If anybody had innocent eyes, they’d surely been defiled that night.

Speaking of eyes, I recognized so many people at a party. And I don’t mean like from the Scene. I mean friends of friends that I can name had I not forgotten their names since we’ve been introduced! And they weren’t just being perverted voyeurs like I; they were full-on participating. Full. On. And I sat right there taking notes.

Eventually, the smell of poppers and lube got old (I never thought I’d say that), so I headed down to XES to meet up with the boys. But on the way out, I was stopped by a very dark, very built guy with an accent. Turns out he was Nigerian. And a good kisser. And a bottom! He was eager, but I didn’t want to mess around in public. Turns out it was his first underwear party, and he’d just arrived. I took his number and texted him later. I’ll give you three guesses as to whether he’s responded or not.


(Note: I met Kunta Kente, also Nigerian, cruising my way out of a party on the night of Pride 4 years ago... guess I'm losing my touch as a closer.)

I headed down to XES around 1:30 or so. When I arrived, Med School Mess was outside talking to the same ginger I’d seen him making out with last year at No Parking. Apparently the conversation was so good that he didn’t notice me walk by. As soon as I walked in, Bottomless Pitt grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the door.

Pitt: “We have to go.”

Me: “What about–”

Pitt: “They’re all messes, and I can’t deal! We have to get out of here!”

Me: “Um, how about G.”

Pitt: “Fine. I don’t care. I’ll go anywhere at this point.”

We were literally running to the corner, still under Med School Mess’s radar. G was much more manageable by the time we got there, so we had a drink there before parting ways.

I actually felt relatively good the next day when I met some of the boys on the Pier. Did I mention that I got fucked up at happy hour and that people kept buying me margaritas at Maracas after? Did I mention that led to one of my top 3 worst work-hangovers since I moved to the City? Yeah.

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