looking for a sugar daddy (Queens Pride '10 and double dipping with fuckbuddies)

Every year on the first Sunday in June, the boys and I go out to Jackson Heights for Queens Pride. It’s always SO much fun… even if you stay out too late the night before and can’t make it in time for the parade (i.e., what I do every year).

We spent most of the time at Friends Tavern, a dive bar in the heart of Jackson Heights. It was crowded as hell on the dance floor, but they have a lovely outdoor patio.

I thought the cocktail waitress was cute...

...til he made this face.

I mean, really? The pursed lips... the pointing... the shirtlessness? He looks like Jersey Shore (en español)! It's so low class. I mean, who the hell does that!

Oh... right.

(Totally didn't notice the similar poses until I was writing this up)

Many of you may not know this, but I'm kind of obsessed with cowboy boots (you'd think I'd find something cheaper to be obsessed with). Then again, many people I know in real life may not know this either because everywhere in NYC is too crowded to see anyone's shoes. Anyway, when I saw the following, I had to take a picture.

You may judge, but don't think for a second that, if I had the legs to do cowboy boots with shorts, I wouldn't have started doing that 3 summers ago!

There are a number of different explanations for the following. My question is: you can afford leather fetish gear, but you can't afford:

a) cab fare?

b) a bag with a change of clothes?

c) at least an unlimited Metro Card?! ($0.75 remaining?!!)

As we were boarding the train back into Manhattan, we saw this gay:

If she was already on the train, that means she wasn't at Queens Pride. And if she wasn't getting off at Jackson Heights, she wasn't headed there. I wanna know where the hell she was headed that night!

I must have missed the night when Urban Sprawl told us he was looking for a sugar daddy...

But he's being awfully subtle about his flirtation with this one. Don't be ashamed Urban Sprawl! Love whom you love! That's what Pride is all about.

I wanted to check out the new Q'Tea party at G Lounge. Knowing that all of the boys hate G, I ditched when we got to Chelsea.

I ended up running into a slim black guy with quite a loud personality whom I know from the Scene. I grabbed a stool next to him, and we got to talking.

Him: “I can’t wait to get my pectoral implants.”

Me: “Wait, what? You’re going to have major surgery to get pecs? What if they come out lopsided?”

Him: “I’ll deal. And I know they only really look right when you have a shirt on, but 90% of the boys that see me won’t ever see me shirtless.”

Me: “Well, that is one way to look at it…”

Him: “Like, how you were saying before that you’d lose your butt if you stopped doing squats. I really can’t get a chest. I mean, my body’s all defined and stuff, but it just won’t get big. And right now, I’d give myself a 7.5: I’m slim; I dress well; I’m cute enough… that and I have a huge penis.”

Me: “Did she really just say…”

image from cosmeticsurgeryaustralia.com.au

Him: “And I really think I’d be a lot more confident with the implants.”

Me: “Well, big part of attractiveness is confidence.”

Him: “Exactly! Which is really what’s going to get me my next boyfriend. I mean, I have this guy that I call up on the way back home from the club, but I want to take it to the next level with him. Not be boyfriends necessarily, but start out at least hanging out in public. [Name]’s a really great guy, and I could so see myself with him.”

Me: “So you wanna go from booty call to boyfriend? Eventually.”

Him “Yeah! I mean, it’s not ideal because… well, I’m mostly a top…”

["say what" look D. Kareem]

Him: “No, really. I mean, I didn’t get fucked til about 2 years ago. And you know how you take a guy home thinking you’re gonna get run up in. I done showered; I done douched; I’m all cleaned out and ready. Then you drop your drawers, and he’d like, ‘Oh my god! I want that in me.’ It’s so disappointing, and that’s more or less what happens with [Name]. But it’s so convenient because he lives right up on [intersection].”

Me: “Wait, you mean [First and Last Name]?”

[silence]

Me: “[physical description... and description of his apartment] ”

Him: “Oh my god, how did you—”

Me: “I’ve known him for like 3 years.”

Him: “So do y’all still—”

Me: “Yeah, we do.”

image from youtube.com

Him: “I can’t believe this! I mean, nothing on you, but I was really liking him. I was looking at him like, ‘I’m going to make this mine.’”

Me: “Why the past tense? He’s a good guy. You can still like him.”

Him: “Eh, I guess... So, wait. When’s the last time y’all got together.”

Me: “Do you really want to know?”

Him: “Yeah.”

Me: “He came over to my place last night.”

Him “Damnit! I mean, I was really feeling him, too! I mean, I don’t need us to be boyfriends just yet. But, you know, it’d be nice to go out in public together.”

. o O (This is about to get really sad, isn't it...)

Him: “One time when I went over, I brought it up, and he just kinda laughed. And another time, he said he wasn’t ready to get serious with anyone. I guess he’d just broken up with [a guy that [Name] had told me he was dating at one point], so I understood. But I just wanted to get closer. That’s all.”

Me: “Well, I guess. I really don’t know.”

Him: “Does he do that thing where he [description of something very hot during sex] with you?”

Me: “Oh, yeah. That’s one of the reasons it’s so [falsetto] aaaaaaaawesome!”

Him: “I love his bed. It’s got bars you can grab on to. I’m like, ‘I got leverage, now!’”

Me: “Oh my.”

Him: “You know what! I wanna text him!”

Me: “Are you sure?”

Him: “Yeah! We should both show up all “The Boy Is Mine” style! I’m gonna have a cigarette and text him!”

image from amygrindhouse.com

Him [coming back from outside]: “He hasn’t texted back! What the fuck!”

Me: “Well, we didn’t get to bed til like daylight. He could very well still be asleep. Hold up! Didn’t you say he doesn’t have your cell number because you always call him from the payphone outside Rawhide?”

Him: “Yeah…”

Me: “Well, it’s not shady to not respond to a number you don’t know. [Busting out laughing] Maybe you should call from the payphone so he knows who it is!”

Him: “Shut up! I can’t believe this.”

Me: “Well, he likes to come here on Sunday nights. He’ll probably be here later.”

Him: “Shut! Up! Oh, we’re so staying. Even if I have to buy drinks, we’re staying until he gets here.”

Well, we ended up not staying there, thankfully. I definitely wasn’t trying to fuck up the good sex I was getting, so I did the responsible thing and told [Name]. Via text message. After he’d gotten on a plane to the west coast.

The very next day, I got a text from Bottomless Pitt (about tOWGA, another ex):

Did I mention he's not my first sexually relevant person who has met Bottomless Pitt through me to message him on A4A? Yeah.


Click here to check out my post Queens Pride '09.

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

Madonna is dead and gays are terrorists (the Stonewall Riots and the origins of Gay Pride)

Picture this: Madonna just died. The power gays were all at her funeral, and you and your friends, who all watched it on TV, really just need a drink to take the edge off.

image from futuremusic.com

But gays aren’t so free. In fact, the government is putting known homos on terrorist watch lists, and most of America sees no problem with this. Also, you’re not out at work because it’s common practice to fire known homosexuals. And drag is illegal. Thankfully, straight guys are still wearing skinny jeans, so you can still show off the results of all the squats you did at the gym.

You only have one bar that allows dancing. It’s owned by the mob, and it’s totally underground. It’s a fucking pit, but it’s all you've got. And your fruit fly (I really hate the term fag hag)… she can’t get in.

You’re drinking. They’re playing Madonna hits. One of your friends is sobbing.

Out of nowhere, the music is cut, and the lights come on. Someone behind you slurs, “Ugh, another raid.” You know the drill, so you and your boys line up against the wall with your IDs in your hand. But one of your friends keeps patting his pockets. He doesn’t have his ID. One police officer is going down the line, and a female cop is hauling drag queens and transsexuals into the bathroom to “verify their sex” to see if they get arrested. Your friend is in total panic mode because they usually take men with no ID to jail.

Everyone exhales in relief when the officer just tells him he has to leave.

You, being a good friend, decide to leave with your friend, and on the way out, you notice a crowd gathering. There are more police outside. And about 10 feet away, you notice a lesbian in handcuffs struggling with the police. You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her week after week on the Scene. An officer hits her with a club. She looks at the crowd, and, for a half second, directly at you. She screams, “Why don’t you guys do something!”

Why don’t you.

image from boulevardier4eva.wordpress.com

This sounds weird, but this is more or less how things went down at the Stonewall Riots. But instead of Madonna, it was Judy Garland who had just been buried. All kinds of ridiculous laws were in place, including that cross-dressing was illegal and that women had a quota of 3 “feminine” articles of clothing. I was tired of my vague familiarity with the origins of Gay Pride (and the constant chiding of older and more cultured gays), so I finally looked it up. Here’s a basic rundown.

The Mob owned Stonewall, and police, who were paid off weekly, did regular raids of the club. There was no running water behind the bar (clean glasses?), no fire exits, and people reported that the toilets running over was no rare occurrence. To get in, you had to talk to a bouncer through a peep hole. If he didn’t recognize you, or if you didn’t look gay enough (looking gay could get you arrested, btw), you weren’t getting in. There was a $3 cover in exchange for 2 drink tickets (to this day, The Hangar in the West Village has a curtain at the entrance and gives a drink ticket with their $5 cover on weekends).

Garland’s funeral was on a Friday, and about 1:30am, police came to raid Stonewall. Things didn’t exactly go as planned, and one of the patrol wagons hadn’t shown up yet. A crowd started to gather. The police were harassing and brutalizing a lesbian on the street who was actually putting up a fight. She turned to the crowd and said, “Why don’t you guys do something!” When an officer picked her up and shoved her into the back of a wagon, the shit hit the fan, and the crowd went off.

Police ended up barricading themselves inside the bar with the drag queens and transsexuals they had detained. People started throwing bottles, bricks, and trashcans at the door. Someone even rammed it with an uprooted parking meter!

image from broadwayinchicago.wordpress.com

When reinforcements finally showed up, they basically formed a moving human wall to clear the streets. And how did they gays respond? Kick lines. Yes, lining up in front of the police, doing high kicks, and singing parodies. This only incited more police violence against them.

The conflict went on til about 4am, and in the aftermath, people saw an immediate chance on Christopher Street: people were out in the open, displaying their homosexuality.

The next morning, Craig Rodwell and his partner Fred Sargeant distributed thousands of leaflets calling for gays to boycott mafia-run bars and own their own establishments. We didn’t even own our own underground bars (at least not many of them)!

On Saturday night, there was another riot, but this time, it was more of a takeover of all of Christopher Street. People were smashing police cars, rocking busses, and blocking traffic the whole night.

There was tension between the conservative gays, who wanted to show that homosexuals were just like the rest of society, and the radicals, who wanted action immediately. In an annual picketing demonstration in Philadelphia the following week, conservative activists were outraged when Rodwell got couples to hold hands during the demonstration. But they got more press than any previous year.

image from theboweryboys.blogspot.com

On June 28^th 1970, the first gay pride march took place in NYC to commemorate the first anniversary of the Riots. And there was no violence. The New York Times covered the march on its front page, and The Village Voice, which protesters almost burned down after their unfavorable write-up about the Riots the year before, had a favorably report as well. It really blows my mind how brave those first marchers were to be out on the streets demonstrating at that time, not knowing how they’d be received by the general public. In his proposal, Rodwell stated:

That the Annual Reminder, in order to be more relevant, reach a greater number of people, and encompass the ideas and ideals of the larger struggle in which we are engaged-that of our fundamental human rights-be moved both in time and location. We propose that a demonstration be held annually on the last Saturday in June in New York City to commemorate the 1969 spontaneous demonstrations on Christopher Street and this demonstration be called CHRISTOPHER STREET LIBERATION DAY. No dress or age regulations shall be made for this demonstration.

image from about.com

So this parade that we all celebrate and get drunk for and run around in our underwear for has some really solemn roots. Don’t get me wrong: I want everyone to be loud, push barriers, and show their non-conformist pride! But remember that those of us in big cities enjoy a lot of privileges that gays in other parts of the country and other countries don’t have.

So have a happy and safe Pride this weekend. And after you sober up, write a congressman. Give money to a gay project (iamfromdrifwood.com is one of my favs). Because 1969 wasn’t so long ago, and the fight for equality isn’t over.

Okay, I’m not even gonna act like I was the least bit intellectually or academically responsible with this: I looked it up and paraphrased from Wikipedia. But homo-neurotic.com recommends the 82-minute documentary Stonewall Uprising, playing at Film Forum at 209 W Houston St, NYC through June 29^th.

Click here to check out Fun with Gaydar.

good sex and a good meal (the rest of my memorial day weekend)

After a less than awesome Friday, I tweeted TTT to see if he wanted to do drunk brunch. She was all about it. I tried Bottomless Pitt. Her response:

A small crew of us gathered at Maracas in the West Village for toast and tequila. And since everyone who had any sort of disposable income (or a place to crash) was spending the long weekend at some beach, there was no wait for a table outside.

Have you ever had a friend who feel obligated to go to someone’s house party, so they try to sensationalize it (read: lie) to make it more appealing to the people they’re trying to rope into their obligation? So it went with Ms W towards the end of brunch. It worked for about 5 minutes until someone asked: “Are we gonna be the only gays there?”

image from city-data.com

Me: “You know what: it’s not that far into Brooklyn; it’s got outdoor space; and for us to split a bottle will be cheaper than drinking all afternoon at a bar. Besides, who the hell are you gonna pick up during happy hour on a Saturday?! Consider it an extended pre-game before we go back out.”

Ms W’s description: first stop in Brooklyn

Reality: 3^rd stop in Brooklyn

Ms W’s description: rooftop terrace

Reality: back yard

Ms W’s description: “I’ll get sausages!”

Reality: Okay, I can't even hate: those sausages were slammin'!

The place was actually kind of terrific. The hosts were welcoming, and the guests were actually interesting people. It was all very laid back, and the weather was great. Around sunset, we ventured back into the city, ending the night uneventfully at Pieces (except for TTT, who ended up making out with some guy in a "London Rocks" tshirt).

image from photobucket.com

I woke up at tOWGA’s place in Harlem with a bag packed for my Cherry Grove adventure with the Ivy League Crew et al. For those unfamiliar, NYC doesn’t so much have nice beaches, so many opt for Long Island shores. Fire Island, part of Long Island, is where the rich daddies and young banker gays go to spend oodles of money to “get away.” There are two neighboring gay sections: the Pines and Cherry Grove. The Pines is more of a Hell’s Kitchen and Chelsea-type crowd, and the few places to go in town are all owned by the same corporation. The Grove has more of a West Village vibe. Plus, there are more places to eat, more/later nightlife, and more general diversity than the Pines.

So anyway, I was all ready to go to a pool party in Cherry Grove, and tOWGA asked me if I wanted eggs. With turkey. And toast. I'm a sucker for good sex and a good meal.

I missed the train by 3 minutes. Now, I could have taken the next train, but I had the following factors to consider: no one had texted me about running late for the train (which led me to believe that no one else was catching the original train, so I’d’ve been alone on the 2.5-hour trip… mostly because there was a last-minute car arrangement that I wasn’t included on); and the next train left 2 hours later (meaning I ‘d get out there around 3). So what did I do? I went back home.

I had a great lie-out at the Pier, and I got a chance to check out the new Q-Tea party at G Lounge. Scotty Rox was DJ-ing, so that guaranteed at least good music. And when I arrived, he handed me a drink ticket and told me to come up in the booth with him. I was just going to have a drink or two, but I ended up staying until DJ Xavier kicked me out to take over for Küte. I wandered off to find food and ended up at Posh with Scotty and Mimi Imfurst.

Mimi was hosting a competition for theater tickets, so I figured why not. Scotty made sure I got picked, and Mimi explained that we were going to be quizzed on trivia.

Mimi: “Name the 13th president of the United States.”

Guy: “Uh... Roosevelt?”

Mimi: “Wrong. Take your shirt off... Now you: name one color in the US flag.”

Me: “Blue.”

Mimi: “You are correct! Now, take your shirt off.”

It didn't take a genius to see where this game show was going. Once we were down to our underwear, we had to go into the audience (shorts/pants around our ankles) and collect tips. Whoever had the most tips won. And with $2, I came in dead last.

Dead. Last.

Two fucking dollars?! Really, Hell's Kitchen?!! The best part: the prize was tickets to a show I'd seen the previous week.

So then I ran into the Spanish DILF (who, of course, saw the stage shenanigans). Turns out he was out of the country from a couple of weeks after our encounter to about a week and a half before this night. We talked for a good half hour or more. It was going great until he pulled out the I-should-get-to-bed line. Seriously?!

Did I mention that I really need to stop getting naked for free stuff (until I get www.TheBlackoutBlog.com tattoed on my chest)? Yeah.

Click here to check out the night everyone was in heat at DR!P.

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

Best underwear gets the “best” underwear. (Paradise Lost at Boots 'N Saddle)

Memorial Day Weekend was quite the mixed bag for me and involved way too much of my underwear on display.

image from Zazzle.com

I went to the Paradise Lost party at Boots ‘N Saddle. They were advertising an underwear giveaway, and I love free underwear! I figured there was a chance that showing underwear may have been involved, so I put on a pair of cute trunks that I'd paid too much for purchased in Australia.

I went to check in on 4square, and I got a notification that there was a special: a free drink upon check in! I was too excited, and I showed it to the older of the two bartenders. He squinted at my screen and shook his head, handing me back my phone: “I don’t know who put that on there, but we’re not doing that.” Excuse me? So I reluctantly bought a drink. Not long after that, I bumped into the promoter and asked him about it. He had no idea why the bartender wasn’t cooperating, and he told me to find him for my next drink, which would be on the house.

image from buzznet.com

Eventually, the promoter announced the sign-up for the underwear giveaway. There were about 15 people signed up, but only 5 people actually came to the stage. Basically, the contest was each person showing their underwear. Best underwear gets the “best” underwear (which was arbitrary because they were all boxed up without so much as a preview window). It was kind of pointless because we were competing for 5 pairs of underwear. But the promoter made it a bit more suspenseful by asking the go-goes to judge who was in the top 3 for applause. Ironically enough, the judges picked the three black guys: Timon (who had been performing on a cruise ship for a year), a random, and me.

The pair of the "best" underwear that I got was camoflauge Paul Frank briefs with a grey waistband. The killer: they were a size small.

I texted Urban Sprawl, who was at Gym Bar with Bottomless Pitt, Fruit Bat, and a friend of hers. As I made my way there, Urban Sprawl let me know that they were on their last round of drinks there and wanted to go elsewhere after. When I arrived, Fruit Bat and her friend went to the bar for another round. I gave the underwear to Urban Sprawl since she’s much shorter than I with a smaller waist. When Fruit Bat and her friend returned, we started chatting, and I noticed Urban Sprawl and Bottomless Pitt making their way towards the front of the bar. I figured it was for another drink.

image from Urban Sprawl's
Facebook profile

After about 10 minutes, I realized that neither Sprawl nor Pitt had come back. I walked through the bar twice before I texted them: Did. You. Just. Leave.

Urban Sprawl was first to respond: I was the one that said ‘She’s a big girl.’ Sowwy.

Bottomless Pitt followed soon thereafter: Urban Sprawl said you were staying there. Come to Boxers.

Well, after being left without so much as eye contact or a we’re-leaving text, I was in no mood to walk to 5^th ave at 1:30am.

Bottomless Pitt’s next text: Last time I listen to her. She’s drunk and wearing the underwear on her head.

Did I mention this blog is about actual things that happen in my life (sometimes I need that reminder, too)? Yeah.

Click here to check out this mess of a Summer Saturday in '09 (with video).

Click here to check out the latest Fun with Grindr post (FoSkin 4 lYfe!).

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

Fun with Grindr: FoSkin 4 lYfe!

Call me…

…because fitness is a lifestyle.

…because you’re uncut and you speak my language. FoSkin 4 lYfe!

…because you understand the humor in irony. Right?...

…because you have a strong grasp on reality. And it’s totally your new phone.

…because I have Xanax. But you’re gonna have to get within 100 feet of me if you want it.

Click here for more Fun with Grindr.

#TuesdayTweetup (Real men. Real booze. Real trouble.)

image from @BubbleJock's Twitter

On Tuesdays, I usually meet up with a few guys that I know through Twitter for our #TuesdayTweetup. It all started a few months ago when I started following this white guy with a fat ass called @BubbleJock (class of ‘94ish). I was looking through his timeline, which included quite a few butt and body shots. But one of the pics from a few days prior included a face. @BubbleJock was cute! Not to mention flirty. So when he mentioned a low-pressure opportunity to meet in person, it was a no-brainer.

After the gym, I showed up to Gym Bar and tweeted upon my arrival. Gym Bar does this weird thing where they only honor 2-4-1 tokens until about 15 min after the 2-4-1 special ends, so when I arrived at 8:45, my drink was my priority. I didn’t really recognize anyone, so I went digging through my phone for that face pic @BubbleJock had posted on Twitter. See, I didn’t really study his facial features so much as mentally place him on the hot ladder and move on. Luckily, when I looked up, @BubbleJock was standing with a group of guys, waving at me.

At one point, the conversation veered towards @BubbleJock and his low tolerance for alcohol. Apparently our Tweetups are the only time he really drinks, so by the time he finishes his 2-4-1, he’s pretty drunk. One time, he found a short guy to start talking to (he’s a total bottom until he meets a "pocket gay"), and he ended up picking this guy up by the waist and “shaking him like a salt shaker.” It’s become a running gag at the Tweetups.

There are a few regulars that come every week with a few people that say they’ll come end up flaking. I’d gotten into the habit of recovering from the weekend on Monday and meeting up with Grrber on Tuesdays, so I kept having to leave the Tweetup early. One week, I finally decided to give Grrber the boot so I could really hang out. By this time, @RugbyCub, a bearish white guy (class of ‘08ish) had started working at Boxers, a new gay sports bar, so we'd moved the Tweetup there.

image from boxersnyc.com

When arrived at Boxers, @Coz (pocket-sized, shaved-headed white actor with a day job, class of ‘06ish... that's not his actual Twitter screenname, btw) was already nursing his second free beer from the bartender that had a crush on him. I greeted and headed to the bar for a screwdriver (splash of grapefruit). Boxers’ bartenders are all quite attractive, and on Tuesdays, they cover quite a few demographics. There’s a tall, white muscle-bear, a younger, slimmer white guy, built Latin guy, a few barbacks of various builds, heights, and ethnic makeups. I managed to order a drink from the built black guy with Tyson Beckford-like eyes without drooling on my shirt, and as he was giving me change, he asked, “Hey, what’s your name again?” This totally meant that he remembered our previous brief encounter! I’m not exactly sure if that was the previous Tuesday or before (because I definitely recognized him from before the bar opened), but we’d actually had enough interaction to elicit my name!

Me (without stuttering): “D. Kareem.”

Him: “Oh, right. ‘Cause you do the, uh, the black…”

Me (without staring at his perky nipples): “The Blackout Blog, yeah. What’s your name again?”

image from @BubbleJock's TwitPic

I skipped back over to where our group of Tweeters had settled. A bunch of older guys had walked in and settled not too far from us. @BubbleJock had his eye on this short, dark-skinned guy in his 40s, whom he eventually lured over. The guy’s friend started talking to @Coz. I struck up a conversation with a tall gentleman and his Southern friend, who was wearing a seersucker blazer.

Twenty minutes later, I looked over, and @BubbleJock and @Coz had switched guys. One guy had his hand down the back of @BubbleJock’s pants, and the other looked like he was going to suck @Coz’s face off! @RugbyCub and I exchanged a look and laughed.

After making out with this guy for about a half hour, @Coz left alone. Apparently, the guy’s age (and his four kids) were a bit much to handle for a hookup… but not enough to deter a make-out session that disqualified the guy from picking up anyone else at the bar. Anyway, @BubbleJock and I talked to the two guys for a while, and @Coz’s guy revealed that he was really into @Coz. So much so that he pulled out the card @Coz had given him and emailed @Coz on his Blackberry 10 minutes after he'd left. @Coz later told me the guy sent him a second email once got home. @Coz eventually told the guy that he wasn’t interested. I guess you can text-message breakup.

Did I mention that I'm on Twitter (and that you should follow me... click here for my profile)? Yeah.

Click here to check out a ridiculous trip to Fire Island ("a lot of hot tubs out here have a no-fabric rule").

if I’m not gonna get laid (a celeb sighting and getting kicked out of a house party)

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?!”

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.

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.

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.

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

So is Pitt a top? (A new bar opens, and I get in a fight with Duplex)

Boxers Sports Bar had their grand opening on a Thursday with an open bar! I showed up to meet a few of the Ivy League Crew et al., but it seemed like half of Chelsea had the same idea. After Urban Sprawl, Med School Mess and I shoved our way to the bar for a couple of drinks, we were accosted by a cute, short guy.

image from blackosity.com

He was with Complete Body and Spa, which bought the old 19th St Gym, which, from what I gather, used to be an old-school, no-frills, bodybuilder gym. He gave us a wonderfully efficient schpiel and handed us 3-day passes.

Him: "I hope you guys come and check it out."

Me (with a sly smile): "Well, will you be there?"

He paused for a full second before reaching in his bag and pulling out VIP 2-week passes for the 3 of us.

I was hung over on Friday, but I had no plans after work. It seemed like the perfect time to go down to Chelsea to have a look at this gym. I had both the 3-day and the 2-week pass, so I gave Bottomless Pitt a holler.

We walked into the gym and the first thing I see is Colton Ford training a guy on the floor.

image from last.fm

*DEAD*

You know how want to watch someone, but you don't want to LOOK like you're watching someone, so you go way out of your way to look like you're not watching them, which only attracts attention to the fact that you're avoiding watching them? That about sums up my workout.

image from gothamrfc.org

After, we went back to Boxers, which was surprisingly busy for such a new place, before I conviced Bottomless Pitt to come to Posh. Mainly because I'd left my credit card behind the bar the night before. But when we walked in, I ran into 3 good friends of SoHo Crush, my ex from last summer. I was relieved to find that SoHo himself was not in the bar.

They were at a table in the corner, to which they returned after we exchanged double kisses. One of the guys looked like he was trying to come over to tell me something, but his boyfriend was literally holding him back. The couple left soon thereafter.

A shorter white guy was with the group. He didn't come over with the rest, but he called me over right as Bottomless Pitt went to the other side of the bar to order a drink. We exchanged intros and talked for a bit before he told me that he thought Bottomless Pitt was sexy. He seemed more or less like Bottomless Pitt's type (minus the euro accent), so I told him he should buy Pitt a drink. After about 5 minutes, Pitt still hadn't been served, so I went over and got him, introducing him to the shorter white guy.

SoHo Crush's remaining friend, who somehow started talking to Bottomless Pitt, is a cute, slim white guy of average height, and probably in his late 20s, btw.

image from zazzle.com

Short guy: "Wow, looks like [SoHo's friend] moved in on Bottomless Pitt."

Me: "Are you sure? Is Bottomless Pitt even his type?"

Short: "Oh he could definitely be [friend's] type! So is Pitt a top? Bottom? He's versatile, isn't he!"

Me: "Well, I think one of you should try to find out for yourselves."

Short: "I'm leaning towards maybe not. I shouldn't even be saying this, but [friend] is really hung! I mean, all the fat and muscle in his body must be concentrated in his cock!"

I noted this gem of info and put it in my back pocket.

Eventually, dude wandered off. It wasn't long before Bottomless Pitt and SoHo Crush's friend started making out. As entertaining as this disaster was, I had to leave to meet Duplex, who was in a cab to pick me up on the way to No Parking.

At No Parking, we ran into a (hot) friend of Duplex's as well as a former hookup of mine whose (extremely handsome) face I couldn't quite place until he gave me a hug and I could smell him. He was hanging out with an older white man.

20 minutes later, Duplex turned to me: "Who's this old white guy shaking my hand?"

Me: "You mean the one that's 3 years older than you? He just bought us shots, asshole!"

image from shallownation.com

After a few drinks, Duplex and I went to Mambi for rice and beans. Out of nowhere, he asks, "Where is this going?" This was the introduction to the exact same argument we had when we broke up 3 years ago. And we've had it at least once since then.

Him: "Fuck you! I should just leave right now and leave my share of the bill... I don't have any change."

Me: "I can take care of the $13 bill if you need to go."

Him: "Shit, my stuff is at your place anyway."

Me: "Well, it seems you see things one way, and I just see them differently."

Him: "Please! You're smarter than that. I was a [rattles off titles from his and his mother's resume]; I can smell bullshit a mile away!"

Me: "Well, since there's only one way of seeing this, yours, then I apologize for being objectively wrong."

Did I mention he stayed over that night and that it was all good a half hour later? And the next morning? Yeah.

It's my birthday weekend! Click here to check out last year's Beyoncé-themed B'Day.

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