RECAPTION: Ru Paul's Drag Race Season 4, Ep 1

So for last night’s premiere of RuPaul’s Drag Race, I was especially excited for this season because I’ve seen both Jiggly Caliente and Latrice Royale perform in bar shows (the former at Bartini NYC and the latter at Palace South Beach). They were both pretty fucking sickening with no editing, and I couldn’t wait to see who would compete with them.

My immediate picks for hottest as a boy: Phi Phi O’Hara (on mute) and The Princess (that cut torso with the tattoos… alas, she loves “that meth look”).

The queens did their entrances and threw their usual shade on intercut interviews. It’s hard to get a feel for each of the queens with this many here, but those lips on Chad Michaels definitely made an impression. And even though Sharon Needles’ costume looked fresh from Ricky’s costume section, her personality stuck with me. I won’t even talk about Dita Ritz looking like she went through my own closet with some scissors for her costume (I got better wigs than that, girl!). Or Miss Ritz’s ability to pronunciate big words.

Right before the first challenge, Ru Paul came out and announced that she was bringing back a new queen. They had the Pit Crew boys (so hot) roll out a box just like last season, and it was the last person I expected to see: Shangela! I was like, “I love her to death (out of drag), but they can’t do this 2 seasons in a damn row!” Especially since Milan looks so much like her!

Halle-BOO!

Luckily, it was a gag, and Ru Paul kicked her off after a short cameo.

The queens’ first challenge was a photo shoot with Mike Ruiz. They had the queens on a spinning dais with the Pit Crew boys spraying them with That had better be hypoallergenic spray paint!!! toxic waste. The first queen walked out, and I was like, “What the fuck is she wearing?!” It wasn’t til the second queen came out that I realized they were all in the same frock. I felt so bad for the big girls falling, but shout out to Latrice for working her spill into her best shot.

But was anyone else surprised by how unremarkable every single shot was? Whatever. I was just happy to stare at Mike Ruiz.

The next challenge involved an abandoned motel, an Instagram-y filter on the footage, and drag queen zombies. The contestants had to grab post-Ru-pocalyptic items from the zombies to build their outfits. It was over-the-top campy, teetering on corny. But what saved it was that the zombies were past contestants! It was a great reminder of why we fell in love with the show in years past without too much dwelling and rehashing.

And did y'all see how they left Shangela inside to be attacked by the zombies at the end? "Oh, the shade. The shade of it all!" (Thank you, Latrice Royale!)

And with every reality-show challenge that involves constructing couture from cou-trash, there’s always at least one queen that looks a goddamn mess (this includes Project Runway). And they made Jiggly look quite unsure of her creation during her check-in with Ru.

As Madonna (should have) said with Kanye and Pharrell: "I love all the big girls!" 

When the queens hit the runway, they all did their best to serve their outfits. The judges had their usual commentary dubbed in as the queens presented and did their walks (some queens handle heels better than others). The look that really stuck out to me was Phi Phi’s. The net collar, the distressed ‘fur’, the camo cape. It just really popped. However, Lashauwn Beyond’s outfit impressed the judges much more than me (though I did love the tower with the broken globe on her head, which may have been her saving detail). The Princess’s "Water World" outfit was a great concept, but for me, it didn’t have a silhouette, even after she took off the life-vest-collar. I was frankly shocked to find that Sharon Needles was the winner. The blood was a cool gimic, but the outfit didn’t strike me as the high-fashion couture the judges always scream that they want. It was like the judges forgave everything because "Oo! She's bleeding! Coooool!"

I thought Jiggly served her outfit. It wasn’t the best, but her presentation was among the top few, even without heels (leg-chucks FTW!). She was like a 2112 Punky Brewster! But she and Alisa (whose outfit looked like she pasted a few details on a pre-purchased outfit) ended up in the bottom 2.

I’ve seen Jiggly perform, and I know she brings it. Dance, face, gestures, and even a jump split, which is always more dramatic when you’re over 200lbs. So when she had to lip sync for her life, I knew it would take an act of god to save Alisa. And as I predicted, Alisa went home.

I stuck around for the untucked feature afterwards where they air out the queens’ dirty laundry from the Interior Illuuuuusions Lounge (all of a sudden, I feel like an Absolut cocktail!). Of course, the queens got all catty, but the conversation that stuck out to me was Jiggly Caliente’s inability to sew.

Now, as a drag queen, you can always go to a tailor or improvise when you’re working a show, but as Miss Lashauwn Beyond said, it’s the 4^th season. You knew making outfits was part of the deal when you auditioned!

Question: Do you think it’s a queen’s responsibility to learn to sew before entering Drag Race? Or should she focus more on other parts of her Charisma Uniqueness Nerve and Talent in preparation for the show if that’s not her thing? Leave your answer in the comments! 

Memorable quotes:

“May the best woman… live!” –Ru Paul

“…try to get along and wait til a bitch steals something of yours or sabotages you, and then you can read…” –Dita Ritz

“She can make a lot of money offa that booty dance!” –Milan

(Kenya Michaels gets SO many points for doing the choreo from Ciara’s “Work”. Shout out to the 3 other people out there who watched that video all the way through.)

“One small corset plus another small corset equals one fat-ass corset.” –Jiggly Caliente

“Ru tells us we have to make a post-apockaloptic outfit, and I don’t know what that means!” –Lashauwn Beyond

Click here to check out my recaption to RPDR Ep 4.2.

Click here to check out the shocking (well, most just disappointing) convos I have on Grindr. 

John Blair and Beto Sutter's XL Nightclub on 42nd St.

I was supposed to be a low-key weekend, but I had to check out the opening of XL.

When I first moved to NYC in ’05, XL was a posh two-story bar in Chelsea where I saw Jay Rodriguez perform with a band, Frenchie Davis (who was kicked off the first season of American Idol for that fake porn video) sing for New Year’s Eve and drag queen Jessye Normous entertain Pride revelers with her fat suit and opera vocals. And who could forget that legendary fish tank between the urinals! You might even say it was my favorite bar at the time. John Blair’s XL bar closed in ’06 (soon thereafter, he teamed up with Beto Sutter to run Saturdays at Splash).

But about a year ago, I saw an article about the new XL breaking ground on west 42^nd St between 10^th and 11^th Aves as part of The Out NYC, a gay resort complex. This project precipitated the shut-down of 2 major weekend parties! Well, the promoters of both parties were part owners of the new space. So one moved to XL, and the other shut down to cut down competition. Both were at straight clubs before. 

All kinds of rumors are circulating about controversial details of The Out NYC (ask me about the hotel’s alleged model room rate), but I definitely wanted to check out the space for myself.

Not wanting to deal with the crowds, lines and covers, I met up with a few friends for happy hour at XL, featuring VJ Tony Built was spinning pop hits with video. The half-price special brought my Absolut Citron and Sprite to $6 (happy hour runs til 9). The décor made little impression on me, but the staff was friendly and seemed eager to help (though Bohoken did have a surprisingly tough time getting the bartenders' attention, arriving just after happy hour ended). Even when I checked my layers of outerwear, they didn’t charge my by the item, an annoyance I encounter at many clubs. Owners Sutter and Blair obviously took lessons from Splash to their newest venture (I’ve found Splash’s coat check to be remarkably efficient). At XL, when I was ready to leave, I was able to get my coat quickly, especially when you take into account that so many people were coming in for the Friday night party. 

Be warned: the line you see outside that snakes towards to 10^th ave continues to wrap around the side of the lounge area to the cash registers once you get inside.

Final verdict: I’m gonna guess it’s a great place to pick up out-of-towners, and if I’m going to deal with the high overhead of the whole popular-dance-party thing, I’d definitely rather give my money to a gay-owned venue. And while it’s not the cheapest happy hour, it’s not a bad way to start an evening if you don’t mind the hike/cab fare. I’m interested to see what their weeknight parties will be like, so I'll definitely be back. 

Oh, and be sure to check out my blogger buddy Justin Luke’s Saturday party (with Boi Party) at XL. 

Click here to check out that time I saw Real Housewives of Atlanta's Kim Zolciak at Splash.

sing "Happy Birthday" to his crotch (Art Basel Weekend in Miami, Part IV: La Ultima Noche)

Click here for the first night in Miami. 

Click here for Part III.

Palace is notorious for their drag-show brunch. They have an 11:30am seating, but the 2pm seating is what really draws the crowd. Bohoken and I got there in time to grab a table right on the sidewalk with a great view of the imminent spectacle.

These queens turned it the fuck out like they were legit southern drag queens (for reference, Miami is not the South)! One barrel rolled across the crosswalk. One almost knocked a straight girl's camera out of her hand with a high kick (straight girl’s face: priceless). One did a split on the cement, managing to keep her panty hose in tact (I want to say that was Latrice Royale from Ru Paul's Drag Race Season 4). And one walked onto a passing tour bus, calling the riders fat and ugly as she stepped off.

Thank god for cordless mics.

We stayed for quite a few drinks after and ran into the previous night's shirtless 40-something (who was shirtless again). A much-needed disco nap preceded a rather drawn-out dinner at the "appropriately oriented" (unofficially gay) Lords Hotel. We stopped by Club High for a new gay Sunday party before heading to Twist.

There was a noticeable difference between the Friday/Saturday go-goes and the Sunday go-goes (my go-go was not there). I'll leave it at that.

Our entertainment for the evening was an absolutely insane Spanish-speaking drag queen dressed as a bee (The Simpsons fans: you're welcome). After pausing some DJ's pre-recorded mix on the CD player, she mounted the go-go platform stage. Some drunk, fratty douchebag came by and felt her up as she was introducing herself. And not a quick pat on the ass. Like full-on massaging for quite a few seconds.

Throughout the night, the drag queen maintained this insane permanent smile, and she did so as she laughed and called out, "Okay, Sa-kurity! Sah. Kurity." Everyone in the room was laughing along, including the perpetrator... until security actually came and kicked his ass out.

The drag queen brought up a guy celebrating his birthday.

"Bartender: 2 chots. Tequila. Please. Okay. I gonna seeng 'Happy Birrday' to jour deek!"

She got down on her knees and proceeded to sing "Happy Birthday" to his crotch, hitting it after every line with the mic.

After the show, the drag queen immediately changed and washed off the makeup to reveal a surprisingly hot guy. But since the show was over, Bohoken and I went upstairs and stumbled upon the disco video room.

We LOVE disco.

The hot bartender, who was also VJ-ing (Miami is really not the place to be a gay jockey on Sundays), remembered my drink from the previous, quite busy night! Bohoken tapered off, but I went on to have a few too many, singing along to the music with a 60-something who probably would have been hit on by every guy in the bar back when those songs came out.

Out flight on Monday was quite late, and we hadn't made plans for the day. I suggested a spa day at the Standard Hotel (day pass: about $45). Unfortunately, all the spa appointments had already been booked.

We checked our bags at the concierge, changed into speedos and robes. We ended up bypassing the Shan shorts that caught my eye and getting a pair of square cuts at an unspeakable price. This was Bohoken's first speedo experience. I don't know why he was nervous; he looks hot in everything pick out for him. Anyway, once we were changed, we found a couple of poolside chairs to camp out on. An hour later, we were about halfway though out first pitcher of some kind of minty, spiked lemonade and enjoying the view of a shockingly hot 40-something (greying, wavy hair!) who had taken up residence beside us with his hag (who was remarkably attractive in her bikini). He was incredibly friendly, and I swore he was flirting until he mentioned he was Canadian.

. o (Ugh, he's probably just that overtly friendly as a straight guy.)

It wasn't long before a kiss confirmed that he was into his female companion that way. But you never know what arrangement they have...

After we finished the second pitcher, I was ready for a dip in the hot tub. I figured the ice dip was the small pool with the waterfall, so I stuck my toe into the one between that and the main pool. Good thing I didn't rush in because I was dead wrong. The face of the European girl who committed much more to the same mistake 5 minutes later was an image I'll remember forever.

By dusk, the staff of some fabulous, familiar property (is there a SoHo House in Miami?) had populated the hot tub with us and were telling their ridiculous stories from work. I was ready to book another night and continue kee-kee-ing with them, but thankfully, the combination of Bohoken's hesitation and my near exhausted state reined me in in time to catch our flight.

Did I mention that we both slept the whole ride back to NYC (the nervous flier and the 6'2" light sleeper in coach)? Yeah.

Click here to check out that time a guy I met online flew me out to Chicago. 

Definitely an accelerated 3AM situation (Art Basel Weekend in Miami, Part III)

Click here for Part II

I woke up much earlier than Bohoken on Saturday. He usually stirs if I so much as change position, but he slept through my getting up to pee, getting dressed and leaving the room. I had the best of intentions: getting some writing done by the beach. But Palace was open.

Mojitos: much better before noon.

I was having some serious fresh-meat syndrome on Grindr and Scruff, so I decided to clear out my messages. But I kept getting new ones. By the time I'd gotten the situation under control, Bohoken had texted that he was getting ready to meet me.

One of the great things about South Beach is that all the restaurants on Ocean have seating on both sides of the sidewalk (i.e., the walkway for pedestrians makes an aisle between 2 sets of sidewalk seating). It's a very busy avenue, so both diners and passers by become mutual scenery. We enjoyed our brunch on the sidewalk watching tourists stroll, wondering if the tshirt with the sides cut out and the ultra-short cut-off corduroy shorts I wore with boots gave away the target audience of the bar we patronized.

After, we went to go pick up Bohoken's jeans (man, they look good on him). We crossed the street to order the exact same dishes at the exact same restaurant and to gawk at the exact same hot food runner as the day before.

We ended up back at Palace for happy hour, and it was pretty happening. There was a shirtless guy in his 40s with a stunning body and smile. He was rather flirty with a very handsome, very drunk cub around my age. I was totally fucking jealous of both of them didn't understand their attraction to each other, so I started making fun of them to Bohoken.

A half hour later, I was making fun of them with the cub's friend.

An hour later, I was grinding with the cub, and Bohoken was talking political history with the muscle queen. Divide and conquer, baby.

The cub had a birthday party to go to, so Bohoken and I worked our joint charm on the muscle queen (who was still shirtless, btw). He was quite drunk receptive, and it seemed to be going well. But when I tried to close, he totally about-faced.

Bohoken: "Don't worry, there will be plenty of hot, insecure guys for you to hit on later."

Me: "Hey, y'all were having a great conversation, and he let me feel up on every piece of his body that I wanted to. Not a loss. Besides, he probably would have been a lousy lay in his condition. Who gets all swayey this early anyway? Definitely an accelerated 3AM situation."

And then a drag queen made a road-side entrance on a motorcycle.

After a disco nap and some aimless wandering (and maybe a couple of tipsy dramatic lip-syncs caught on camera, care of that bottle of flavored Absolut that found its way into our room), we ended up back at Twist. My go-go boy found us, and Bohoken was nice enough to buy me an amazing lap dance.

Go-go: "Are you more of a bottom or a top?"

He was quite accommodating. The first time as well as the second. 

Did I mention that I may or may not have ended up with his number? Yeah.

Click here to check out Part IV.


Click here to check out that time I went to Australia and drank at some randoms' house and took dirty pictures with them. Oops.

I didn't notice the stripper pole (Art Basel Weekend in Miami, Part II)

Click here for Part I.

We got a somewhat late start on Friday "morning", but as soon as we walked out of our hotel, we ran into Arm'n'Hammer, my Asian, 20-something friend from NYC. We'd seen him the night before at Josh Wood's party with an older white gentleman (as per usual), but she'd clearly upped her accessory game overnight, donning two older white men this afternoon. They, like us, were in need of brunch, so they suggested "that funky looking hotel lobby we passed a few blocks back."

I didn't know that our brunch would literally take place in a damn hotel lobby. Whitelaw Hotel on Collins has a very over-the-top design style with a lot of white (surprise surprise) and a lot of ornamentation. We scooted to the ends of cushy chairs and couches with our plates on the coffee table in front of us. But despite the awkward set-up, we enjoyed our brunch (which, I'm sure, had nothing to do with those wonderful mojitos I had).

Arm'n'Hammer and his boys wanted to head to the beach, but I'd forgotten to pack swimwear. I didn't think it would be a big deal because, well, our destination was Miami Beach.

We proceeded to spend the WHOLE afternoon searching South Beach for speedos. Even the suggestions we got from Hillary Banks (a black gay who had just moved to NYC from Miami Beach... her dad bought her a Lexus when she graduated from a "rival" college, okrrr) were pretty useless. The only piece that even remotely caught my interest were a pair of shorts (actual shorts) with a 3" inseam from a designer called Shan. The price: well into the 3-digit range.

Our speedo hunt included an in-depth tour of the Lincoln Road Mall, a huge walkway (probably a mile) of shops, restaurants and even a club or two. In the middle of said walk, Bohoken saw a hot server, and I saw seafood. It was time for lunch anyway.

We realized we were taking a gamble with this restaurant. There wasn't really any way of knowing whether we'd be in the hot guy's section. As it turns out, the hot guy wasn't even a waiter: he was running the food from the kitchen to the tables. But he passed by our table several times, and Bohoken got within biting distance of his bulging biceps when he brought out our appetizers.

We didn't find a speedo, but I went all moth-to-flame when we passed a shop with a distinct slant on small-uptown-boutique style (when someone asks, all my clothes come from "some small boutique uptown" no matter what the tag says... no swagger jacking here!).

As I browsed, the very aggressive Latin clerk hovered, asking me questions every 30 seconds. I finally found some jeans that I liked, and the clerk got me a size 31.

Obviously, these jeans came from a European designer because when I tell you these jeans didn't fit... I mean, I couldn't even get them over my thighs, let alone buttoning them. When the clerk brought me a 33, I was so elated that the fly would close that I didn't even realize they were a different style until I saw them in the mirror.

"No, 31 is the biggest size we have in those. But I have the perfect shirt to go with these!"

For the next hour, the clerk proceeded to play Ken-Doll Dress-Up (and "Check-in"-While-You're-Changing) with me. Bohoken, who also likes to watch me try on outfits, even got suckered into trying on a few ensembles. That sales clerk deserved every bit of the $100 of commission he likely made from our purchase.

When we asked about picking up the jeans Bohoken was having hemmed (apparently, I have the ideal inseam): "Oh, you can bring your receipt if you remember. But I'm working tomorrow, and I'll definitely remember you."

After an essential disco nap (shopping is hard work, y'all), I decided we should explore the mainland. I figured it'd be more local and less glam than SoBe.

Boy was I right.

When we walked into Johnny's Miami, a 19-year-old (at most) Latin twink in a thong was trying his darndest to look sexy on the stage. He had about as much muscle tone as he had coordination. A few other twinks of various heights meandered around the bar, mingling with patrons or awkwardly lurking in hopes of a free drink.

"Is that a skid mark on his white briefs?!"

We went out to the patio and got a drink (no cheaper than NYC or SoBe) from one of the muscle-daddy bartenders. The group of patio go-goes who had actually seen the inside of a gym were much more suited to my taste. Maybe we were just early, but it almost seemed like we walked into a clothing-optional party— the go-goes were mostly hanging out with each other, except for the hottest one in the group who had some older fat guy all over him (I assume that got him a very nice tip).

I didn't notice the stripper pole when we walked by it, but one of the twinks drew my attention when he climbed to the top and spun hands-free upside down. And at the end of his slow, cirque-style descent, I realized why he had the stain on the back of his briefs.

image from facebook.com/johnnysmiami

After about an hour and a half, I'd had enough of this scene. The bouncer was nice enough to hail a cab for us to expedite our South Beach-bound retreat.

Were I in the mood for a crowded dance floor and dance remixes of pop songs, Score would have been awesome. After paying our $10 cover, we settled in at the front bar and watched a pair of trans-women in 8" heels and the tightest dresses I've ever seen anyone sewn into teeter as they danced in front of the mirror behind their seated male companions. We ended up leaving after a drink.

As we walked up Lincoln Road Mall, which is rather eerie at night, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to see Nurse Tyra, a model, actual nurse, and friend of TTT's whom I'd met though Twitter, sitting on a bench with her friend Dr. Heidi. We'd been tweeting and texting all day, but I wasn't sure we'd actually link up.

After Dr. Heidi had recovered a bit from her fabulously unforgiving shoes, we made our way to Twist, laughing about Dr. Heidi's stories of being a hot, young, blonde doctor.

"There's always that awkward moment when people are like, 'Wow, you're a cardiologist?!' and I have to be like, 'No an otiologist, but thanks for the reminder of where I rank.'"

We caught a cab the quarter mile down Washington to Twist, and it was a good thing because Nurse Tyra pointed at some guy as we crossed the street. As soon as Dr. Heidi tried to look, I saw her go down. But she popped up in less than 3 seconds! It was the quickest recovery from a fall I've seen in heels to date.

When we got to the go-go room (of course we were headed there), our female companions got all giddy when I pointed out Miss Lance Bass across the way and decided they were buying her a shot. They came back kind of upset because apparently when they asked her what she wanted, she told them and quickly turned back to her group of friends, seeming less than appreciative of the offer. She may not have even noticed when they came back and bought shots for us instead. Our pretty medical professionals made their exit soon thereafter.

Of course, after one night in South Beach, I already had a favorite go-go. He actually remembered my tipping him from the night before.

Him: "Oh, you like me, huh?"

Me: "I'd Facebook stalk you if we RSVPed to the same event."

Him: "Ha! You like my ass!"

And he guided my hand appropriately.

Did I mention that attention to detail is a great way to increase my tip to you? Yeah.

Click here to check out my first (and likely last) Toys for Tots party. 

there's no champagne room (Art Basel Weekend in Miami, Part I)

Bohoken is an anxious flier. His anxiety stems more from the idea of flying, but he has a legit fear of turbulence. Which justifies a legit prescription for Xanax. So when he asked me if I wanted to go to Miami (I'd never been), I was a bit concerned when he couldn't book two adjacent seats on the plane down.

Thankfully, I'm a major planner when it comes to travel, so I made him check us in that morning online. Not only were there two seats together, but they were exit-row! And at 6'2", a small upgrade fee is well worth it.

I'd left work early but later than planned. I was starving, but I'd remembered that we didn't have a TSA-compliant container of lube (and when's the last time you saw Wet Platinum at a damn drug store). At that point, I had time for one or the other.

image from amazon.com 

. o (Well, shit. They got food at the airport...)

Many say that public transit is a no-go with NYC airports. I say the LIRR isn't so bad (better than paying to sit on the Long Island Expressway in rush-hour traffic) for JFK. Especially with a to-go cup of champaign from the cafe in Penn Station. And the $50 (flat rate from Manhattan + toll + tip) a cab would be to LGA is much better spent on drinks and go-goes navigating an unfamiliar city. 

Bohoken suggested the E train to JFK. Now, I used to live at the end of the E train, which does go to the AirTrain, so I should have known better. And after 50 minutes of waiting, crowding and silently cursing everything around me, I finally caught up with Bohoken at the AirTrain.

Our flight was uneventful, and we caught a cab that seemed to have half the exhaust piped into the interior. I had to basically perform obstetric surgery to get the seatbelt to function. These were certainly not NYC cabs.

Now, you would think that after the pre-Atlantis-cruise hotel fiasco, I'd be a bit more attentive to making reservations in Miami. But Bohoken said our hotel was near all the South Beach hotness, so I went along with it. Y'all, we pulled up to the address and couldn't find it. That's because the front is an Italian restaurant, and the only indication that a hotel exists is a small sign over an archway that leads to the restaurant's outdoor seating. Imagine how fun it was to drag our luggage between tables of people having dinner to get to the "front" desk.

The Impala Hotel has no wireless. "I mean, we have a modem, and you can plug it in..." Very useful for an iPad. Or an iPhone with crappy reception (Bohoken's iPhone 4S was having trouble all weekend). We would have done a better hotel, but this particular weekend, it was Art Basel, a huge, international art festival that basically draws all of Manhattan.

After freshening up, Bohoken suggested a stroll down Ocean Ave. We passed a bunch of restaurants with hostesses on the sidewalks tempting us with 2-4-1 happy hours on fishbowl-sized florescent drinks. But around midnight we stopped at Ocean's 10, a sparsely populated outdoor straight bar, because they had an awesome cover band playing! Hopefully they're there every Thursday because they really know how to hype up a crowd (but I forgot their name)!

Next, we headed to a Josh Wood party at Lords Hotel (a non-officially gay hotel on Collins), which was basically one of his Manhattan parties on the ground instead of on a rooftop (but at least this one was in a somewhat gay venue). It was open bar, and there was a photoshoot for Slick It Up, the fetish gear website.

I was waiting at the bar for our second drink for the longest (these were certainly no NYC bartenders), and a guy worked his way to the bar beside me. One of the bartenders finally turned our way, and the guy's gesturing got the bartender to start serving him first. Bohoken saw this going down and gave a very New York "Really?!" The bartender was frozen in confusion for a good 2 seconds before turning to us and taking our orders. I didn't see the other patron's reaction, but it was a small victory.

Bohoken: "And it's not like he didn't notice the 6-foot black guy standing next to him. He just tried to make himself more important than you. I probably would have let it go if it happened to me, but I get pissed off when people do it to you!"

That, my readers, is a sign you got a good one. 

We ended our night at the legendary South Beach staple Twist. The name makes sense because the damn club has so many different rooms connected by winding hallways. We explored several areas and landed in the room with the go-goes. Picture Cock Fight Wednesdays at No Parking (except lap dances happen on the back wall because there's no champagne room).

Did I mention Miami clubs close at 5am? Yeah. 

Click here to check out that one time I met up with TheMaverickMen.