Let’s get 1der Twin a lap dance! (Folsom St. East Shopping Slash B'day Happy Hour)

My birthday hasn’t been on a weekend in way too long. When one has a middle-of-the-week birthday, one can either a) celebrate in the middle of the week and risk people being too lazy to show up or b) celebrate on the weekend and risk all kinds of scheduling conflicts. I chose both.

What? My birthdays are low-budget legendary!

For this birthday, Folsom St. East ended up being just a few days off, so I planned a fetish pre-brunch at Bohoken’s. Now, I realized that many of the people I hang out with are total squares own absolutely no fetish gear, so I figured I’d give them the chance to armor themselves beforehand with a shopping happy hour! 

We all met up at Gym for their 2-4-1 around 6:30, which is really too late for how early the stores in Chelsea close, but employment has to be considered. There was a crew of about 10 of us who migrated across the street to Nasty Pig. It was a good starting off point because they’re mostly tshirts and sweat pants, but they have their share of neoprene gear (which you’ve seen me model). I ended up finding a buckle that would totally fit one of my favorite belts (it has a very flashy label on the buckle… I really like that it’s orange ostrich, but I’m not a label guy). A friend PharmaceutiCub , who had just gotten back from IML and was schooling us on the over 300 shades of hankies in the hanky code (apparently different countries have different codes for the same colors, too), bought a wrist band. A couple of friends tried items on (and looked pretty good), but no other purchases were made. 

"you're not gonna buy these chaps, are you?"

Go-go and retail wonder Jay Roth kept the store open a bit late for us, but by the time we left, Rufskin was already closed. So we caught the train down to Christopher St to our next destination: London (the store, not the city).

Girl, it was like a bachelorette party. Lots of pointing, giggling, holding outfits up. We had to be told not to take pictures. A little embarrassing, but I guess that’s to be expected with guys who aren’t so familiar with fetish gear.

Oddly, Leatherman was already closed (but London stays open til 11), so we stopped in the Hangar to wrap up our crawl. It’s very much not a place most of these guys would have ever gone, so I offered to buy a round to keep them engaged. Obviously, I like getting people out of their comfort zones.

Speaking of, a very hot, black go-go god got up on the box. I convinced a few friends to go tip him after I did. When the guy in the group who was most uncomfortable in this situation, 1der Twin (his brother, 2der Twin was not present), got up to go to the bathroom, a light bulb went off in my head.

"Oh my god! Is that REAL?!"

“Let’s get 1der Twin a lap dance! I’m putting in $10 to see this shit. Who’s in?”

Having collected $30, I ran over to the go-go god just as he was getting off his box. He enthusiastically agreed.

1der Twin (arriving back from the bathroom): “I think I’m gonna head out guys.”

Me: “Oh… oh no. You can’t.”

1der Twin: “Uh, why not?”

Me (waving wildly to the go-go behind 1der’s back): “Because… uh… because I want you to do a shot with me! My treat!”

1der Twin: “I guess. Since it’s your birthday.”

1der Twin just happened to be standing in front of a vacant bar stool (with a back on it), so when Mr. Go-Go walked up and pushed him down into it, there was nowhere for him to run. 1der Twin’s face went from shock to horror to blissful grin, and the latter expression remained for almost 10 minutes during his lap dance. I swear that go-go made more in tips from us than our initial offer.

And then the go-go god moved on to me. You know I was ready!

happy birthday to me...

Did I mention Rihanna’s not the only one with cakes? Yeah. 

stay away from the bestiality (a [drunk] day at Jones Beach)

MicHELLe and her clique had planned a Sunday at Jones Beach. It had been a rainy week, so everyone jumped at the chance to play in the sun. The plan was to take a train at some ungodly hour and arrive on the beach around 11:30. Personally, I have no reason to arrive anywhere before 1 on the weekend. And besides, a head start for everyone else is the least I could do.

I’d had quite a late Friday night (that may or may not have involved meeting 2 guys who were a) best friends and b) crashing on a couch), so even my 9:45 alarm was a bit much. But Bohoken and I got it together and out the door in plenty of time to catch the 11:40 train (and pick up some breakfast along the way). It was a pretty standard LIRR ride to Freeport where we caught the bus to the beach.

Me: “Do you wanna pee?”
Bohoken: “No, I’m actually good.”

Me: “Are you sure? Because it’s a good 10 minute walk to the gay section, and there’s no bathroom out there. Maybe let’s try.”

Bohoken: “Oh… yeah, maybe I should go.”

expiration date on your ass: never advisable

After trudging through the sand, the first indication of where the clique had camped out was P. Willow’s whipping her hair back and forth. Among the gays present were MicHELLe's clique of over-educated 20 somethings of various races: Ms. Wilde, Mr. Wilde (her live-in boyfriend), Café Holé, Lady J and another Black Guy with a 6-Pack whom I’d never met before (competition peeped).  In the middle of trading double kisses, a remarkably attractive straight girl accosted me:

“Mm-mm! No! Boots are not allowed on this beach! We do naked feet only. Boots off!”

Between her slurring and giggling (and knowing the boys with whom she’d come), I could tell V. Dentada had been drinking quite a bit.

Me: “The hot muscle-cub peeing on the dunes. He’s with y’all right? Is he straight?”

MicHELLe: “Yeah, that’s V. Dentada’s boyfriend.”

Me: “Goddamnit. I need a drink.”

Mr Wilde (out of nowhere): “Would you like the minty cucumber lemonade (very refreshing) or the organic, all-natural rum punch?”

Me: “Um, lemonade. Hey, girl, hey!”

What commenced over the next 4 hours was nothing short of pure mess. Now, these are educated individuals with respectable professions (most of whom couldn’t look at this blog at work if they wanted to), but they’d obviously started drinking as soon as they boarded the 9:45 train.

let it be noted that not a drop was spilled. at least not here.

Notable occurrences:

• P. Willow putting on V. Dentada’s sarong (which, by the way, did not unwrap… it was basically a flowy skirt with a slit… is that cheating?)

• P. Willow grabbing Lady J's scarf and tying it like a Persian veil… and insisting that no one take pictures

• Half of the crew in the water suddenly wearing their swimwear around their necks

• The other Black Guy with the 6-Pack getting touchy-feely with Bohoken

• Everyone trampling the— wait, WHAT?!

Yes, the other Black Guy with the 6-Pack (and with everything else, from what I could see between swells while he was skinny dipping) was getting quite handsy with Bohoken. His receiving the news that we were together lessened his attention towards Bohoken only because he started to focus on me as well. At one point, he used the two of us to shield his very apparent erection from his friends and co-workers in our crew.

BG6P: “God, you guys are so hot.”

Bohoken: “No, you’re so hot!”

BG6P: “I could really have some fun with you guys.”

Me (grabbing his ass): “Oh really?”

BG6P: “Hell yeah!”

Me: “Well let’s make that happen.”

It was a long ride back on the LIRR, so Lady J provided entertainment.

MicHELLe: “Wait, you’ve never heard of nifty.org?!”

Café Holé: “No, what the fuck is that?”

MicHELLe: “I’m pulling this up on my phone right now. You need to experience this!”

P. Willow: “Oh my god! I love their college dorm stories! So fucking hot.”

MicHELLe: “Yes! But I try to stay away from the bestiality ones. Haven’t explored that section just yet.”

Help, I've stumbled into perfect lighting!

And just when we thought the conversation couldn’t get any less appropriate, Lady J treated us to a dramatic reading of a graphically pornographic locker room scene. I’ve never heard so many synonyms for dick, penetration and cum in my life!

Meanwhile, I was texting BG6P, who was a row in front of us, telling him explicitly what we were looking for and confirming if he was up for it that night.

“I don’t usually do this…”

Did I mention we aim (present tense) to change that? Yeah.

Click here to check out a throwback mess of a double beach trip. 

he walked in and caught us in the middle of (Jersey Pride in Asbury Park)

As if traveling to DC for Black Pride and to South Carolina for my niece’s graduation (on a damn Wednesday) wasn’t enough, we’d booked a hotel for Jersey Pride in Asbury Park for the weekend. We literally slept in Hoboken 2 nights out of 10.

It was only in the 70s that Saturday, so rather than rushing down, I’d convinced Bohoken that we should go to the gym and have brunch first, catching the 3:08 train. After one too many drinks at Lure Fishbar, we grabbed a seat on the NJ Transit just behind super promoter/event producer Mark Nelson. He regaled us with tales of his encounters with the event’s headliner, Deborah Cox. We bade him farewell when his ride picked him up at the Asbury Park station.

yay gay!

Bohoken: “So, the beach is just right there, right?”

Me: “It’s probably a 10-mintue walk. But the hotel is on the other side of the beach. That’s like another 10 minutes or so.”

Bohoken: “Oh, it’s not that far. Let’s walk it.”

Me (under my breath): “I swear, I need to start dating black again.”

Bohoken: “Say what?”

Me: “Uh, we can walk if you want to.”

Bohoken (arriving at the boardwalk): “That wasn’t that far.”

Me: “Yeah, but see that tower over there?”

Bohoken: “Aaaall the way over there? The one that looks like a mental hospital?”

Me: “That’s our hotel.”

Bohoken: “Shit.”

Bohoken (25 minutes later): “God, you were right about that walk.”

We checked in, dropped off our stuff and grabbed a very nice seafood meal at McLoone's Asbury Grill. Rather than bringing out a dessert menu, our waitress brought us a plate with all the desserts arranged on them. Smart. Dangerous.

We finished up in time to catch the Mr. & Miss Gay NJ pageant, which was held in our hotel (for a $20 donation for AIDS research). Men compete for the Mr. title, and drag queens compete for Miss. But seriously, some of those men were more over-the-top than the drag queens. One guy’s formal wear had more sequins than a Real Housewives’ fundraiser, and for his swimwear, he came out in a full wet suit (he was a bigger guy), carrying flippers in one hand and a makeshift “surfboard” (that looked more like a snowboard) with his name on it. DEAD.

Bohoken insisted on a disco nap before we headed over to Paradise. I was hoping I could work my blogger star-power magic like last year, but all I got was a dirty look from the bouncer. Luckily, a bartender buddy had put me on his comp list (girl, I got people everywhere).  As always, Paradise was a crowded mess of a good time, and dj Hex Hector kept the pop remixes oh-so-cute! Drinks, gawking at Jersey guys, the usual.

The next day was the festival, which was in the empty lot park next to our hotel. All kinds of tents and booths! Of course, I didn’t get up til almost noon, but Bohoken had gotten up early and already had convos going on Scruff.

Bohoken: “This guy says he’s working the [org name] booth. He seems to be pretty into me.”

Me: “Oh, yeah. That’s [Name].”

Bohoken: “I had a feeling you’d know him.”

Me: “I’d say he looks better in person.

We didn’t know where to get brunch, so we agreed to walk down the boardwalk and see if anything grabbed our attention. On the elevator down, a couple of butch lesbians were randomly raving about the brunch McLoone's Asbury Grill, the restaurant we’d eaten at the night before. It seemed like the clear choice.

As we sat on the balcony overlooking the boardwalk, chowing down on lox, shrimp, swordfish and sausage (highly recommend this brunch), I received a message from a hot torso who turned out to represent a couple. The bottom had this fantasy of his bf coming home and “catching” him getting “used”. And when he sent pics, there was no way we couldn’t help this poor guy out with achieving his dream. We really only had 45 minutes before the boyfriend was supposed to be home, and by the time we finished, paid, stopped by the hotel for supplies and caught a cab, it was a bit after 3. We still beat the boyfriend there, but he walked in and caught us in the middle of an unexpectedly engaging conversation. We seriously just talked and laughed for almost an hour.

“Soooo our housemate is gonna be home in about an hour. Shall we…”

We shall. Did I mention we walked out with an invitation to stay with them another weekend sometime? Yeah.

A serious downpour had come and gone while we were on the other side of Asbury Park, so by the time our new friends drove us back (Jersey gays are so nice!), half the festival had vacated. But Bohoken wanted fried Oreos, so into the festival we went. And of course, he ordered 4 fried Oreos, pulling the “don’t make me eat 3 of these!” As I was finishing the first one, I conveniently ran into a Facebook friend from the area whom I finally got to meet in person. Luckily, he had a much stronger interest in fried desserts than I.

That’s about the time Deborah Cox took the stage. I may or may not have lip-synched every song like a drag queen in a juke joint in Sumter, South Carolina. She put on a great show (Deborah, not I).

i took the nj transit... how did you get here?

After Miss Cox left the stage, I dragged Bohoken to the Tides hotel for the pool-side leather party (I couldn’t resist the juxtaposition). It was the first time I’d been to the Tides, and it was cute! It’s a boutique hotel with about 20 rooms, a restaurant and a small bar in the lobby. As soon as we got to the small pool deck, which was pretty packed, it started to downpour again. For the next couple of hours, the hotel lobby was packed with damp, geared-up leather daddies.

After a very nice dinner in the Tides Hotel’s restaurant, Bohoken was pooped. I took him home to tuck him in and walked down the boardwalk to Paradise where Steve Sidewalk was on the main floor (with go-goes!). While there was no line to get in, the party was still plenty populated.

I ended up getting about 2 hours of sleep that night before we caught an insanely early train to the City. I had to transfer in Newark to get to Penn (since it was a weekday, the train from Asbury went to Hoboken rather than ending at Long Branch).

Did I mention Bohoken got stuck in Newark for 45 minutes because of a sick passenger? Yeah. 

Sandblast is coming up! Click here for the top 10 reasons you should go! 

And click here to check out my adventures from last year (including when I first met the Maverick Men).

with 2 very sexy strangers (Memorial Day Weekend - Black Pride DC '12)

Friend: “So, what are you guys doing for the holiday?”

Me: “We’re headed down to DC. We had a great time there last time we were down, and Bohoken was upset we had to leave so early that Sunday. I figured it’d be nice to try it when we both had a Monday off.”

Friend: “Isn’t Black Pride that weekend?”

Black Gay Pride DC is definitely during Memorial Day Weekend.

While searching DC accommodations, my ideal was the DuPont Circle area, more boutique, less chain. The one that really stuck out on GayCities was the Helix. When I looked it up, I found it was a Kempton hotel, a chain that comes highly recommended by Morehead (who travels for weeks at a time for work) as a super gay-friendly organization. When I saw the funky, campy, pop-art styling of the rooms, it was a no-brainer.

As soon as we arrived from Union Station, we dropped our bags and changed to go out. It was about 11 by the time we left, so we hopped in a cab to DIK Bar (really, it would have been < a 10-minute walk) for karaoke. I treated the audience to an appalling interpretation of Mariah’s “Always Be My Baby”.

Hillary Banks, who had spent a few years in DC, had told us that we should make our way to “The Mill” one night to experience the “real” black gay scene. It’s located near the Navy Yards on SE, and according to Miss Banks, we didn’t want to get there til about midnight.

When that cab dropped us off, I saw that the name Navy Yard was a current and functional name for the area and not a historical reference. It was about as sketchy as a well-lit area could be.

$10 later (each), we were in the type of juke joint that you really only see among blacks in the South. If you’ve ever been to the Black Banana in Fort Lauderdale (is that even still open?), it was quite similar. If not, well, the joint was rough. But when I saw how they poured the drinks… well, I sincerely hope no one was driving that night.

We had a grand time on the downstairs dance floor (especially when half the room joined in on the Wobble… it’s a line dance that’s new enough to still be hot but old enough that my mom knows it). But I dragged Bohoken up some sketchy looking stairs after I saw some other patrons head up.

“Do you think we’re allowed up there.”

“Well, unless it says ‘Coloreds only’, I think we’re fine.”

image from livinghistoryfarm.org

Upstairs was another bar with a dance floor in front and an elevated lounge (with spades table) and patio in back. The best part about the upstairs: the electronic jukebox. I put in $10 thinking it would be like NYC where it takes a half hour for your ‘play next’ songs to come up. Imagine my surprise when my Whitney and Britney request blasted through the dance floor’s speakers 3 minutes later.

After another nearly toxic drink, we made our way to the street to hail a cab. Except that we were in the Navy Yards area, so there were none. I had the brilliant idea of using Dial-7 (I saw an ad when I was in Ft. Lauderdale, so they must be in every area code, right), but the next day I realized I’d dialed 212 instead of 202. After about 15 minutes of basically standing under a highway waving at the occasional cab that wasn’t available (but you can’t tell because there’s no consistent availability indicator like NYC cabs), I was able to find a number for a cab service that would actually come pick us up. And at that instant, Bohoken flagged down a rogue cab for us.

Insert obligatory late-night Annie’s Steakhouse trip. For those who don’t know: Annie’s is a 24-hour establishment on the 16^th St gay strip near DuPont Circle that the gays frequent.

We started Saturday with a walk to Level 1 for brunch, which was nearly deserted compared to when we ate there in the winter, but that may have been because they had outdoor seating available. Or because most of the mainstream gays go to Reboboth Beach for Memorial Day Weekend. I counted myself lucky that the bottomless mimosas that our older Caribbean server brought us didn’t betray my thoughts: She’s giving me Miss Cleo in a blonde afro wig realness right now! But the clique of 4 well-built, handsome black guys who walked in may have noticed Bohoken’s (who had migrated to my side of our table) and my staring while they waited at the bar to be seated. 

By the time we wrapped up at brunch and walked back to the hotel, it was time for our first official DC Black Pride event: a rooftop party at Ibiza in Northeast DC. As the cab pulled up to the venue, I heard the music, expecting it to be emanating from the roof of the 10-story hotel we were approaching. Nope. The party was across the street, a line forming in front of a 1-story edifice. How DC.

We paid our $10 cover and headed into the sparsely populated club space with a professional photo setup on the far side. Kettle 1 drinks were $17 each, but the handsome, tall, built, white bartender made it very worth our while. I made it a point to tip him well and come back to him send Bohoken back to him every time.  He pointed us in the direction of the stairs to the roof deck where a DJ was spinning the rump-shakingest tunes of the weekend! But it was HOT! And the girls were not trying to sweat out their texturizers. It wasn’t until he played the Wobble that people actually got on the dance floor. But it wasn’t hip-hop that kept people dancing: it was dancehall/reggae. 

After a few more very strong drinks, we headed back to the gay strip for dinner at Agora (which made me think of the phobia). Amazing octopus! 

That night’s party was at Layla Lounge, which felt slightly less in the middle of nowhere than Bachelor Mill. A few go-goes came out at one point, and the tall one held eye contact for just a bit too long when he walked by. I noticed that they were pretty much just walking around in their (super sexy) underwear, and there wasn’t a stage or platform for them. That had to be awkward. Then the tall go-go came by again.

Tall Go-Go: “You’re very handsome.”

Blush. Convo, convo, convo…

Tall Go-Go: “You know, they had like 20 dancers Friday. And they told us we’d be able to use the stage and perform and everything. The boys had gotten all decked out, cock rings on, hard-ons going. And nobody came to take us out to perform. They just left us back there. And now there are 3 of us.”

Me: “Everyone else was just like fuck that, huh? They’re that disorganized?”

Tall Go-Go: “Hell yeah!”

After some time, they opened the upstairs, and the crowd left the downstairs dance floor almost deserted. After a couple of characteristically strong (expensive) drinks, I realized that Town was a straight shot up Florida Ave. It was a hassle, but we managed to find a cab to take us. Town was the usual trashy mess. Within minutes, my shirt was off, and I was posing with 2 very sexy strangers.

if you recognize this man, send him my facebook info STAT! Kareem McJagger!

Sunday morning was somewhat uneventful after mimosas with brunch outside at Level 1 (aside from Bohoken leaving the room with no sun screen and getting a deep farmer’s tan), but a friend from NYC had invited us to a pool party on a local’s roof. Bohoken didn’t pack any swimwear, and I didn’t feel like walking the 2 blocks to the hotel, so we had a great excuse to hit up Universal Gear (which is, apparently, based out of DC) to pick up some speedos.

“Dude, you’re gay. Always pack at least 1 just-in-case speedo. It’s not like it won’t fit in your bag.”

We wanted to bring something to contribute to the party, but being a city of Northern charm and Southern efficiency, hard liquor is not sold on Sundays. Luckily, prosecco is totally fair fame.

When we arrived, I found that I not only knew the host but a couple of other gays present. Bohoken and I changed into our speedos and never once got in the water. But the gays were jolly and thirsty, polishing off our prosecco, some left over vodka and a few bottles of white wine.

oh, no! my shoe's untied!

“Damn, y’all must have had that 1.75L of tequila from earlier this week. It’s almost empty.”

“Girl, we got that yesterday!”

After letting some straight girls smack my ass (only because one of the gays insisted that they act upon a desire previously verbalized), Bohoken and I packed up for dinner in Georgetown with close friends of his who’d moved to DC a year before. A quick change before drinks at JR’s (quite happening) preceded a quick mess at Town for the rest of the evening.

Town was having a party called WTF Airlines where the whole place was decked out in themed decorations, including oxygen masks hanging from the ceiling and a costumed staff. There were shows on stage featuring drag queens, a very sexy go-go, and all kinds of props and gimmicks. Quite entertaining. And my shirt stayed on the whole time!

hey, has DC ever had a queen on Drag Race? In the top 3? 

Did I mention that the walk from the 16^th St strip (Annie’s again) was long enough to cool down but short enough not to be annoying? Yeah.

Click here to check out that time the Ivy League Crew had DRAMA on a trip to DC.

I'd work much better as bait (don't read this if you don't like stories about group sex)

The night of the RuPaul's Drag Race reunion, I'd texted DJ Scotty Rox to see if he was at XL.

That may or may not have started with a convo about another party...

I definitely prefer hanging out with drag queens and nightlife personalities in more intimate settings, so Bohoken and I left XL about halfway through the queens’ performances. He was exhausted, so we jumped in a cab, dropping me off 3 blocks uptown while he continued to my place.

When I arrived at Bar-tini, Shequida was in the middle of a show. Scotty explained to me that they had given Shequida a show that night because she had connections to get the queens (specifically Sharon Needles) to show up after the XL shenanigans.

Just after Scotty hooked me up with a drink I really didn't need (especially after an MTV-employed friend had been handing me drink tickets at XL all night… so much for my tagline), a tall, slim, 40ish white guy with a ridiculous mustache started chatting me up.

Did I mention that I love ridiculous mustaches? Yeah.

Ew.

Eventually, he informed me that he was visiting from out of town and that he was trying to coordinate some group action at the Out NY hotel (the one next to XL). I said, "Fuck it, why not. It's about time I saw the inside of that place anyway."

He sent me back into the crowd on a mission to pick up other guys to bring. Here's why that would never work: a) I live here, so the guys I'd approach would be guys who are totally opposed, whom I'd never seen before, and whom I'd see out every weekend henceforth; b) I suck at approaching guys just for 1-on-1. I decided I'd work much better as bait, so I left the hunting to my new friend, 'Stache-uesque.

A bunch of queens, both from Drag Race and the NYC scene, showed up later in the night. The one that comes to mind is Chad Michaels, who may or may not have witnessed my being introduced to our 3rd, very cute, Possibly Latin young'n.

Chad Michaels and Epiphany

After the two of us had conversed for a while ('Stache-uesque was still hunting), he genuinely thought that I wasn't into him. I made a very convincing argument to the contrary.

I ended up in a cab with 'Stache-uesque, Possibly Latin, and this guy who I could tell within half a second of meeting him would just annoy the fuck out of me. He was cute enough, but he had a whiney voice and a demeanor to match. Picture all the undesirable elements of a hipster but adorably self-unaware. Basically a drunk NYU student whom I couldn't even imagine hate-fucking.

Now, the clever ones among you are thinking, "Why were y'all in a cab from Bar-tini to Out NY, 3 blocks away?" Why? Because I insisted on heading to 8th Ave for condoms and good lube. And detours are a good way to make a sex situation fall apart. When herding cats, it's best to corale them and act before anyone starts asking questions or suggesting other options (e.g., “Oo, a diner! I want eggs!”).

So 'Stache-uesque and I hopped out of the waiting cab and ran into the sex shop for some Wet Platinum and condoms. 5 minutes later, I my clothes were on the floor of a very modern hotel room, and I was in the shower with Possibly Latin.

No, I did not have sex with Shangela. That night. 

After some making out, we joined 'Stache-uesque and NY(R)U Here on the bed. 'Stache-uesque wanted to put some porn on the TV, as one does when one is in the midst of a fourgy. But the TV wouldn't cooperate. None of us had any luck, but rather than shrug it off, 'Stache-uesque called the front desk, telling them his issue in clear detail. It took about 5 minutes for some big straight Latin guy (I swear was a bouncer from XL) to show up and fiddle with the remote. Then he got a new remote, which he had to fetch from another room, and fiddled some more. 45 minutes later, there was no porn. Luckily, someone had thought to cover up the dust that was lined up on the table.

Then 'Stache-uesque whispered those magic words every boy longs to hear: "I want you to take me in the bathroom and fuck my brains out."

Then 'Stache-uesque whispered those OTHER magic words every boy longs to hear: "I want you to fuck me on the bed and make the other guys watch."

Around 6:30, I was gathering my clothes when NY(R)U Here whined, "Hey! You're the only one that's cum!"

Me: "Yup. BTW, you've totally got coke-dick, man. You're gonna rub yourself raw if you keep tugging like that. If it hasn't happened by now..."

I have no idea who you are, but WORK!

Picture me on 42nd St in full daylight hailing a cab. Luckily the paparazzi had given up for the night.

I got back to my place just in time to kiss Bohoken on his way out, and I had just enough time to sleep for 45 minutes before work.

Oh, did I mention it was now Tuesday? Yeah.

Click here to check out a purely hypothetical steam room story that totally didn't happen at any time in reality. At all. 

The Maverick Men grinning and pushing (White Party Palm Springs '12 Part V)

So in addition to my losing my phone, Bohoken had lost his Grindr box with his credit card, ID and admission pass for the weekend’s parties. While he panicked in the bathroom, I sat hung over calmly at the end of the bed. For some reason, a white plastic bag on the table caught my attention. And what did I find inside said bag but Bohoken’s Grindr box, complete with credit card, license and party pass.

Bohoken: “I have no idea how that made it home.”

Me: “You just outsmarted your sober self. I do it all the time. In fact, my old roommate used to do so when she’d get high and try to stash her weed.”

We sat down for brunch at Lulu, and just as we were served our first drinks, Bohoken saw a missed call and a voicemail on his phone.

“You should listen to this.”

It was exactly the news I was looking for: some gay boy had found my phone at the underwear party and kept it safe. He was planning to drop it off at the front desk in about 20 minutes. 

Bohoken: “How the hell did we build up this much good karma?”

Me: “Um, because we’re awesome! That and we tip well.”

After our leisurely brunch (with generous tip), we made our way to the Renaissance Hotel to check the front desk. I’m guessing homeboy was a little more hung over than he’d anticipated because it had been 40 minutes, and neither of the front desk people had received a phone. We left them Bohoken’s number, which, of course, they called 5 minutes after we got back to our hotel. We grabbed our speedos for the next pool party and left to retrieve my phone.

The guy who had found my phone was hanging out by the front desk to make sure I got it back. As much as I like to talk smack about the west coast, that certainly wouldn’t have happened in NYC. Super awesome of him!

We did more of the drink ticket thing at the pool party, and as we ambled around the deck, we ended up befriending a pilot for the LA Clippers and the Lakers, an older worked-out black guy who was truly insane… but in a fun way. After kikiing with him for a while, we exchanged numbers, and he told us to come by for a drink before the party that night.

Later in the afternoon, we put on our clothes, hopped in a cab and ventured off the main strip of Palm Springs to the Saguaro Hotel for the Desert Tea party. This was the one time where an out-of-town Facebook invite was actually relevant to my life (thanks, Corey Craig!). I really wasn’t sure what to expect because this wasn’t on the roster of official White Party events. Maybe it was the size of the pool deck, but this party was much more packed than the last one. Corey Craig’s tunes with the hot guys in the late afternoon sun (mixed with a bit of vodka) made the perfect combination!

“HEY, fuckah!”

As I was coming down from the DJ booth, I saw Hunter of The Maverick Men grinning and pushing his way towards me with Cole and some young twink in tow. Apparently, they’d gotten kicked out of the VIP for getting a bit to freaky with their “dance moves”, but something told me they’d got some video footage out of it (and their website later confirmed it). We had a nice little kiki before they excused themselves to go add to the footage they were collecting.

courtesy of TheMaverickMen.com

After a long disco nap, Bohoken and I were ready to get our costumes on for the pregame. I was quite pleased with how they turned out.

My plan was to keep my phone in Bohoken’s bookbag, which was small enough to not be cumbersome or detract much from our outfits. And of course, when we walked up to the convention center, there was a sign saying no bags inside. There wasn’t even a check. So we walked the bag back to the hotel. Frustrating.

Anticipating long lines, we'd bought VIP passes for the parties, which promised separate, no-wait entry and access to the VIP section of the party. The thing is, we never had to wait at any of the parties. But at the actual White Party, the VIP section came in handy with slightly shorter waits for drinks (even the regular section wasn’t nearly as bad a wait as the previous night) and an elevated view of the stage. This didn’t seem all that special until Mary J. Blige came out and performed.

Mary was just awesome. She brought all the energy, charisma and talent that you’d expect from a superstar (rather than a grown woman on a table singing about “crispy chicken”). She had a live band and did all the hits the gays love (but not so much her older stuff... wrong audience). It was a great show, and from the VIP area, we had a clear, relaxed view over the crowded dance floor.

The White Party was very opposite of the Black Party (surprise, surprise). Not nearly as much skin or as many jock straps, but people were generally more creative with their garb. I didn’t see any area that could have worked as a dark room, either. The annoying thing was that they used different drink tickets at the convention center and didn’t honor the tickets from the pool parties. I had a good time, but after Mary's show wrapped around 2ish, I’d seen about everything I’d come to see. I don’t know that I’d make it a priority to come back any time soon, but then again, I probably wouldn’t travel for the Black Party more than once either.

Did I mention I’d lost my phone again (but the convention center returned my call on Monday and shipped it back to NYC)? Yeah.

Click here to check out Part IV (the 3some gone wrong).

Click here to start over at Part I.

Click here to check out my Beyoncé-themed birthday party. 

tail on the back of his jock strap (White Party Palm Springs '12 Part IV)

Bohoken and I had planned to wear different colors of the same underwear that he'd picked up for us in Spain over the holidays (I'm fully aware of how ridiculous that sounds). When we arrived to the host hotel, they had a pretty standard clothes check that cost 2 drink tickets (really?). They handed out black lanyards with Grindr-branded boxes on them just big enough for a few credit cards and maybe an iPhone with no cover. I'd worn boots, so I was content with stuffing my essentials into my socks and calling it a day. Bohoken opted for the Grindr box.

I always take pictures of my coat check tickets in case I lose them. Which only works if you don't lose your phone.

In contrast to the afternoon's pool party, there seemed to be a couple thousand people at this party. Most of them had stripped down, and many of them had the courtesy to work out beforehand.

As we waited in line for a drink (OMG were the drink lines slow!), I noticed a guy in a jock strap with the most interesting tail. No, literally, he was wearing a tail on the back of his jock strap. I was mesmerized until the woman talking to a bunch of gays in front of him turned to me and broke the spell. 

"I see you like my husband."

Over it! Okay, I'm joking. Sorta. But they turned out to be a very fun couple with some very hot gay friends. We kikied with them trying to make the best out of the long wait for drinks. In fact, the wait was so long that we missed all but the last song or two of Jojo's performance. But the sound balance was probably better from the hallway (she sounded excellent).

And then I lost my phone. I did a quick sweep of the area I'd been in (really, just the drink line) and asked the bartender. Nothing turned up, but I'd paid for this damn party already, and sulking wouldn't bring my phone back any faster.

As the night went on, I noticed that the muscular black guy who was friends with the married couple was mighty friendly to Bohoken and me. We hadn't gotten to see any of the Rennaisance's rooms yet, so he graciously volunteered to show us his. This is where the circus began.

And I thought Super Mario was exciting with a raccoon tail...

First, we took him with us to the clothes check to retrieve our stuff. Then he had to track down said married couple to "check in". I'm not sure why his check-in couldn't happen via text, but apparently it was important enough to lead us on a lap around the dance floor, through the hallway and into the bathroom. So then he had to stop by their hotel room, and he finally confessed that they had his room key. During this expedition, I realized that Bohoken was doing an awful lot of swaying. All I could do was hold his hand and pray our boy didn't notice.

We finally got to his room. Making out, touchie feelie... And then he steps away and strips off every stitch of clothing. Now, I'd met him in his underwear, but his nakedness was a sight to behold. I should have taken a picture. So I excitedly followed suit and helped Bohoken out of his clothes before we moved the party to the bed.

The guy was lying on his back. I was going to work on his rather large nipples with my patterned, moan-guaranteed technique. Everything seemed great.

"Looks like someone's not participating."

And there was Bohoken, on his back beside the guy with a sleepy grin on his face. I figured getting called out would make him snap-to, but the next thing that dude said was...

"Okay, get out."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. We're not all here."

I gave a shrug and got up to get my stuff because let's face it: 3-somes are complicated, and you have to be prepared for shit not to work out at any time. I realized Bohoken hadn't gotten the message so clearly, so I went back to the bed to retrieve him.

BLUE BALLS :-D

We got dressed mostly in silence as the guy watched from a chair. He was actually pretty cordial and offered, "I'm here the rest of the weekend if you want to give it another shot." Bohoken slurred, "I don't think that's gonna happen."

Bohoken: "Why is my phone in my shoe?"

Me: "It fell out of your pocket as you disrobed. I put it there so you wouldn't lose it. Like I did. "

Bohoken was stuck on the rude phrasing, but for some reason, I really didn't have a problem with our jettison. I mean, we didn't set any rules on the table beforehand, but it's possible that the guy went into it expecting no less than a legit 3-some. Or maybe he was more into Bohoken, and I was just an accessory. Or maybe he took Bohoken's non-participation as a rejection. Who knows. Who cares. I'm over it. 

When we woke up in the morning, Bohoken couldn't find the Grindr box that contained his credit card, driver's license and admission pass for the parties.

Did I mention that we had to get on a plane to fly home the next day? Yeah. 

Threesomes: gross or goal-worthy? Leave a comment!

Click here to check out Part III.

Click here to check out Part V.

Click here to check out a hot story from an underwear party on Fire Island.