Gym Time

You know how I hate trying anything new. However, in an effort to keep myself from falling into three of my most beloved ruts, over and over and over again, I was convinced tonight to abandoned my well-worn path.

I saw a bit of Hottie Zach on Saturday at the Gay American Heroes benefit at Therapy, though most of my time was dedicated to Jonathan in the first of four increasingly adventurous adventures. I had told Zach at Therapy they we would undoubtedly end up at a bar later and he should try to meet up with us. Unfortunately for him, he got stuck fixing a shelf for his roommate and Jonathan and I stayed too long at his friend Danny's birthday party (aka adventure #4), so Zach had to be postponed to another night.

He suggested we go to Gym, a sports bar in Chelsea most notable for its high number of patrons who enjoy white wine by the glass while assiduously ignoring whatever ESPN show is playing on the many flat panel TVs. Gym is most notable to me as the place in town with some of the cheapest drinks around, which always has a place in my miserly alcoholic heart. Even though I had promised Zach some time alone, I got a last minute plea from my ex-boyfriend Curtis, who was spontaneously in town to join him out as well. Figuring the more the merrier, I invited Mike to come along too.

As I walked into the bar, the first person I spotted was not Zach, but Greg, the very straight Associate Producer of my radio show, whose own birthday party had been adventure #3 on Saturday (which culminated with Jonathan and I being thrown unceremoniously out of a notorious smoldering dump known as One Little West Twelfth). Apparently after the show, Greg, his girlfriend Dawn and their main gay Dominick were in the mood for a cheap drink. Two out of the three wanted to go to a gay bar, and one out of the three wanted to watch the game, so modern math being what it is, they ended up on bar stools at Gym.

Lately I have become obsessed with putting photos of myself on Facebook. There are only two reasons for me to go on there constantly: play Scrabulous (a dying art form) and tag/caption photos. Dawn put up a slew of photos from Greg's birthday party and I wasn't in any of them. So in an attempt to right that wrong, I asked the coat check guy to retrieve my camera from inside my already checked coat so I could make a nuisance of myself with my flash. I got some photos with Greg and company, both taken by a reasonably attractive gay guy who seemed intent on cutting everyone who wasn't me out of the group shot, reducing Dawn to a very evocative pair of bangs in the second photo. But he didn't even try to hit on me. I was no sooner done looking over the digital shots that he was out the door like a shot himself. No matter.

Hottie Zach and his sensational roommate Laurel (aka The Freak Magnet, more on that later) joined us, as did Mike and Curtis in quick succession. The gang in place, we set about doing what we do best: drinking! But first, some back story:

Curtis and I dated back in 1998-1999 when he was a fresh college grad who I had bravely bought a drink for and given my number to at Revolver. We had good times, including attending Kathy Griffin's 1998 Christmas Party (where I first absorbed the desire to make cupcakes) and harassing Carol Liefer at A' votre Sante where when she dismissed my tired line "I'm a big fan" I impressed her by repeating word for word her routine about sex with an opthomalogist. By the time I got to the punch line, "How do you like it better? Like this? Or like this?" she was beaming like a kid on Christmas morning.

Curtis lives in San Francisco now, and has made his way up through the ranks of television with impressive efficiency. I was devastated when, after only a few short months of dating, he informed me the week before Valentine's Day that he had taken a job as a News Producer in Toledo, Ohio and he was moving THAT WEEKEND. Leaving me for a job was one thing, but Toledo wasn't even a Top 50 market! I was offended. But Toledo lead to Houston which lead to San Francisco where less than a decade later, he is at the top of his game. For him, a vast improvement over his grubby apartment, cheap McDonald's hamburgers, and occasional sex with me. So much longer later, all is forgiven. He made the right choice.

While Curtis and I exchanged battle scars and quips covering the past year since we last drunkenly encountered each other at the sleazy GayVN after-party in San Francisco, Mike and Zach talked shop about military matters. All the while, several different men at the bar kept trying to nose into the conversations, mostly by practically sexually harassing Laurel. It wasn't until later that I remembered they were just trying to get to Hottie Zach through his female friend. Normally a solid move, but in this case, it just caused Laurel to instantly label them freaks, a moniker from which no sexiness can escape.

Zach and Laurel had to work in the morning, so we tried to make a reasonably early night of it. Greg and company had long since departed and the bar had thinned out like an Obama victory party in New Hampshire. It was time to go. Mike and Curtis and I left the bar, hailed a cab and headed for Grand Central Station. Once there we grabbed some food from a street vendor. Some weeks back, I had enjoyed a $4 lamb gyro there, so Mike and I decided to try to recapture the magic (it didn't) while Curtis who hadn't eaten all day, wolfed down two hot dogs.

I dashed down to the bathroom before we left and I saw someone on the floor inside one of the stalls. At first, I thought they had dropped something or that they were sick, but then I realized, no, it was just some guy getting fucked in the ass at one am in a stall at Grand Central Station. What a way to inaugurate the new East side bathrooms! I told Curtis the story on the train which lead him to tell more than one hair-raising tale of sexual adventure. I think he might have been a little disappointed by my inability to match him, story for story. What can I say? I lead an unadventurous life where I naively assume people only use bathrooms for releasing waste material, think a meal from a street vendor can be magical, and find the ruts in life a comforting sign that you are headed in the right direction.