Getting a bunch of gays together in one place is no easy task. The expression “herding kittens” comes to mind. As our major LGBT lobbying organizations long ago learned, our community is no monolith and it is never more evident than on a Friday night when competing personalities have different ideas of what makes a fun night out on the town.
Michael Bond is visiting this weekend from Boston. He started assaulting my Facebook Wall more than a week ago with demands for an audience and the opportunity to play a little “Gay Chicken.” Bond is adorable, as everyone knows, so a quick Friday night make out session never seems like a bad idea. Unfortunately, Bond has a terrible habit of coming to town, getting blind drunk and then becoming very difficult to pin down (in both location and at the shoulders up against a wall). I knew that if I wanted to win at Gay Chicken, it was going to take a little extra effort on my part.
Several weeks ago, Matty and I were at a party (you remember, the one with the awful furniture and good art) and while we were in the ad hoc coat check area in the hall outside a cute gay approached us and invited Matty (and by default, me) to his birthday party on the 13th. So I knew there was a party somewhere, but that was all I knew. Earlier this week when I grilled Matty about it, he remembered the encounter but not whose party it was. Then Thursday night, out at Matty’s Park party, Joe let me know that it was Micah, who I was so hostile to some weeks ago at The Ritz. Fortunately, on our second encounter, he was too drunk at both to connect the dots. This small mercy is what keeps me afloat in Manhattan gay social circles.
As my show wound down on Friday night, Roommate texted me and let me know he was hanging out around the corner at Barrage, our original Manhattan staple when I lived on 42nd Street back at the beginning of my NYC adventures at the start of the century. I tried to convince him to go down to Chelsea, or worse, south of Houston for Micah’s party, but he was adamant. After going to bed at 5:30am the night before and working all day, he was only in the mood for a quick beer and then an express train to slumberland. I headed down to Barrage to try to convince him in person, while texting with Bond to see where he was. Bond planned to join Michael Warner’s bar crawl and in the interim was pre-cocktailing at a friend’s apartment in the heart of Chelsea.
To no one’s surprise, Roommate finished his Blue Moon and headed for the 11:10pm train. I hopped on the E Train, bound for Chelsea, while Matty texted me from Micah’s party way downtown wondering where I was and when we were coming. Still hopeful that I could pull Bond out of the pending bar crawl, I joined him at his friend’s tastefully standard Chelsea apartment for a surprisingly delicious vodka cranberry. There was some smooching, some hand-holding, and at one point, he even licked my face. “Should I have one more? I don’t want to get too drunk.” He asked as I wiped the saliva off my face. I told him to have two. He was already over the line, what difference did it make if he had two or two hundred?
More gays arrived at the apartment and all of them looked like they were churned out of the Play-Doh Chelsea Boy Maker by Hasbro! All trim plaid shirts, smooth haircuts and zero body fat. Apparently we each took a jump on the super accurate scale in the bathroom, though I was the only one there with the shock of recognition on his face when he came out moments later. After a group photo destined for Facebook glory, we all decamped around the corner to Ate Ave (which I think used to be Food Bar). Michael Warner was climbing into a modified luxury SUV, on his way to Splash, which as usual, only sounded appealing to Bond and the other gays visiting from Boston. Inside, I ran into HX photog Jeff Eason, Ben Andrews in full porn star mode (razored haircut and no Clark Kent glasses), and Amanda Lepore, more and more a Japanese robot fuck doll every day.
While still debating a trip much further downtown than I ever like going, I got a single word text from Matty: Maritime. Glory be! A bar around the corner. I tried once again to convince Bond to join me and Matty at Maritime but now his drunken heart was set on Splash. We made our way through the chaotic mess at Ate Ave and made our sloppy good byes outside. Moments later, I was in the familiar throes of Maritime with Matty, Joe and our returning champion Andrew. I discovered that part of the secret to Andrew’s insanely narrow physique was his recent adventures in marathons and, slightly more to my liking, half marathons. “What are you running to or from?” I queried to Joe’s delight and no answer from Andrew. He was in a contemplative mood, but as it turns out, not very self-reflective.
My time at Maritime was terribly short. Too short. But I did have to commend myself on a job well done. It isn’t easy seeing three different people in four different locations in only three hours. And even though it was a week of pure junk food (chicken fingers at Moonstruck, the most amazing onion rings at NY Burger Co., Valentine’s Day cupcakes, a package of Twizzlers, Michael Bond), I rewarded myself at Grand Central with a hot dog smothered in sauerkraut and mustard. And on my walk to the train, I hung my own “Mission Accomplished” banner over my head. True, I wasn’t able to bring everyone together, but I did get a little piece of each of them, and that made my evening complete.
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