Friday, April 24, 2009

The Furricane

This is going to make me sound old, but in my day, you went to a nightclub week after week and it always stayed in one place. Some lasted longer than others, and the ones which burned the hottest usually flamed out the fastest. And maybe that is just an LA thing. I used to love Club Louie, enticed by the rumor that Madonna was part owner, but it vanished so fast I don’t even remember what neighborhood it was in. The Men’s Room was a great Thursday night party until it got a glowing review in the Los Angeles Times. Street cred obliterated, I don’t think they even bothered to open the next day. I loved this place on Sunset until the doorman shot two people. Then they turned it into Project Angel Food. Well, it was a more innocent time then, as we like to say.

I went once to The Skinny when it was located just up the street from my office. My friend Danny of the solid packed body and skimpy underwear was one of the bartenders. Matt Kugelman is a mutual friend so he was there too. Then, last night was Thursday again and since Matty’s party at The Park is on haitus, I checked in with Kugie to see if he was going. And then I noticed that it wasn’t in midtown anymore, it was now in the grey area north of Chelsea near Madison Square Garden. So Matt and I met up at Brother Jimmy’s BBQ on 31st and 8th Avenue for dinner and then headed around the corner to 28th for the new Skinny. And just as an aside here, I was not feeling too skinny myself after I downed that chicken fried steak. The doorman recognized me and even knew my full name, which shocked the crap out of me, especially after that woman Kris from Long Island recognized me earlier in the day at the Starbucks downstairs from our office. Where did my precious anonymity go? It’s the beginning of the end everybody.

Once inside, I ran off to find the bathroom and it was a crazy quilt of stairs and passageways and printed signs that took me upstairs, around the corner, through a brightly lit photo shoot, past Sweetie looking not so sweet behind the bar, down into a dance floor open only to the lunatic fringe and then finally, hidden behind the DJ booth and near a fire exit: the bathroom. I felt like Ashley Judd in that Morgan Freeman movie where she was trapped underground by my boyfriend Cary Elwes: “There were doors…There were walls.” Yes, yes Ashley, very descriptive. Very helpful. “Okay,” I thought as I sighed with some relief at the urinal, “it’s going to be one of those nights.“ Downstairs, I met up with Matt again. He was talking to a guy who was running his hand along his forearm. “Furry,” he purred, “Are you furry everywhere? Is your butt a furry hurricane and the hole is the eye?” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s a furricane.

During dinner, talk had turned to Matt’s screenwriting class, and later at The Skinny, in a cinematic fervor, I engaged Danny in a conversation across the bar and through the legs of an aggressively gyrating stripper. I figured the stipper at some point would step over us, but until the conversation ended, he bumped and ground over our heads, my hands resting gently on the bar between his ankles. After we got another round of drinks from Danny, we headed upstairs to look for Matt’s friends who were apparently there somewhere. In point of fact, they were everywhere. It was a complete reversal of last week at The Park, now with Matt the one with the popularity and the proximity.

The weirdness continued upstairs with a cute bartender in tiny underwear with what looked like an exceedingly painful wedgie. “No no,” he assured me. “It doesn’t hurt. And it just happens when I keep doing this.” He then proceeded to turn around and shake his ass like a blender blade until nearly all of the underwear had been sucked up into the smooth eye of his not-so-furricane. Some idiot tipped him $300 and then was mystified when he didn’t continue to get the same loving attention he was lavishing elsewere. Everyone knows you give them the $300 at the end of the evening. If that’s your opener, there is no reason to stick around. Three big bills buy a lot of brown rice and cocaine when you are twenty years old and live six deep in a studio apartment waiting for Fire Island to roll around again. Idiot.

Downstairs the real show was about to begin. One of the strippers on the bar recognized Matt from a previous party a few weeks ago and started a long distance flirt with him from his station on top of the bar. The stripper was furry himself, though he had an appropriate Chelsea trim to him. Wearing a jock strap under his underwear, his back to us, he playfully ran his fingers along his lips while making eye contact with Matt. Then he ran his hands down his back, gently pushing his underwear down and slipping his middle finger into the eye of his furricane. Then he pulled his finger out, drew it up to his face, ran it playfully along his chin until, when he had our complete and undivided attention, he stuck his finger in his own mouth and sucked on it.

This was a revelation. Not since the topless drag show in spanish at The Plaza on La Brea in Los Angeles have I seen such a display of unabashed and playful raunchiness. And there the tranny dancer had popped out from behind a screen in just a bikini bottom, spun around a bit, took a cigarette from a man in the front row, puffed on it, jammed it into the cheeks of her ass, did a cartwheel, pulled it out of her ass, puffed again and then handed it back to the patron, who let the cigarette burn itself out in the ashtray in front of him untouched. For my money, this ran a close second.

As our gasps of horror at The Skinny subsided to cheers of delight, the stripper jumped down from on top of the bar and engaged us in conversation. He even shook my hand, which in retrospect was probably not the brightest thing I ever did, but life is an adventure right? Apparently at a club last week, he had done a similar trick with a blow pop that did not go over well. “After that, I looked around and realized that I should probably just go home because no one here is gonna want to make out with me now.” I am pretty sure if someone did, that would be true love. But what do I know about true love or blow pops?

We were so entranced by the strip show we barely noticed that the place had cleared out like it was on fire. It wasn’t until we saw a guy do a cartwheel down the middle of the bar, followed by some impromptu drag balling that we noticed how dead the place was. And the only action was a straight couple making out in the corner. It might actually have been a fire because as we were saying good night to Danny all of us could quite distinctly smell smoke, and not in a good way. Our evening was at an end and we hardly needed smoke signals to see it.

I guess all good times have to come to an end eventually. The twenty year old bartender’s good time will end five summers from now when his bloated corpse is found floating in a Fire Island pool some post Labor Day afternoon. The days of The Skinny may already be numbered. Five club promoters and they could barely fill the place for a couple of hours. No wonder Sweetie looked so sour. I drove home up the Henry Hudson Parkway along the river, the top up on my convertible on the final chilly night of the year until fall. The cold has come to an end too this weekend, which just goes to show you that the end of one chapter and the beginning of another isn’t always so bad after all.

1 comment:

Kelly said...

Bloated corpse? I gotta work hard now to remove that image from my brain. That was harsh!