Friday, June 5, 2009

Key To The Shitty

Life in Manhattan is just a series of overlapping circles, looping around and around, giving the illusion of movement and change. But in the end, you always end up back at the same place you started. Every once in a while a new circle begins and everyone rushes to twirl in its path in the hope that it will finally take them somewhere new. Well, more to the point, they hope it will take them to someone new. Because at a certain point, if you are a man of any age with arms of any notoriety, you quickly discover that there is no one new left to meet. And then you are forced to choose between a repeat visit or moving to Los Angeles.

There is a new party in town called Key Klub. Brandon Voss is one of the promoters. You know, the other Brandon Voss who isn’t the former editor of HX and doesn’t have wild party boys crashing his apartment in the middle of the night. Or maybe he does, but that doesn’t mean he invited them. In any event, he has already launched the successful, if instantly familiar Rockit on Fridays and is now branching out. New Night! New Faces! The second claim can not be backed up as readily as the first, though in retrospect how new is Thursday?

Derek is the doorman and though we share a name and I have met him hundreds of times he doesn’t know me. All he knows is what he sees, which is new each time, and based on my appearance he knows I am neither famous, nor important, nor hot, and therefore, I can wait in line and not get comped at the door. It always bothers my roommate that I don’t assert a “don’t you know who I think I am!” in these situations, but I prefer the honest realism of his assessment. If he floated me in past everyone else like a star, I might for a second think my arms are big enough or my soul worthy. And we can’t have that can we? After all, feeling self-conscious and unworthy is the cornerstone of any successful nightclub, alcohol problem, or mid-week sexual hook up. And fair is fair. If he wasn’t working the door, he would be standing in line too. Don’t kid yourself. The bullied becomes the bully.

Matt Kugelman was there, my faithful bar standby. I honestly don’t know what I or my blog would do without him at this point. When did I come to depend on him so utterly for nights out on the town? We were both there to meet Danny’s new boyfriend also named Matt. (For the love of Christ, can we please have an end to all gays named after apostles? I’m over it.) New Matt is tall and thin and on his way to being a doctor. He should be comped at the door, instead of that 23 year old steroid monkey, the over processed bottle blond, with two-tone tan and last year’s faux hawk. You know who you are, so there is no point in searching for your Facebook profile. Everyone knows who you are. But this is the world we live in. And as much as I bitch about the steroid monkey, he was kind of adorable in a use and lose kind of way. If only there was a gay recycling center where all of the boys you fucked could go to be sorted, washed and reused. Oh wait there is. Fire Island.

I told Danny that the troubled looks on most of the faces were just them thinking about which tank tops to pack for this weekend. After all, it is Thursday night. And after the well vodka settles and the lube is washed off, they will all be carefully folding their tiniest outfits into their cutest satchel , and hoping they don’t forget to shave their feet and asshole before departing their PR job and boarding the Long Island Railroad at the crack of noon. And magically a short two hours later, there they will be. Surrounded by all the same men in all the same tank tops who were just wandering past them at the Key Klub while they dreamt of waves crashing at the Pines and the promise of true love in the Meat Rack.

Ben Andrews was there, tall and angular in a hoodie. Kugie’s roommate was there, almost unrecognizable under new hair, which I suppose is a good way to keep things fresh (though I did think he looked much hotter with his old wavy hair). The hot real estate agent who used to be Tag Ericsson the porn star was also wandering around. That was almost new. Haven’t seen him in a year or so. As I was waiting to leave, the guy who didn’t sleep with Michael Lucas walked in and the circle was complete. I hadn’t seen him since the In The Life pride party last year. Well, enough is enough. Time to head home.

I piled into a cab only to have it stalled in traffic a block later, stymied by the filming of a crappy new Nicholas Cage thriller “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” They were filming it all of last month right next to my office, which was annoying enough. But now, I had a train to catch and the entirety of Sixth Avenue was blocked. Finally it cleared and we slowly made our way down 21st Street toward Eighth Avenue. And just ahead of us, the camera car with a station wagon mounted on it, two dim figures (male and female) in the front seats. Probably Nicholas Cage, I shrugged, annoyed yet devoid of any real feeling at the same time. The camera car was circling around the block to film again, and I was circling up and around to get back to my office and the train. And back at the Key Klub, the circling continued, around and around, massive arms and tiny shirts, go-go boys and drag queens, porn stars and nobodies, and always the same sameness swirling around in the bowl waiting to be flushed away. See you next week!