I don’t know how I keep ending up back at Splash Bar. It is definitely not one of my favorite places. If I was on FourSquare.com, I don’t even think I would check in from that destination. It’s too embarrassing. I hardly have a reputation to protect, but what tattered remains there are can barely survive such an admission. But it was a run of the mill Friday night and there I was, once again, this time in the company of no longer a porn star Ryan Raz.
It has been two years since The Raz first wandered into my radio studio, fresh off the porn world’s version of the turnip truck. Repped by my pal Howard from FabScout and accompanied by two other fresh new young performers, his was the star that ended up burning the longest and the brightest. Last December, he announced his retirement and yet, he seems to be as busy as ever: travelling so constantly that when he returned to the show yesterday, he had to remind me that he still lives in New York City. Really? How can you tell?
Ryan was on the show to promote the Hustlaball, which makes its triumphant annual return to Club Rebel this Sunday, like a stinking bulb sprouting each fall from the sexual manure of Manhattan. I have always had a good, if strange time at the Hustlaball. I don’t have a scene, as the kids used to say, but if I did, this would definitely not be it. And in a fire versus frying pan move to which my life has oddly become accustomed, the party before the party was last night at Splash. I am pretty sure the gays invented the pre-party party and even if they didn’t, they should take credit for it, because it sure feels like their greatest contribution to humanity up to this point. It’s not jazz, but it’s something.
After the show, Ryan and I hopped on a subway down to Chelsea. I suppose the event at Splash was really designed to be a promotion for the main event two days later. The Hustlaball tends to attract a lot of people from out of town and Splash is the Manhattan bar most beloved by those from everywhere that isn’t named Manhattan. I am one of those in that guilty party myself. Before I moved to the city in 2001, it was the first place I wanted to go, no matter how many times Matty rolled his eyes about it. But being a good friend, he always indulged my tourist whims at least once each trip and in that spirit, I joined Ryan at the bar last night.
I don’t know what I was expecting from it but it was less than I thought it would be. Maybe it was because we arrived so early but there were just two other guys there in Hustlaball t-shirts and no one else seemed to be working the event, as it were. They were both very hot and after circulating through the crowd for a bit, they would circle back to us again at the base camp we made at the front bar. I don’t remember their names and I don’t think they even heard mine. It didn’t matter, on either count.
To amuse myself, I checked my bag at coat check with my usual brand of terrible humor reserved for those who deign to work counters. At the movies, I like to order concessions with a southern-fried accent that fools no one. Last night, I made endless wisecracks about how deserted coat check was (“I hope you can find my bag later!”) to the wan smiles of the adorable guy who likely is able to maintain his perfect abs because he is starving to death living on minimum wage and meager tips. What can I say? I find myself hilarious in the face of total adversity.
I stayed just long enough for Ryan’s other friends to start to arrive. Being a good friend means not leaving someone alone if they don’t want to be alone. This kind of retail marketing is a solitary business and there is safety in numbers. I love The Raz and always want to hang out with him more, but context is king. Perhaps Sunday at Hustlaball will be just that context. And once again, the rigid train schedule was more savior than burden.
On the train home, I usually write about my evening. But instead while walking up Sixth Avenue to Grand Central, I got an idea for a little gay movie with a cute working title like “The Project” where a woman who works as an employment recruiter starts dating a hot guy with a gay best friend and decides to make it her rabid mission to use her considerable job skills to fix him up and in the process ends up sabotaging her own relationship. The cuteness of the movie playing in my head, as formulaic as any romantic comedy that ever existed, crowded out the narrative of the evening.
So at creative loggerheads, I decided spontaneously to churn that creative energy elsewhere and leap onto a dangerous third rail and start a Twitter feed. I have railed against and complained about Twitter for months, even as people have begged me to start one. The notion of cramming my thoughts into 140 character haikus was uninteresting to me. But, I realized, going to Splash was uninteresting to me and I did it anyway. This is the year of trying new things and nothing will signal the end of Twitter as a cultural force faster than me joining in. And so this unholy alliance was joined. After all, Twitter.com/wastesyourtime and now so do I.
Showing posts with label Howard Andrew. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Howard Andrew. Show all posts
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Manor Borne
We had every intention of going to The Living Room tonight, but we ended up living it up at The Manor instead. Roommate and I are visiting South Florida for the weekend, to ring in the new year and escape the wintry breath blowing a seasonal mix of snow and misery down from the arctic. Here in Florida they are complaining about the sixty degree temperatures which feel like Christmas in July to us. Perspective is everything.
We had dinner with Howard and Gio and porn star Tristan Jaxx at Rosie's last night. Tristan is dancing on a box in a dark hole of a stripper bar that quite unappetizingly also serves food. Personally I wouldn't drink out of a glass there, but you know how highfalutin I am about these things in my cargo shorts, three year old sneakers and free t-shirt. While eating, we ran into Matthew Rush and his boyfriend, Gabriel.
After Howard, Gio and Tristan left to get ready for their night of stripping, Mike and I lingered in the Rosie's bar with Matthew Rush and Gabriel and all of their musclebound and bald friends. Matthew told embarrassing stories about his awkward encounters in public. First, when he thought a guy was stealing his french fries at the airport, and then it turned out, his fries were still in the bag and his giant arms had been helping themselves to the other man's fries. Then, he told a story about which he was appearing in a stage show and someone was hissing at him during the show. Livid, he complained about the rude audience backstage only to notice a man with an oxygen tank in the front row when he reluctantly returned to the stage for the second act.
Matthew was exhausted from his recent trip to Chicago and really wanted to go home, but his friends pressured him into one drink at The Manor. Since we had a good time there the night before, we decided to have one drink there too before heading off to The Living Room. As promised, Matthew and Gabriel left reasonably quickly but Mike and I ended up staying for the duration. Partially we were motivated by our favorite bartender Richard, who is as slim, toned and pretty as anything you have ever seen. As Spencer Tracy said in "Pat and Mike" of Katharine Hepburn: "Not much meat on her, but what's there is 'cherce.'"
Fortunately the elderly gentleman who tried to stick his tongue in my mouth just after midnight to celebrate the new year and ended up only licking my horrified lips wasn't there. But there were other kindly old men visiting in the bar with their sons and in one instance, possibly a grandson. As I told Mike, I want to date someone so ridiculously good-looking in 2010 that people are disgusted when they find out we are together. "See the look on my face when I see them together," I told him of one particularly odd couple, "That's what I want to see." More realistically, our real resolution will revolve around better diet and more exercise. I suppose in the end, I would rather have a ridiculous stomach than a ridiculous boyfriend.
The crowd was just so fun at The Manor, singing and dancing along, and the music was such a delightful mix of old and new, dance and hip hop, I found myself having just the best time. A pocket gay came up behind me to order a drink and I almost offered to give him a "daddy upsies" just so the bartender could see him. Later, his only slightly taller boyfriend showed up and we joked about taking one of them home, even though neither of them was tall enough to actually ride legally in the front passenger seat. But then they hit the dance floor and were amazing. So fun and free and really talented, we were captivated. Finally, as I promised myself I would do more of in the new year, I put aside my expectations and reservations and just had a good time, and let the enjoyment of the party wash over me. So even though we didn't go to The Living Room, it turned out there was plenty of room for living at The Manor.
We had dinner with Howard and Gio and porn star Tristan Jaxx at Rosie's last night. Tristan is dancing on a box in a dark hole of a stripper bar that quite unappetizingly also serves food. Personally I wouldn't drink out of a glass there, but you know how highfalutin I am about these things in my cargo shorts, three year old sneakers and free t-shirt. While eating, we ran into Matthew Rush and his boyfriend, Gabriel.
After Howard, Gio and Tristan left to get ready for their night of stripping, Mike and I lingered in the Rosie's bar with Matthew Rush and Gabriel and all of their musclebound and bald friends. Matthew told embarrassing stories about his awkward encounters in public. First, when he thought a guy was stealing his french fries at the airport, and then it turned out, his fries were still in the bag and his giant arms had been helping themselves to the other man's fries. Then, he told a story about which he was appearing in a stage show and someone was hissing at him during the show. Livid, he complained about the rude audience backstage only to notice a man with an oxygen tank in the front row when he reluctantly returned to the stage for the second act.
Matthew was exhausted from his recent trip to Chicago and really wanted to go home, but his friends pressured him into one drink at The Manor. Since we had a good time there the night before, we decided to have one drink there too before heading off to The Living Room. As promised, Matthew and Gabriel left reasonably quickly but Mike and I ended up staying for the duration. Partially we were motivated by our favorite bartender Richard, who is as slim, toned and pretty as anything you have ever seen. As Spencer Tracy said in "Pat and Mike" of Katharine Hepburn: "Not much meat on her, but what's there is 'cherce.'"
Fortunately the elderly gentleman who tried to stick his tongue in my mouth just after midnight to celebrate the new year and ended up only licking my horrified lips wasn't there. But there were other kindly old men visiting in the bar with their sons and in one instance, possibly a grandson. As I told Mike, I want to date someone so ridiculously good-looking in 2010 that people are disgusted when they find out we are together. "See the look on my face when I see them together," I told him of one particularly odd couple, "That's what I want to see." More realistically, our real resolution will revolve around better diet and more exercise. I suppose in the end, I would rather have a ridiculous stomach than a ridiculous boyfriend.
The crowd was just so fun at The Manor, singing and dancing along, and the music was such a delightful mix of old and new, dance and hip hop, I found myself having just the best time. A pocket gay came up behind me to order a drink and I almost offered to give him a "daddy upsies" just so the bartender could see him. Later, his only slightly taller boyfriend showed up and we joked about taking one of them home, even though neither of them was tall enough to actually ride legally in the front passenger seat. But then they hit the dance floor and were amazing. So fun and free and really talented, we were captivated. Finally, as I promised myself I would do more of in the new year, I put aside my expectations and reservations and just had a good time, and let the enjoyment of the party wash over me. So even though we didn't go to The Living Room, it turned out there was plenty of room for living at The Manor.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The Private Lives Of Dayton And Tory
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Monday, October 13, 2008
Play Ball
I get so torn about my life in moments like this. On the one hand, I relish my anonymity and all the trappings of "real life." At the same time, I have frequent urges to be in the center of the action. These are the two pulls in my life, tearing me constantly in opposite directions at the same time. Earlier today I was enjoying my Sunday political shows (who knew McLaughlin was such a raving FDR devotee!) and then winterizing my house. It's a quiet existence where I am more concerned with what to watch on TV than who is watching me. But then later, I headed down to the city for dinner with Ben Harvey and a debaucherous turn at the Hustlaball.
It was a gorgeous fall day. Crisp, as we like to say. And the leaves were just starting to turn and drop, even as the sun shown warmly through the thinning branches. On days like this, I love the long walks the city affords and made the trek from Grand Central to Union Square on foot. Ben was waiting for me in the bar of Republic looking as handsome as ever. Has it really been so many months since I saw him last?
Republic is one of my favorite places in the city. It is communist dining at its finest: inexpensive, fast, spare and they serve thai ice tea and green tea ice cream, two of my greatest rare pleasures in life. It was all new to Ben so he stuck with the reliable pad thai while I indulged in spicy duck noodle broth. We gossiped about work, caught up on love (or lack thereof), shared chicken skewers. Aside from my total domination of the conversation, it was a perfect evening.
I regret to say that, in my usual fashion, I turned to Ben as we got our ice cream and said, "And now in our last five minutes, tell me all about you." Believe me when I say this was not the worst of my conversational crimes. I managed to weave a depressing zinger about our depressed economy as the punchline to nearly every sentence no matter the subject matter. Through it all, Ben was a terrific sport about the whole thing.
From there, I jetted down to the Hustlaball. Last year, I attended under the guise of being Chi Chi LaRue's assistant. This year, I was (thanks to Howard at FabScout) a bona fide invited guest. In many ways, I loved being mistaken for Chi Chi's minion. No one wanted anything from me save access to the terminally accessible and personable star herself. This year, still no one wanted anything from me, though ever the publicist, Howard made sure everyone knew who the hell I was. Though, the one person who had heard of OutQ mistook my show for another, accusing me of an appalling bit about selling a used condom full of cum at 9:30am! "That's our morning show," I assured him, finally with a sense of relief at not having to defend the lurid content of my own show for a change.
Barrett Long was there, looking dapper as we sat together in the VIP lounge. He was anxious to rehash our good times last year when his then roommate Rod Barry picked a drunken fight on the patio. Suddenly, sensing the moment, he stood up and started to unzip his pants. "I've seen it!" I said, but he was persistent. "Yes but you haven't sucked on it." I dodged the inevitable hand on the back of the head and stood up, firm in my conviction to not experience his mammoth eleven inch cock first hand. "I still have my tonsils, Barrett, and this is not how I want them taken out."
Ben Andrews was there early on doing his Clark Kent shtick, but I spent most of the evening with Jackson Wild and Ryan Raz. The two of them were still rattled from some unpleasantness the night before at Octoberfist, another adjunct Hustlaball event. Jackson was drinking up a storm, even charming me into a lemon drop shot I didn't want to do, while Ryan stuck dutifully to water knowing he had a scene to do in the morning with the aforementioned Barrett Long. I didn't envy his future soreness one bit, especially after Barrett told me that once it was in he wanted Ryan to spin on it.
Jackson was excited about the eminent arrival of his boyfriend Jim. After the show on Friday prepping for my last blog entry, I did some recon on the boys and read all about Jim on Jackson's MySpace page. Jackson's love for the hunky stranger seemed worthy to me and the two of us got along great. Good thing since we spent the better part of the evening together while the boys were working the red carpet and dancing on stage. In the interim, I coaxed Jim to take his shirt off and the two of us turned the VIP lounge into our own private dance party.
Events like the Hustlaball are dicey propositions, especially in the VIP room where the crowd is made up of porn stars and the men who love them. Many of the stars are reluctant participants and the admirers are too busy staring to have much fun. That leaves it up to in-betweeners like us to actually bring the party. As an invited guest, I did my best to shore up the proceedings, short of sucking Barrett Long. After all, when all is said and done, I am still just a civilian here, having fun but always with an eye on the door that leads out to the real world where I truly belong.
It was a gorgeous fall day. Crisp, as we like to say. And the leaves were just starting to turn and drop, even as the sun shown warmly through the thinning branches. On days like this, I love the long walks the city affords and made the trek from Grand Central to Union Square on foot. Ben was waiting for me in the bar of Republic looking as handsome as ever. Has it really been so many months since I saw him last?
Republic is one of my favorite places in the city. It is communist dining at its finest: inexpensive, fast, spare and they serve thai ice tea and green tea ice cream, two of my greatest rare pleasures in life. It was all new to Ben so he stuck with the reliable pad thai while I indulged in spicy duck noodle broth. We gossiped about work, caught up on love (or lack thereof), shared chicken skewers. Aside from my total domination of the conversation, it was a perfect evening.
I regret to say that, in my usual fashion, I turned to Ben as we got our ice cream and said, "And now in our last five minutes, tell me all about you." Believe me when I say this was not the worst of my conversational crimes. I managed to weave a depressing zinger about our depressed economy as the punchline to nearly every sentence no matter the subject matter. Through it all, Ben was a terrific sport about the whole thing.
From there, I jetted down to the Hustlaball. Last year, I attended under the guise of being Chi Chi LaRue's assistant. This year, I was (thanks to Howard at FabScout) a bona fide invited guest. In many ways, I loved being mistaken for Chi Chi's minion. No one wanted anything from me save access to the terminally accessible and personable star herself. This year, still no one wanted anything from me, though ever the publicist, Howard made sure everyone knew who the hell I was. Though, the one person who had heard of OutQ mistook my show for another, accusing me of an appalling bit about selling a used condom full of cum at 9:30am! "That's our morning show," I assured him, finally with a sense of relief at not having to defend the lurid content of my own show for a change.
Barrett Long was there, looking dapper as we sat together in the VIP lounge. He was anxious to rehash our good times last year when his then roommate Rod Barry picked a drunken fight on the patio. Suddenly, sensing the moment, he stood up and started to unzip his pants. "I've seen it!" I said, but he was persistent. "Yes but you haven't sucked on it." I dodged the inevitable hand on the back of the head and stood up, firm in my conviction to not experience his mammoth eleven inch cock first hand. "I still have my tonsils, Barrett, and this is not how I want them taken out."
Ben Andrews was there early on doing his Clark Kent shtick, but I spent most of the evening with Jackson Wild and Ryan Raz. The two of them were still rattled from some unpleasantness the night before at Octoberfist, another adjunct Hustlaball event. Jackson was drinking up a storm, even charming me into a lemon drop shot I didn't want to do, while Ryan stuck dutifully to water knowing he had a scene to do in the morning with the aforementioned Barrett Long. I didn't envy his future soreness one bit, especially after Barrett told me that once it was in he wanted Ryan to spin on it.
Jackson was excited about the eminent arrival of his boyfriend Jim. After the show on Friday prepping for my last blog entry, I did some recon on the boys and read all about Jim on Jackson's MySpace page. Jackson's love for the hunky stranger seemed worthy to me and the two of us got along great. Good thing since we spent the better part of the evening together while the boys were working the red carpet and dancing on stage. In the interim, I coaxed Jim to take his shirt off and the two of us turned the VIP lounge into our own private dance party.
Events like the Hustlaball are dicey propositions, especially in the VIP room where the crowd is made up of porn stars and the men who love them. Many of the stars are reluctant participants and the admirers are too busy staring to have much fun. That leaves it up to in-betweeners like us to actually bring the party. As an invited guest, I did my best to shore up the proceedings, short of sucking Barrett Long. After all, when all is said and done, I am still just a civilian here, having fun but always with an eye on the door that leads out to the real world where I truly belong.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Prix de Beaute
Life divides people into two very subjective categories: fuckable and not fuckable. Of course who falls into which category is purely in the eye of the beholder. However, whole industries have sprung up dependent on the notion of fuckability. Tonight I experienced two of them up close: porn and underwear.
Howard Andrew of FabScout is in town for the Hustlaball. To kick things off, he dropped by the studio with three of his fuckable models. The most outgoing and flirtatious was Jackson Wild, whom I nicknamed Jackson Hole because it seems his ass is also a rugged destination. Howard barely knows me but his keen sense led him to believe (correctly) that I would be most attracted to Ryan Raz, a tan dirty blond with glacier blue eyes and jutting ears. Though the third, a quiet reserved Southern boy named Colton Steele, slight and furry, was probably the most compatible with me sexually.
After the show, they headed for The Eagle for the Hustlaball kick off party and I ventured down to Splash to watch Ronnie emcee an underwear model search for Instinct Magazine. Having pulled this kind of duty before, my sympathies were with Ronnie during the slapdash prolonged proceedings as they dragged on into the night. The event was poorly executed, with the models fully dressed for the overwhelming majority of the show. Even Ronnie was demurely attired much to the chagrin of the salivating crowd. Dan and his friend Patrick who was visiting from out of town joined me against their will at the bar, but we were all in agreement about the show. The bar was half empty and most of the bartenders looked more like underwear models than the contestants, but in every case, they were all quite fuckable.
After the judges declared the audience's least favorite the winner, the show was quickly over. I waited forever to say good bye to Ronnie who still had a bunch of signings and poses for pictures to do. He hugged me and after earlier admiring my new short hair whispered in his calm, even Midwest tone, "You look so beautiful." I might dine emotionally on that for as long as Bob Morris calling me "good looking" in the New York Times.
I decamped from Splash and headed to The Eagle, a purposefully dank playpen now around the corner from the priciest and most ludicrous straight clubs in the city. I found Howard and the boys upstairs. Brian had called my haircut a "Saturday night at The Eagle game changer" at Eric's party last month. Though perhaps because it was Friday the game hadn't seemed to change for me.
Jackson greeted me with the same wild "Let's do it RIGHT NOW!!!!" look that seems to be permanently in his eyes. Ryan was sweet and longing to be nuzzled in a rough and ready roundhouse ready for something else. Finally, appropriate to the venue and occasion, Colton appeared in nothing but a jockstrap. Apparently the alcohol had set in. Howard naturally took it all in with his usual sense of bemusement.
I admire how people I know in porn like Howard take it all in stride. They are plugged in to how fleeting it all is. You have to stay in the moment or the whole thing will consume you. The shelf life of a model is short, but it's even shorter for a porn star. So even though I will never be as fuckable as these porn pups or contestants in an underwear contest, I hope whatever beauty I do have is enough to carry me long term through all the many adventures yet to come.
Howard Andrew of FabScout is in town for the Hustlaball. To kick things off, he dropped by the studio with three of his fuckable models. The most outgoing and flirtatious was Jackson Wild, whom I nicknamed Jackson Hole because it seems his ass is also a rugged destination. Howard barely knows me but his keen sense led him to believe (correctly) that I would be most attracted to Ryan Raz, a tan dirty blond with glacier blue eyes and jutting ears. Though the third, a quiet reserved Southern boy named Colton Steele, slight and furry, was probably the most compatible with me sexually.
After the show, they headed for The Eagle for the Hustlaball kick off party and I ventured down to Splash to watch Ronnie emcee an underwear model search for Instinct Magazine. Having pulled this kind of duty before, my sympathies were with Ronnie during the slapdash prolonged proceedings as they dragged on into the night. The event was poorly executed, with the models fully dressed for the overwhelming majority of the show. Even Ronnie was demurely attired much to the chagrin of the salivating crowd. Dan and his friend Patrick who was visiting from out of town joined me against their will at the bar, but we were all in agreement about the show. The bar was half empty and most of the bartenders looked more like underwear models than the contestants, but in every case, they were all quite fuckable.
After the judges declared the audience's least favorite the winner, the show was quickly over. I waited forever to say good bye to Ronnie who still had a bunch of signings and poses for pictures to do. He hugged me and after earlier admiring my new short hair whispered in his calm, even Midwest tone, "You look so beautiful." I might dine emotionally on that for as long as Bob Morris calling me "good looking" in the New York Times.
I decamped from Splash and headed to The Eagle, a purposefully dank playpen now around the corner from the priciest and most ludicrous straight clubs in the city. I found Howard and the boys upstairs. Brian had called my haircut a "Saturday night at The Eagle game changer" at Eric's party last month. Though perhaps because it was Friday the game hadn't seemed to change for me.
Jackson greeted me with the same wild "Let's do it RIGHT NOW!!!!" look that seems to be permanently in his eyes. Ryan was sweet and longing to be nuzzled in a rough and ready roundhouse ready for something else. Finally, appropriate to the venue and occasion, Colton appeared in nothing but a jockstrap. Apparently the alcohol had set in. Howard naturally took it all in with his usual sense of bemusement.
I admire how people I know in porn like Howard take it all in stride. They are plugged in to how fleeting it all is. You have to stay in the moment or the whole thing will consume you. The shelf life of a model is short, but it's even shorter for a porn star. So even though I will never be as fuckable as these porn pups or contestants in an underwear contest, I hope whatever beauty I do have is enough to carry me long term through all the many adventures yet to come.
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