Thus endeth the experiment in decorative spandex…

My friends Damian and Mirch throw a monthly dance party for your homosexual element called DIRT, and it’s held the first Friday of every month at The Eagle, NYC’s premiere leather-themed bar. One does not hold a monthly dance party for your homosexual element at The Eagle and call it Orange or Chamomile. Maybe Cammo-Squeal would pass muster, though. I like attending their party because instead of soulless, wordless gay techno that’s only ever existed in a machine, they play actual rock-n-roll. If you’ve ever wanted to hear Judas Priest in a gay bar, where frankly it belongs, then you should go to DIRT. These are all songs that existed in the air as actual sound waves before hitting the tape, and they RAWK. Also, Damian sometimes takes my suggestions and plays songs he’s never heard before. That’s how I got to hear both “Ah, Leah” and “Freedom at Point Zero” in a gay bar. This week he was going to play a song that I had found by The Moving Sidewalks, Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top’s first band.

I wanted to go, and I wanted to give back. So when I saw on the Facebook invite that the theme was one of wrestling singlets, I called my friend Greg and asked if I could borrow one of his multiple wrestling singlets. Multiple. The layperson would be surprised at how often the gays throw parties where the theme is wrestling singlets. But with a little thought one realizes that a) they leave little to the imagination in both the twig department and the berry department; b) a lot of us spent a lot of time in high school and college watching wrestlers punish their bodies to get down to some ridiculously low body fats; and c) when the wrestlers stopped wrestling, they put on some real weight and began to drunkenly tussle about shirtless on beer-soaked fraternity multi-purpose floors.

Only problem is… I hate spandex. Continue reading


Pride Thought #1: Puppy play, or I finally identify with someone’s fetish…

After every Pride Fortnight, I spend a good chunk of the next week trying to figure out what it all meant.

Folsom Sunday, approx. 2pm

pridedogAs it is with any event where the gays can drink outside, the Folsom East Street Festival was harness to jock with folks celebrating their hard-won individuality in this particular area of their lives. I am somewhat of an outsider here. I have never been one for wearing clothes during sex. I figure I so rarely get to touch another human being, it seems a shame to place a complicated system of buckles and pulleys, zippers and roleplay between me and whatever poor sap I’ve driven to ecstasy with my stammering. And don’t get me started on the notion of constraint; as soon as someone comes up with a fetish involving loose caftans, I’m there. Until then, I need room to twirl. Continue reading