Cheap, Easy and no Flashlights
From the left, you have C, me (I didn't get the "light-blue jeans memo"), Dieter and Rog, our Boston friends who brought us out to a notorious and well established bar near the Fens, assuming that we wouldn't be happy with our weekend unless provided with local dick. (Actually, we were in Boston to see the "David Hockney Portraits" show at the MFA and to visit D & R who have settled into their mighty spectacular new condo.)
The bar is really a complex of many bars on two floors., all of it quite crowded. Some of the rooms are not leather-oriented, and feature dancing, with the attendees wearing colorful rugby shirts and white cross-trainers.
The leather/levi rooms were loaded with talent. I get us drinks. Two vanilla vodkas with diet coke (yeech) for D & R, and two Blue Moons for C and me. The bar tender explains that it would be to our financial advantage to buy a pitcher of Blue Moon if we intend to drink more of it, and that he would hold it at the bar for our refills. This we do, and the whole charge came to $14! Now I know we are not in NYC.
We enter the large backroom which is about fifteen minutes away from peak time, and is filling up rapidly. The furniture motif is "black painted oil drum", stacked and arranged to create piggy areas with limited access. Walking to the rear of one of these cul-de-blacks, I am pursued by three men brandishing poppers and dicks. The usual piles-up evolve and multiply, and much beer is lost or tumbled. I reconnoiter with C and we make the identical observation about Boston guys. They get busy, but not in a playful way. They are the same guilt-ridden men we remember doing at The Safari Club (sadly closed down a few years back). However, the place gets gridlocked with a couple hundred moderately attractive men who are not shy, and there is no flashlight wielding monitor to slap their hands.
That was Friday. On Saturday, we went to Club Cafe. Extremely crowded. Younger. Hot. Friendly. Not sleazy. Well lit. No visible dick. We bump into a guy we had met at Alibi in Fort Lauderdale. He is freshly without his partner who had been developing a secret Manhunt life. (Manhunt lives are OK, but don't keep them a secret from your partner.) The guy yanks up his tee shirt,inviting me to stroke his chest which is dense with soft fur. We discuss his stalker, a mutual acquaintance from Ptown. We make plans for the Black party weekend. Dieter hands me one of the vanilla vodka diet coke drinks they like and I make the mistake of actually drinking it. Things grow fuzzy. There was mouth on mouth contact while D & G speak into my ear their plans to walk home and to watch Crash on DVD. They give us keys.
Oh right. the Hockney show. You didn't really think I'd be talking about that, did you?