WTF? Boysroom At a Bookstore? But It Has WINDOWS.

If Anyone Saw Us On Friday, That Wasn't Us.

After many weekends out of the city, we were finally able to get out and debauch ourselves over the past couple of days in New York. It all started on Friday night when we took our tall and handsome friend to a US Open party at Ono, where we hoped to ogle Andy Roddick. We waited almost two hours before he did come, and by that time we had helped ourselves prodigiously to the open bar (which served us poorly later). Eventually it got so awfully straight (men in bronzer, women with their asses hanging out) that we had to leave. Our next stop was the birthday party of the glamorous Eric S., who was at Therapy with Dylan P. and Charlie H. There, we ran into Martha Stewart's cute gay nephew who we knew in college. After that, we went to some roof party that some twink was hosting in Hell's Kitchen. Just as we arrived, they ran out of booze, so we went with TAHF to buy two 18 packs of Natural Light to share with everyone (well, one was for everyone, the other was just for us). When we returned, we were delighted to see Lance L., Michael S., and Rocco who we love but whose last name we don't know. And finally, after a night of leading us on, FHC himself arrived from DC, looking extremely tan and gorgeous. Unfortunately the twink who was hosting the party had a panic attack and kicked everyone off the roof before we had finished even one case of Natty Lights, so in a huff TAHF and some of the rest of us stuffed our pockets with beer and skulked out, wandering around in Hell's Kitchen with open containers until we arrived at the Ritz. There, we continued to drink our own shitty beers and dance to music of the lowest caliber, surrounded by people of the highest. Sadly, we were unfit to be seen in public and eventually realized this, and stumbled to a cab.

Whereupon we lost our cell for the first time in our lives and spend the next hour pleading with a cabbie over the phone to return it. We woke up phoneless, with a crippling hangover – but by the end of the day the cabby had returned our phone and we were ready to go out again, this time in Harlem. It was a great reminder of how fun it can be when you stay in town and get off your ass. Happy Birthday Eric!

At Closing Time, Some Things Are Universal.

[Last weekend our brother, Bald Knob, came to visit us in New York. On Saturday night, we took him to Barracuda, to see what happens when an extremely straight dude is exposed to outrageous faggotry. We asked him to blog about his experience. This is what he had to say.]

So I had quite the time in the Big Apple this past weekend, and one of the highlights had to be my first experience at a gay bar (well not the first, if you count one trip to Madrigals in Chicago, which if you know what I am talking about, you know that it definitely counts). After a nice cocktail party, Bigmouth, some friends, including a tall and handsome one, and myself all headed out to an innocent little place called Barracuda.

In addition to making far more eye contact than I ever have at a bar, I also learned quite a bit. For example, I learned what a twink is, what an otter is (even Bigmouth wasn’t so sure about that one, until I explained that his roommate is probably one), and how the flirting process works. “That guy just stepped on my foot!” “Oh, he was coming on to you- that’s how we do it.” Soon, I fit right in…. We made fun of the fag hags, who were dancing as one does only when one is certain nobody is watching- at least nobody that would touch a vagina with a 10 foot pole. But ultimately, the highlight of the night was when closing time drew near, and the desperation in many went from moderately obvious to blatantly overt.

It was a time when just a “casual” bumping in the back, spilling of beer on an arm, or stepping on a toe, were tactics abandoned- and an arm snaking around a stomach, a hand diving for a crotch, and unanticipated close whispers appeared. One man who was particularly drunk did all three, and much more, to each member of our group as we all turned, spinned, bobbed out of his way, which wasn’t particularly hard as he couldn’t stand straight. As we left, I told Bigmouth that “if this had been at a straight bar, and a guy had done that to girls, he would have been arrested,” but the group in general agreed that this wasn’t anything atypical for 4 AM Saturday night.

But as much as the standards of behavior I observed were more “forward” than at bars I was familiar with, ultimately, gay or straight, we’re all the same when we’re single, drunk, and out late on a Saturday night. A few days later at a dive bar in Boston, at 2 AM as the lights came back on, I couldn’t help but notice a drunk girl, a bit overweight and not fortunate enough to be able to offset it with large breasts. She had been running her hand down a handsome guy’s back, and as he turned away, she moved on to a shorter, sunburned guy wearing an ill-fitting suit coat. As he returned her glance and moved in closer, I could see the same predatory look I saw at Barracuda in her eyes. And I quickly realized a fundamental fact that straight women and gay men share (other than relationship drama, a fear of spiders, good fashion sense and the fact that they don’t fart in front of significant others):

When it’s late on a Saturday, and people start heading for the door- just keep trying, and leave nothing to the imagination. Because somewhere, someone has a penis that hasn’t been touched in a while, and is desperate enough to fuck your ugly ass.

If Anyone Knows Where They Have The "Sound Of Music Singalongs," Can You Please Tell Us? Not That We Want To Know, Or Anything. We're Just Curious.

A funny thing just happened to Fagats over the weekend. We noticed that we suddenly had hundreds more visitors every day, and after a little investigation, saw that if you Google Image "naked girls Playboy sexy," the sixth site that comes up is the FAGAT Guide. Who'da thunk? Anyway, we tried to fix the problem, but for anyone who still wanders over here looking for naked sexy Playboy girls, we are so, so sorry.

If there was something in the world that is the opposite off nsPg's, it would probably be a bar in the West Village called Marie's Crisis.

So it is appropriately random, then, that we spent Saturday night there. For those of you that don't know, Marie's Crisis is this piano bar across 7th Avenue from The Duplex which where gays of varying degrees of tragedy gather to sing Broadway standards. It's also named after a 1776 political pamphlet by Thomas Paine, who died there (No joke). We kind of love it there. But you have to be careful - because the line between observational amusement and fervent belting is easily crossed by as few as three cocktails.

What we don't like about Marie's, though, is that some of the elder gays that hang out there are of the old cruising school, where they just sit there and stare at you hungrily for an hour, such that you eventually become uncomfortable looking at an entire half of the bar, for fear of making eye contact. These gays are always twice your age, and really, should know better (Mr. Combover-and-Eyepatch, we're talking to you here). Luckily this problem can be ignored by having those three cocktails, finding yourself at the piano arm-in-arm with perfect strangers, shrieking out the words to "Our Time" from "Merrily We Roll Along."

Did you know that's a musical that starts at the end and ends at the beginning? Maybe that's what we should have done with this post - ended it at the beginning.

We're Still Afraid To Go To The New Boysroom. Mostly Because It Has A Window.

So although we are back in the United States, we have yet to make our grand entrance back into the social scene in New York. We’ve been up in the North Country visiting our parents since last week, and will only arrive in the city on Thursday. Which means our return will require careful planning. At which gay party should we make our first grand appearance?

Here are our options (from what we recall):

Thursday: Duvet. We think. This party was dying the last time we were in the city, but gay parties, like pimples in the cartilage under the bridge of your nose, take forever to actually go away.
Friday: Opaline. Every time we go to this party we get super drunk in advance because it’s expensive and the drinks are shitty. At the end of the night, we think we’ve had a great time. Then, in the morning, we find all the new names in our cellphone and remember that tragic moment when we were on the box with the 16-year-old from Hoboken. Oh God, everyone saw.
Saturday: Mr. Black. We’ve never been to Mr. Black but we hear it’s appropriately popular and appalling. This may be a good idea as we finally have an excuse as to why we haven’t attended a cool gay party. We were in EUROPE people! That ought to impress all the waiters and hairdressers.
Sunday: Hiro. Last time we went to this party we ended up dancing around at 3 am in an efficiency suite in the Gansevoort hotel swigging from an open bottle of Level Vodka, sandwiched between two naked Australians. They never called.
Monday: Don’t be stupid.
Tuesday: La Beige. Honestly, this is probably the best choice. The club where the sacred gay tradition of “The Lap” around the bar was invented, Beige is always guaranteed to have at least two dozen people you went to college with, work with, and have slept with. And you never have to talk to one person for more than 89 seconds.
Wednesday: Phoenix. If we’re feeling like unwashed geriatric man balls by Wednesday, we’ll see you there. Otherwise, meet us at Beige.