NY Mirror

As a result of having just gone through something of an emotional crisis, I've been exuding a raw openness and desperation lately, and guys have picked up on it with miraculous results. Tasting despair can be pretty unnerving, but libidinally speaking, it's the best thing that's ever happened to me, since hotties are sensing my accessibility and zooming in for the roadkill. After decades of inactivity bordering on crotch rot, my newfound craving for any human contact has me suddenly swatting off men like fruit flies, and I totally recommend it. No, really—have a nervous breakdown! It's great for your love life!

I was especially hotsky to trotsky one recent Sunday evening at a certain nightclub, where my floundering and vulnerability filled the room like aphrodisiacs, and I magically turned from beast into Belle (or, more precisely, into slut). In fact, thanks to my finally having dropped my defenses, among other things, people were lining up to play me like a slot machine. In the grasping spontaneity of the moment, two gentlemen and I made a rather unholy scene in the chapel—anyone strolling by got quite a show, honey—a debauch which started when one of the guys kept holding up a camera and telling various males, "Give me a pose I can [pleasure myself] to later" and the other guy I mentioned complied in a saucy way I'd rather keep etched in my memory bank. It turned out that pleasuring oneself later was no longer necessary—the two guys became occupied right on the spot, "and I helped!" as the little girl in that classic Shake and Bake commercial always yelped so cutely. (Look, my life's always been an open dime-store novel, and even if none of this is anything to brag about, it's too late now, so let's keep going sewer-ward.)

Anyway, this was just moments after I'd been exchanging numbers with a hot Latino, at least until his boyfriend angrily dragged him away, pulling his tongue right off my larynx! The handsome señor called the next day anyway—and so, amazingly, did the other two babes—and suddenly I'm no longer clawing through the wreckage of my depression, I'm reeling from the glow of my impossibly studly success. It's a phenomenon—an absolute wonder that my bat is hitting homers so late in the (let's be generous) fourth or fifth inning! But now I desperately need advice on how to transition from the life of a nerdy castrato to that of the world's most bizarrely desirable genital juggler. Help!

Assaulted mixed nuts

>> By the way, on Sundays, Avalon plays home to Kurfew parties which are trashily fun—but mind you, that is not, repeat, absolutely not the place I was just describing. But enough about me. I also go to those Susanne Bartsch/Kenny Kenny Tuesday nights at Happy Valley—not for sex (though two guys did pin me against the wall), but for the way they've recaptured the circusy spirit of the old club days, when everyone, no matter how annoying, brought something wild and welcome to the mad-tea-party table. The three-level bash attracts an actual mix, tossing together nouveau club kids, old-timers, pumped-up Escuelita trannies, and Prince Dimitri of Yugoslavia. And since the crowd is generally worth targeting, there are lots of people photographing them (but not the above-mentioned provocateur, alas) and handing out invites for other parties—always a good sign. The remixed retro music, cute bartenders, burlesque acts, and giant vagina (don't ask) all collide for a kitschily attractive mix. Best of all, there are no celebrities. But I'm sore from running up and down the steps all night trying not to miss anyone.

I'm also sore from other things, but let's not dip into that cesspool again. More tastefully, I vaguely remember growing irritable at Karl Lagerfeld when the sunglassed style server never bothered to sashay into his own Mercer Hotel book party a few weeks ago. Why the fuck not? A publicist never responded to my e-mail posing that question, but I heard Karl was sprawled out up in his room at the hotel the whole time, no doubt waiting to be told of any major celebrity arrivals at the party so he could whoosh on down. And sprawling. And waiting. And so on.

Turn on the swish

>> But we certainly don't have to wait for gays to appear on-screen anymore. They're here, they're queer, and the hicks will have to get used to it. But while the mostly positive representation is the result of everything we fought for, is it possible things have gotten a little too correct? After all, the gay lovers in The Family Stone came off as sweet but calculatedly diverse cutouts whose purpose was to be living billboards for caring and commitment. (Apparently gays can love better than straights in parts of modern-day Hollywood. I prefer Avalon, where they're authentically messy.) And the sweetly observed Brokeback Mountain's gay couple also seems more symbolic than real, so much so that I never felt an irrevocable bond between them or even cried when they hit the inevitable road bumps. (And enough with all the talk about the actors' bravery at playing gay. No one says that when people play murderers or junkies. Besides, they're piling up awards and getting huge career boosts. How brave is that?)

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