By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
By Raillan Brooks
With stimulating nightlife at an all-time low thanks to all those pesky raids and regulations, one submits to the same old gay bars, sort of like Elizabeth Smart did with her creepy captor. Stockholm syndrome takes over as I find myself at various ultra-familiar dives so many times that I not only know each place's resident clown, house geezer, and slut mascot, I've become them. But leave your expectations at the whore, I mean the door, and these last-ditch boîtes can actually be engaging, with desperate pleasures for those who'd rather find amusement in raunchy strangers with loud voices and weird teeth than face anything resembling alone time.
One night at Barracuda in Chelsea, drag star Shasta Cola was doing brilliant shtick on virtually every syllable, turning Whitney Houston's "I Have Nothing" into a veritable crack opera and the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" into a hilariously paranoid s&m fantasy. But I had less than nothing. A guy in the crowd promised he'd send me a chinchilla coat if I made him famous, but he ended up being thrown out for trying to expose himself. He probably wasn't the major furrier he claimed to be anyway.
At the freshman-filled Pop Rocks, the offers kept coming when a go-go boy/hairdresser promised me free extensions, cooing, "If you can't achieve it, I'll weave it. If you can't grow it, I'll sew it." Honey, if you comp it, it will grow!
All offers were accepted at Beige, where I broke the house rule and became the first person there to ever take someone homebut even the faux furrier would have made a better husband. I'll call the Beige guy "Fire-Alarm Joey" because after he tried to trick me into barebacking, I showed him the door, prompting him to vengefully set off the alarms in my luxury doorman building. I should have heard the alarm when I first met this freak, but I couldn't resist his opening salvo (said through a tina haze): "You're lovely. I want you to ride me all night. Why are we still here?"
But back to less life-threatening entertainment: At the comfy bar XES, wacky drag host Mimi Imfurstguides customers through karaoke evenings where Jesus Christ Superstar is a little too popular and brazen strip contests where one night the token fag hag flashed her ample cleavage but strangely refused to show her nipples. And they said class was dead. Things stayed super-elegant at Pieces, where a frisky wannabe was grinding his butt into my crotch while announcing, "My specialty is barebacking!" Uh-oh, fire alarms. " Carson Kressleyonce pushed me away" was the vexing vixen's other claim to fame, and one started suspecting that harassing is really his specialty (while vehemently pushing him away, of course).
At the Plumm, a whole other enterprising young gent was running around in his undies, bellowing, "You can fuck me if you take my photo!" The guy drives a hard bargain. Instead, I graced the woozy chicken ranch known as Rushstay with mewhere an angel-faced 'tween was angstily murmuring to me, "I'm here to stake out my boyfriend. He's doing it with one of the go-go boys here and when he shows up, I'm gonna give him hell!" And suddenly the exit looked like the portal to Mecca.
There was some relief over at the tuck-and-pluck eatery Lips, where saucily talented showgals like Rajene, Ariel, Ginger, and Belinda entertained with shaved legs spread. "This is where things go downhill," warned Gusty Winds after a drag queen got applause for sticking an audience member's head under her dress. Even further? "Rock bottom always has a trap door," advised Gusty. See, it was time for the fake-an-orgasm contest, which climaxed, so to speak, with the lady who moaned "Oh yes, daddy, right there, right there!" losing to the one who more deftly whinnied, "Ay, papi! Aquí! Aquí!"
Are you starting to see why, when a new Thursday-night party called Sebastian (at the Madison, formerly Eugene) came around, an inordinate amount of pressure was put on it to save all of nightlife? Fortunately, the bash, courtesy of Kenny Kenny and Josh Wood, brought out a healthy salad bar of cute guys and fabulous freakies so eye-catching you'd be fucking yourself if you didn't take their photo. In the crowd, gorgeous drag diva Epiphany wore a lot of jewelry, "to cover all the hair"; a trannie hostess yelled at a guy to put his shirt back on, insisting "This isn't a beach!"; and the tireless gay male in a woman's body, Ladyfag, taunted me with her pussy, then said, "You wouldn't know what to do with it!" Oh, yeah? Well . . . you're right! At the evening's peak, one reveler ran for his life, shrieking, "This party wasn't for me. I guess I'm not pretty enough or something." Someone with actual values? Get the hell out, mister, and stay out!
By the way, the same place's owner, legendary Gene DiNino, is telling friends he might reopen the Roxy right back where it was. Oh, good, I've been standing outside since it closed.
I was now going to announce that we'd be moving on to more highbrow culture by discussing the scene over at Pygmalion, but halfway through that revival I actually heard an audience member say to his wife, "Where are the songs?" "I told you it wasn't the musical!" screeched wifey. Even without tunes, Claire Danes is great as the coarse Eliza and fun as the remade Eliza, though she's less adept at playing the bitter, used broad. And Jefferson Mays is an interesting choice for Henry Higgins, bringing quirks, if not that much authority or revelation. Naturally, Hugh Dancy was in the audiencehe sleeps with Danes, he knows Mays and Boyd Gaines from Journey's End, and maybe he just wanted to see it.