By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
Warm, alive bodies turned up at the Triad for Erotic Broadway, a singing and dancing revue that's very tame by my downtown standards and is mainly shocking in that it has less man-on-man content than Mamma Mia!. But the night I went, human work of art Julie Atlas Muz did a perfectly calibrated fan dance and Mistress B made erotic balloons with her nipple pump and threw them at the audience while singing a Sondheim song. That was killer.
Desperate for a free day trip away from my life, I pumped up a sex toy and boarded the ferry to Governors Island, which may not exactly be St. Bart's, but at least you can tell your friends, "I went to an island." It turned out other budget-crunched people had the very same idea—and what a place! There are historical buildings (which aren't open, but you can look at the façades). There's a sort of homemade miniature golf course (but try not to get behind a family of nine, or you'll spend the whole weekend there). And there was an African festival, a Civil War re-creation, and a couple of food trucks serving cheap gyros.
Not totally fulfilled, I did the Hamptons, where I hung with a higher class of people than usual, like Sam Champion's hot black boyfriend and well-oiled moguls from The Daily and BoConcept. At Blue & Cream, Jill Zarin from Real Housewives of New York City told me she's co-writing a book with her mother and her sister called Secrets of a Jewish Mother. The biggest secret? "Buy wholesale!" she blurted. Did she buy her new iPhone wholesale? "No!" Zarin said. "They overcharged me! I complained about it on Twitter!" I guess that's where all Jewish mothers' secrets are tastefully blared.
In Sagaponack, the ArtWalk kickoff party—a Coalition for the Homeless benefit attended by people with three homes—was co-hosted by Kipton Cronkite, who's way more famous as a fraud than if he really were Walter Cronkite's grandson. After the real Stephen Gaghan (Oscar winner for Traffic) complimented my bold combination of socks and flip-flops, a golf cart took me through a vineyard to a breast cancer benefit and then a friend dropped me at Almond, where, on the weekend, the fruits wear ascots.
Alas, I never made it to Two Mile Hollow, the gay beach that has been rudely dubbed "Two Mile Swallow." But I hear it's frequented by a certain . . . no, I'll save that for the next batch of appalling blind items.