As the strictures on nightlife get tighter than a tit clamp, the gay-bar scene goes further out on a ledge of tawdry yet exciting indiscretion. The specialty “flu shot” at the Slide allegedly has customers slurping a hit of booze out of the foreskin of a go-go boy. (Alas, I’m on a no-alcohol, no-cheese diet.) And now there’s another vivacious genital beverage to be had—at the Man Party, which caters to gay skinheads with a follicularly challenged attitude, on the second and fourth Fridays of the month at Octagon. The bash has all the expected dart games, boxing, and head-shaving rituals you get with any Disney-esque macho emporium. But for the extra spunky, they’ve instituted a sperm contest, whereby attendees’ spooge samples are judged based on their visual personality, if not their actual flavor. (It all tastes the same anyway—like chicken.)
On the party’s opening night, DR. SPUNK, a friendly man in a lab coat, presided over a table loaded with plastic cups, which clubbies were urged to take home and fill with their viscous emissions. But not just at any old time. You were instructed to shoot your seed into the receptacle sometime between 10 and 11 p.m. on the night of the contest, May 27, then rush the specimen into the club before midnight (which admittedly could lead to a poignant party full of already spent gays.) Alas, none of the clientele—all of whom looked like slightly less butch versions of Star Trek‘s PERSIS KHAMBATTA—seemed to be going for this incredible opportunity, though a couple of lesbians were lurking around, probably trying to figure how they could eventually nab some of the stuff to make babies with. Not me—I was running for the exit, uncharacteristically declining the offer to be a “celebrity judge.”
THE NIGHT OF THE GRIZZLY
A quick chubby-chasing stop at the Bear County Fair a couple of days later might have given potential jizz contestants the rise they needed; the LGBT Center event had plus-size gays and their admirers paying festive homage to love handles and back hair over heaping portions of ribs and brownies. And there were games galore—like a cock-ring toss and a cardboard Glory Hole Bear (you threw balls through . . . never mind)—though the real game-playing was in seeing which Smokey would put out your fire or why a certain Winnie wanted your poo. The fair—a benefit for Bear Café New York Inc.—was such a hit it even drew a backlash in the form of a guy who showed up accessorized by a snout and a “Pig in Protest” sign. Every party has a Pooh-per.
But total pigs are more than welcome practically everywhere else in gayland after dark. Boysroom has a check-your-clothes “Dirty Dirty” contest on Hustler Thursdays, oink oink, and MICHAEL WAKEFIELD and RED‘s monthly “SPAM” parties in the basement of a Park Slope residential building provide “mandatory pants check” shenanigans for the whole LGBT community. (Check out worldofwakefield.com for details.) Queers of all genders are welcome, and guess what, Mary? Not only aren’t all the gay men spewing buckets of repulsion vomit over that, but some of them even let lesbians strap one on and ride their high horse, as it were. I love community diversity in action.
As Wakefield told me, “There’s a real fluidity of sexuality that expresses itself at the party.” Yeah—and with real fluids too. “You see interesting combinations of gay guys, lesbians, and transsexuals,” he went on, soberly. “I’ve met a lot of female-to-male transsexuals or bois that look like young boys. Some of them wear a softie—a fake penis that’s completely flaccid—in their underwear. Once, I started to suck someone’s softie and people gathered to watch.” Honey, that was no tranny with a softie—that was the best blowjob I ever got!
The nocturnal salad kept spinning when Oscar winner TATUM O’NEAL turned up at the gay male night at Beige last week and was so vividly entertaining I made a mental note not to support the Bad News Bears remake. Tatum told me her son is dating DAN AYKROYD‘s daughter, which makes total showbiz continuum sense to me. But to continue the continuum, will Tatum ever appear on the reality show starring her dad’s favorite angel, FARRAH FAWCETT? “We don’t get along, honey,” she intoned, dryly. “Sometimes I think she’s 55 going on 11.”
I hear there’s some predominantly straight nightlife out there too—no, really. In fact, the Cutting Room is officially five going on 100, so the performance venue had an anniversary bash that served up spring rolls, a contortionist, and special guest WHOOPI GOLDBERG, who told me that she can’t make it to the Tony Awards because she’s booked in Canada. “My hope is that BILLY CRYSTAL will take the statue home,” said the buoyant nominee (which works out because Crystal’s the front-runner). “I got what I wanted—the acknowledgment. When I did the show 20 years ago, there was no category.” And you have to admit that Whoopi’s hair alone (like my world-famous softie) is a “special theatrical event.”
Bald pleasures: The Man Party
photo: Courtesy Derek Scott Graves/m8ny.com
ALI—FEAR EATS THE SOUL
For a special cinematic event, I went to the premiere of Madagascar and carried on like a mutant moron until getting the gift bag they’d said was only for the kids. The movie is stolen by SACHA BARON COHEN, a/k/a Ali G, as the funky head lemur (though my you-know-what got even softer when he called the four slumming New York animals “pansies”). If Cohen keeps soaring, he just might follow a ROBIN WILLIAMS trajectory and end up playing lovable retarded janitors. Is he bear enough?
Finally, it was with a swan-like grace that I floated into the Radar magazine relaunch party at the Hotel QT, only to find that my page of gossip blather, done with Page Six’s RICHARD JOHNSON and the Star‘s JOE DOLCE, was less visible than a pop-eyed runaway bride. It had been spiked! And I couldn’t even call this into the Post. (Radar is backed by Daily News owner MORT ZUCKERMAN. Hey, maybe the page-killing is actually a godsend for Johnson.)
Did the thing get axed because I gleefully played around with HILLARY‘s and CONDI‘s sexuality? Or maybe because it sucked? Was this really the new issue anyway? (PARIS HILTON‘s supposedly dubious fame was also on the cover two years ago.) Yeah, it was indeed the latest one, and it was full of zeitgeisty things to absorb, but my limp-appendaged self wasn’t one of them. “We had more ads than expected,” explained editor MAER ROSHAN, apologetically. “It’ll be back.” OK, so it sucked. And those ads—for Queer Eye, Queer as Folk, and even some other things—were understandably too important to bat a waxed lash at.
As I muffled a breakdown, a PR-friendly pie-throwing mini-melee erupted (no doubt courtesy of the same weirdo who sent Maer turds some time ago). Don’t look at me. A Radar business exec sat down to wipe pie off his suit, joking that he’d get the magazine to pay for the dry cleaning. “Oh, really?” I squealed. “Then get me my check while you’re at it! I’m owed for . . . ” As I sputtered away, he ran for the hills, grinning.
And now that I have all this extra time, the jizz judging gig is sounding better and better.
Gossip gossip bo-bossip
While considering that esteemed offer, I found myself at the Arlene’s Grocery Picture Show Awards, handing out plaques to homemade movies over helpings of fried chicken and potato salad, if not flu shots. Backstage, RON PALILLO (a/k/a Horshack from Welcome Back, Kotter) told me that after a recent Vegas gig, he asked his booker—The Sopranos‘ STEVE SCHIRRIPA—for a car to get to the airport. “You high-maintenance fuck!” fumed Schirripa, to which Palillo countered, “Look, fuckface!” Well, the two just met again when they co-hosted Pulp Fiction on Spike TV, so they buried the hatchet—real deep—and made the fuck up.
My own TV bookings have led to some interesting run-ins too. Last week, I taped a show for Bravo—part of a series they’re doing—called Greatest Things About Being Gay. As I arrived, Fat Pig‘s talented star, ASHLEY ATKINSON, was finishing up being interviewed. “What are you doing here?” she chirped. “Excuse me, I’m gay,” I snapped, eyes rolling. “Oh!” said Atkinson. “I’m here to do Greatest Things About Being Fat!”