As I sauntered into the Gansevoort Hotel elevator to depart the rooftop gay party the other night, I was accompanied by only two people — a blitzed-out bleached-blond queen and the African American security guard escorting him out.
“Don’t touch me again,” screeched the queen, who was a big old mess.
“Fine,” said the guard (who wasn’t touching him anymore). “But you have to walk out of here when we get downstairs.”
“Don’t touch me again!” repeated the tiresome party boy, a real broken download.
“You shouldn’t have gotten drunk and been waving your dick over people’s heads,” instructed the guard. “Get a little respect for yourself.”
Even I blanched a bit at that revelation. But here’s where the queen got really ugly.
“Don’t touch me again … [N-word]!!!” he shrieked.
At that point, I wanted to pin the guy down and cut off his eager noodle — but alas, I didn’t have pinking shears on me.
“N-word! N-word! N-word!” he kept repeating — saying the actual hideous word, of course.
After that, he left without further incident — except that gays slimed their own chance for respect one more time.