At the opening-night bash for EDWARD ALBEE‘s Seascape, I asked ELIZABETH MARVEL-who’s excellent as the female lizard- if this was her first reptile role. Instead, I took my male genitalia, along with my street clothes, and went to a tranny bar for free.įully clothed and confident again, I determined to grab life where it hurts by actually interacting with other living organisms. Well, my bag must have been a hazard too because an employee eventually tracked me down and demanded I check it, no doubt for three more dollars. “I almost poked my eye out on a tree.” Oh, that’s what that was.
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Imagine the discipline that takes! “It’s dangerous in here,” one guy murmured to his friend outside the supposed orgy room. I had to applaud the more proactive types, like the two gentlemen lying on their stomachs with synchronized butts perched in the air-but they had to stay frozen in that pose for hours, devoid of any available frequent fuckers. There’s an occasional sex tableau on a sling or herky-jerky scene in a corner-with hungry faces pressed against the fence to watch-but I barely noticed them since I was busy dodging all the customers blankly roaming the joint, self-consciously waiting for Godot to come and pinch their nipples. What’s worse, though they’ve got it all hanging out, a lot of the guys act so skittish and tentative that the mood hardly ever becomes charged, and the paper towels available on tables (along with lube and condoms) seem to only get used for flop sweat. They’re all about the same! It’s totally tragic tuna! If a six ever wandered into the mix, he’d be mass-eaten alive before even getting to the clothes check.
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Every single guy there seems to be a five-not good looking, not bad looking not young, not old not to die for, not to die from. Too bad what’s missing is any palpable sense of sex appeal. It’s all very Chelsea Market meets On Golden Pond en route to the Ramble. Practically everyone else chose to wear neither option, so I ended up as overdressed as Bette Davis in Jezebel-the only person to ever sport a cluttered look in a sex club.īut however you dress, the place turned out to be surprisingly lovely-let’s be courteous-with fenced-off or netted areas studded with trees and awash in soft lighting and low-playing Brazilian music.
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Under pressure, I cooked up a plan, shrewdly telling them I’d wear just my T-shirt, while slipping my undies in my bag so I could sneak them on again in the club and cover my male genitalia. At the checkroom, I was ordered to hand over all my clothes except either my T-shirt or my underwear-plus three more dollars! This became like a gay Sophie’s choice, as I anxiously stood there deciding which body part should be exposed, my doughy boobies or floor-scraping scrotum. The place is just too humiliating-in different ways than one had hoped. Eventually it was my turn to check in, which involved being shown the rules-”Be courteous,” etc.-and signing something that said, among other things, “I was born a male with male genitalia and chosen to retain such.” (I guess that weeds out all those irksome transsexuals, if not the illiterates.) After forking over the 40-buck initiation fee and swearing I wasn’t a cop, I was not only named a throbbing member, I was given a “frequent fucker’s card,” which guarantees that after only 18 visits, you get one whole entry, as it were, for free.Īlas, I won’t even make it for a second time. Crawling into the unremarkable-looking entrance while covering my face, I found an eager line of wannabe wankers, which I joined for the 10 longest, most brightly lit minutes of my life. I finally cranked up the cojones to go to El Mirage, the gay sex club on East Houston Street, where love is just 43 bucks and a leather harness away.