Townhouse, O.W., Web & Escualita

Let me just say that keeping up with

The Unsinkable One

and

The Fascinating One

is not easy, but great fun.

Saturday night, we embarked on an anthropological tour of “Venues-Usually-Eschewed”. We were minus C who wisely remained abed to shed the remnants of a cold, anticipating our trip to Fort Lauderdale this coming thursday.

We started at The Townhouse. The glowing peach-colored walls. The many huge vases of pink star gazer lilies (real, not fake). The lively piano in the farthest room. The clean bathroom. The humane noise level. And most of all, the huge crowd of patrons. To say that they were “of all ages” would be accurate and rather kind.

I have hesitated long and hard before saying this, but the place (despite the piano) reminded me of a funeral parlor during a very bubbly wake. And yet, it was oddly cruisey (except for the quasi-corpses seated on the banquette near the piano. Do not look there.). 10PM and the place was mobbed. Everyone was dressed for real life. No fetish wear, but as Joe reminded me later in the evening, RuPaul once said that we are all born naked and the rest is drag.

I was standing at a urinal in the bathroom when a Townhouse staff person came in and tidied up a bit, using his broom to tamp down the paper towels brimming over the top of the trash can. He discreetly did not look at me. I said out loud, “Wow. No one ever cleans the bathroom at the Eagle”. This provoked a look in my direction that seemed to imply that I had used a curse word in church. Joe announced that we were leaving, and I screamed “No. I haven’t seen everyone yet, and we haven’t talked to anyone yet. We need to stay here all night. Maybe forever.” It was as though I was Jason and the sirens’ call had gotten to me. The Argonauts, Joe and Aaron, dragged me out the door to safety.

I need to also report that the dancer boys at The Web (or was it at O.W.?) and at Escualita were really fine. Especially the guy at Escualita with the humongous swaying dick that was encased in what I thought was a red and blue hand-painted condom. Joe corrected me, saying that he was wearing a “banana hammock” and that anyone can order one on the net. Maybe so, but not everyone could wear one as well as that boy did. I sure hope Joe posts the photos (maybe even the video) he took of that particular event.

I made the mistake of trying to keep pace beer-wise with Joe. Never again. I stumbled out of the bathroom at Escualita and everything seemed close and distant all at once. I tried to locate Joe and Aaron, and they might have been two feet in front of me, but I didn’t see them. The extremely young crowd just arriving parted for me as I climbed the stairs to the exit in a sort of zigzag pattern. At least I think they parted for me.

A Campaign

A campaign for the custody of my soul
Is waged with greed by the prattling ranks of daylighters who
Nag,
And with pleasure by the relaxing athletes of midnight who
Know.

I daily toss the coin at midcourt on my own behalf,
And covering the results with a palm,
Shout out “heads!” or “tails!” to suit desire or for laughs.

This crusade is sometimes ugly
In the irritable sun of headlines, arrests and padlocked doors
Where spectators include false friends crammed with the fat of envy.

They are eating popcorn in their beds,
While watching my events on wide screen,
Taking notes, they telephone each other, seeing red.

But I am riveted to those other men,
Sturdy as metal bridges over big black water,
I cross them in danger, in darkness,

Learning how they are constructed, and following their curves
I wonder if their span is doomed, will fail me, kill me.
I sleep it off at dawn, this fearing of the worst.

When I am old, this match will rage without me.
Then, I may seek peace with those whose Christmas cards stopped coming.
Confined to my chair, who cares? I’ll take their penance easily.

As usual, I want it all.
The sin of now, the cheers, the loss of blood,
The come-backs from the falls.

And if I walked out on my game before the clock is run,
Jumping bed to bed to outpace all my creditors,
Won’t God himself say what I’d have become?

A dated trophy perched near the coaches’ rants,
I spoil the team I wish to see retreat,
and grant the field to those I wish advanced.

I am too close to the action of my contest,
I topple, shatter and the soldiers run me over
Forgetting why they wanted me, they take no rest.