Doing the Strip Maul
There are three ruler-straight and parallel thoroughfares that cross Fort Lauderdale east to west, starting at the ocean and running into the unseen and undeveloped inner recesses of southern Florida. I know this because I share the vague sense of geography acquired by all who approach this city by jet at night. The quilt of lights you see below you ends abruptly and seamlessly against an area ominously black and infinite in its other direction. You correctly guess that this is the Atlantic. If the plane banks and is instructed to approach a runway from the south, your skimming of the lights sometimes discloses another endless scape of black. This is disorienting. You wonder how you could have doubled back and over the ocean. You learn that the second emptiness is the Everglades, and that all of southern Florida looked like that until the Army Corps of Engineers, restless, and unburdened by war for a few years, decided to see if they could raise dry land by the art of dredging. It worked, and I fully expect that the needs of the swelling Army Corps of Retiring Boomers will help them find an excuse to drain the rest of the swamp.
For the moment, those three multi-lane support beams, Oakland Park, Sunrise and Broward Boulevards, start at the beach and end somewhere in those glades, their pavements crumbling away into rutted soft earth where alligators crawling up out of the muck sun themselves with open jaws, feasting on misguided tourists in rental cars with bad brakes.
Oakland Park Boulevard to the north looks like Sunrise Boulevard in the center, and they both look like Broward Boulevard to their south. Hooded and in the back seat of a car of Columbian kidnappers, you would never be able to guess which one you were on. Same howling traffic. Same scent from that sorority of camp followers who have pitched up on all three: KFC, Mickey D, Seven-E and Taco B, with their heftier cousins, the Big Boxes, biting like barnacles the exit ramps of I-95 that cuts the boulevards (and the whole east coast) north to south.
All three of these streets contain remnants of earlier and now failing single-level strip malls with more than ample parking for the deceased, and containing curious one-of-a-kind retailers, tattoo parlors, consignment shops, and, of course, bars and sex venues.
On Friday night, I went to the Club Fort Lauderdale, off Broward. Sunday, I may try the Eagle in Exile, on Sunrise. Tonight I decide to unveil myself at one of my favorites, The Clubhouse II , on Oakland Park. I score one of the non-metered parking slots in front of the adjacent 7-11, and notice that one of those rented search-light machines has been positioned two doors down in front of what had been a discount furniture warehouse. It is fanning huge shafts of white light up into the clouds, signaling the opening of a new nightclub. Pairs of stylish black chicks with arms crossed under pumped breasts and over shimmering short dresses and long legs that gingerly impregnate the soft tar with their stiletto heels approach the cordoned entrance. I wonder if they know what goes on a few thin walls away where men in simple white towels have devised a much simpler and more efficient way of getting basically the same thing.
Despite what I had thought to be an early arrival, 9PM, there is already a long waiting list for rooms, and I am assigned a locker, and must begin the night with one ear always attuned to the sporadic announcements that cut into the music.
“Lockers 58, 93 and 107 please come up front. Your rooms are ready.”
This is an annoyance because some parts of the club, such as the wet area with its whirlpool, showers, steam and sauna, are not wired with speakers. If you are therein when your number is called, you risk losing your chance for a room, hence the occasional “Locker 58, this is your third call. Come up to the front now or you are off the list.”
Let me guide you swiftly through the ten sections of this club.
1) The front counter with its metal bars under which is slid your towel and key, and its staff room where huge front-loading washing machines perpetually churn and cleanse the towels, sheets and pillowcases of the unspeakable residue of the recently checked-out.
2) A pitch-black hallway that runs along the front of the building and has only one entrance and no other exit. It is barely three feet wide and maybe sixty feet long. Maybe longer. I do not go in there. It is for men who need the cover of invisibility to gain access to men who do not wish to see the source of sensation. The crouching lurkers in the far end of this passage of horror are like those critters profiled in National Geographic having been discovered and photographed with special cameras on the ocean floor. (This is the worst part of the club and must not be taken as indicative of what will follow.)
3) The main cruising area, consisting of fifty 5’X8’ cubicles built back to back and cut by three carpeted and connected hallways that allow for looped circulation. The walls of these cubicles go up ten feet and have no ceilings. They are kept rigid by wooden slats that cross overhead and through which one can see the actual twenty foot high ceiling of the place, painted with the club’s name and bear claw logo. Cigarette smoke has darkened this image just as incense had darkened the skin of the naked Adam on the vault of the Sistine Chapel before it was scrubbed.
Each cubicle is painted black and has a wall-mounted lockable cabinet for your clothing and valuables. There is also a narrow horizontal mirror on the wall opposite the bunk. When you are standing, it reflects little more than your knees, but when you are on the bunk with someone, it clearly shows you what you would look like if someone, God forbid, were filming your exertions. (Are those really my thighs?)
At the far end of this cruising area, the wall is entirely mirrored so that, in the soft lighting of the place, as you round a bend, you might accidentally cruise yourself from a distance.
4) The locker room is entered at one corner of the cruising area. It is a 10’X10’ space framed with two levels of half-height lockers incongruously surrounding the kind of bench one might see in a public park. This room is brightly lit, providing the opportunity to view new arrivals (referred to as IPO’s, as in Initial Public Offerings) in their street clothes. (Think of the value of the evening gown portion of the Miss America pageant.)
5) Next is the bar. A room in which festive naked men drink for free while chattering and ignoring the porn on the overhead TVs. The bartender stands in front of a wall of bright red tinsel that might be left over from Christmas, or, in anticipation of Saint Valentine.
6) A wall with two doorless openings abuts the bar area and leads into the major porn viewing area where carpeted banquettes curve around an immense floor model TV. The back wall of this area is mirrored so that from some angles you might be standing at the bar discussing real estate while watching a clutch of men wrestling on the banquettes.
7) A glass door leads from here to the wet area containing several individual white pre-fab shower stalls, a five-sided steam room often accommodating two dozen dampened men, and a dry sauna with wooden bleachers that look through glass walls onto a huge whirlpool with sunken blue lights and a rustic stone wall making it look like a grotto at Lourdes, the water of which will either cure or kill.
In a sweetly old-school touch, the shower stalls hold big orange bars of Dial rather then liquid soap dispensers. I have always felt confidence in the anti-bacterial powers of Dial, but it also scrubs off your skin’s natural coating, making it wise to come to this club with a travel-sized bottle of replenishing (unscented) moisturizer. Who would tell you these useful things, if not for me?
8) The bar/porn areas also lead to a bathroom and a small room containing overflow lockers for crowded nights, and some tables, chairs and vending and poker machines. Here, men munch in silence, or compare notes.
9) The munch room leads to a dismal room holding several pieces of Universal gym equipment. Most guys simply walk through here without stopping. Those who are in good shape nod respectfully to the machinery of their success. Those who are out of shape avert their eyes and quicken their step.
10) The final room, having two entrances, marks a recent expansion consisting of twenty-five new cubicles framing a “U” shaped corridor with a shady open area in the bend where groups of silent men who cannot commit to even a briefly privatized pairing get acquainted in the shadows.
I am launched from the locker room wrapped twice around in a thin white towel implying that I’d still be welcomed should I get fat to the point of doubling my girth. If I were the manager of this place, I would immediately cut one foot off each towel in order to discourage the attendance of the morbidly obese. I discard this notion realizing that fat dollars support this business’s cash flow where thin dollars alone might not swing it.
I immediately walk the entire terrain of the place to determine who is the most attractive man available. He is a smooth-skinned Hispanic, exactly my height, 35-40 years old, with wide muscular shoulders over a lean body. His dark short hair falls over his forehead and he turns to look at me after he walks by. When we pass each other a second time, our eyes lock and I place a hand into the crevice between the halves of his chest. We are pressed up against someone’s door, allowing others to pass us while we squeeze the various features of each other’s anatomy eventually reaching the toweled territories. He leads me back to his room where we unwrap and take turns operating each other’s gears like unsupervised little boys playing unlawfully in machinery at a construction site. When he reaches behind me and grabs my ass in both of his hands while looking purposefully into my eyes, I know what he’s got in mind. (In my head, I am now Andrea Bocelli singing “Time to Say Goodbye”.) I smile, and whisper into his ear “Not gonna happen.” He smiles back and we find our towels and keys. As I reach for the door, I am aware of the music. “If you want to know if he loves you so it’s in his kiss.” We finally share an introduction. He is Luis. Originally from Mexico. We call each other handsome, and we end our aborted adventure on the good terms that will allow us to wink at each other and grab each other’s crotch whenever we cross paths for the rest of the night.
Having already claimed the gold, I feel like relaxing. I sit down on a stool at the bar and am presented with a Budweiser. Next to me are two tall long-haired men engaged in spirited conversation with a short guy with a ponytail. Odd hair aside, they are all trim, lanky and doable. The dark haired and more butch tall guy takes a bottle of “Iron Horse” poppers from the deeply tanned blonde tall guy. He opens it and inhales deeply.
“Oh yeaaaahh. Muuuch better than Jungle Juice.”
The bartender tells them that it is the stronger of the two brands and that Rush is a distant third.
“Doesn’t smell like dirty sox, does it?”
The ponytail says, “Oh look!” He points to the TV screen offering a video of a twink wearing an open-collared white shirt and kneeling between two standing naked muscular guys with engorged horse dicks pointing at his face. It is a close-up shot, cropping the twink at the waist, and the two standing guys from stomachs to shins.
“He’s got epaulettes!” shrieks the Pony Tail. I look again, and it does indeed look as though the two dicks are attached to the shoulders of the twink’s shirt.
“Dickalettes!” squeals the Pony Tail.
Luis walks by, distracting them. When he pauses to slide a hand under my towel before moving on, my stock soars. In a split second, I go from IPO to Blue Chip. The long hairs rope me into their party.
“Oh! I love that song.” gushes the blonde as we hear the phrase “Ruby throated sparrow. Chestnut brown canary.” The Iron Horse lifts his head from the bottle and says, “Oh yeah. It’s by…um…um”
“Crosby, Stills and Nash”, I supply.
“And Young?” wonders the bartender.
“And Young.” I affirm, not really sure if it was pre or post Neil Young. On a quiz show, I might go down in flames on this question, but in this crowd, and post-Luis, my word is gold.
I am now the center of their triangle, and the bartender presents us with a bowl of shelled and salted peanuts. After tossing down a few scoops of these, I speculate.
“What do you suppose would happen if I were to meet someone here after eating these peanuts? Someone who was highly allergic to them. Say I went into his room and started making out with him. Say his tongue dislodged the pieces between my teeth. He could easily have a reaction. Gasping for breath. Throat constricted. Turning blue. Eyes rolling back. I wouldn’t know what was going on. I’d feel insulted.”
“I think you have to eat a lot of them to get the reaction,” guesses the bartender.
“Not really” I respond. “Think of the warning on some food wrappers that says ‘This product is manufactured in a facility that uses peanuts and other nuts and seeds’. I think it takes very little to cause the reaction.”
The Pony Tail jumps in with “Such a one would be forced to wear a sign around his neck that says ‘I am allergic to your nuts’.”
The night spins delightfully out of control, and two hours later, the freshly anti-bacterialized me leaves to find my car undisturbed and the line at the nightclub stretching around the corner.
Back home, I find an email from Joe who, having meticulously scanned his site meter, sees that I have checked his blog from Fort Lauderdale. He expresses his chagrin at not being down here.
Joey, I deliver this post not sure if it will make you feel better or worse, but that Bud was for you.
For the moment, those three multi-lane support beams, Oakland Park, Sunrise and Broward Boulevards, start at the beach and end somewhere in those glades, their pavements crumbling away into rutted soft earth where alligators crawling up out of the muck sun themselves with open jaws, feasting on misguided tourists in rental cars with bad brakes.
Oakland Park Boulevard to the north looks like Sunrise Boulevard in the center, and they both look like Broward Boulevard to their south. Hooded and in the back seat of a car of Columbian kidnappers, you would never be able to guess which one you were on. Same howling traffic. Same scent from that sorority of camp followers who have pitched up on all three: KFC, Mickey D, Seven-E and Taco B, with their heftier cousins, the Big Boxes, biting like barnacles the exit ramps of I-95 that cuts the boulevards (and the whole east coast) north to south.
All three of these streets contain remnants of earlier and now failing single-level strip malls with more than ample parking for the deceased, and containing curious one-of-a-kind retailers, tattoo parlors, consignment shops, and, of course, bars and sex venues.
On Friday night, I went to the Club Fort Lauderdale, off Broward. Sunday, I may try the Eagle in Exile, on Sunrise. Tonight I decide to unveil myself at one of my favorites, The Clubhouse II , on Oakland Park. I score one of the non-metered parking slots in front of the adjacent 7-11, and notice that one of those rented search-light machines has been positioned two doors down in front of what had been a discount furniture warehouse. It is fanning huge shafts of white light up into the clouds, signaling the opening of a new nightclub. Pairs of stylish black chicks with arms crossed under pumped breasts and over shimmering short dresses and long legs that gingerly impregnate the soft tar with their stiletto heels approach the cordoned entrance. I wonder if they know what goes on a few thin walls away where men in simple white towels have devised a much simpler and more efficient way of getting basically the same thing.
Despite what I had thought to be an early arrival, 9PM, there is already a long waiting list for rooms, and I am assigned a locker, and must begin the night with one ear always attuned to the sporadic announcements that cut into the music.
“Lockers 58, 93 and 107 please come up front. Your rooms are ready.”
This is an annoyance because some parts of the club, such as the wet area with its whirlpool, showers, steam and sauna, are not wired with speakers. If you are therein when your number is called, you risk losing your chance for a room, hence the occasional “Locker 58, this is your third call. Come up to the front now or you are off the list.”
Let me guide you swiftly through the ten sections of this club.
1) The front counter with its metal bars under which is slid your towel and key, and its staff room where huge front-loading washing machines perpetually churn and cleanse the towels, sheets and pillowcases of the unspeakable residue of the recently checked-out.
2) A pitch-black hallway that runs along the front of the building and has only one entrance and no other exit. It is barely three feet wide and maybe sixty feet long. Maybe longer. I do not go in there. It is for men who need the cover of invisibility to gain access to men who do not wish to see the source of sensation. The crouching lurkers in the far end of this passage of horror are like those critters profiled in National Geographic having been discovered and photographed with special cameras on the ocean floor. (This is the worst part of the club and must not be taken as indicative of what will follow.)
3) The main cruising area, consisting of fifty 5’X8’ cubicles built back to back and cut by three carpeted and connected hallways that allow for looped circulation. The walls of these cubicles go up ten feet and have no ceilings. They are kept rigid by wooden slats that cross overhead and through which one can see the actual twenty foot high ceiling of the place, painted with the club’s name and bear claw logo. Cigarette smoke has darkened this image just as incense had darkened the skin of the naked Adam on the vault of the Sistine Chapel before it was scrubbed.
Each cubicle is painted black and has a wall-mounted lockable cabinet for your clothing and valuables. There is also a narrow horizontal mirror on the wall opposite the bunk. When you are standing, it reflects little more than your knees, but when you are on the bunk with someone, it clearly shows you what you would look like if someone, God forbid, were filming your exertions. (Are those really my thighs?)
At the far end of this cruising area, the wall is entirely mirrored so that, in the soft lighting of the place, as you round a bend, you might accidentally cruise yourself from a distance.
4) The locker room is entered at one corner of the cruising area. It is a 10’X10’ space framed with two levels of half-height lockers incongruously surrounding the kind of bench one might see in a public park. This room is brightly lit, providing the opportunity to view new arrivals (referred to as IPO’s, as in Initial Public Offerings) in their street clothes. (Think of the value of the evening gown portion of the Miss America pageant.)
5) Next is the bar. A room in which festive naked men drink for free while chattering and ignoring the porn on the overhead TVs. The bartender stands in front of a wall of bright red tinsel that might be left over from Christmas, or, in anticipation of Saint Valentine.
6) A wall with two doorless openings abuts the bar area and leads into the major porn viewing area where carpeted banquettes curve around an immense floor model TV. The back wall of this area is mirrored so that from some angles you might be standing at the bar discussing real estate while watching a clutch of men wrestling on the banquettes.
7) A glass door leads from here to the wet area containing several individual white pre-fab shower stalls, a five-sided steam room often accommodating two dozen dampened men, and a dry sauna with wooden bleachers that look through glass walls onto a huge whirlpool with sunken blue lights and a rustic stone wall making it look like a grotto at Lourdes, the water of which will either cure or kill.
In a sweetly old-school touch, the shower stalls hold big orange bars of Dial rather then liquid soap dispensers. I have always felt confidence in the anti-bacterial powers of Dial, but it also scrubs off your skin’s natural coating, making it wise to come to this club with a travel-sized bottle of replenishing (unscented) moisturizer. Who would tell you these useful things, if not for me?
8) The bar/porn areas also lead to a bathroom and a small room containing overflow lockers for crowded nights, and some tables, chairs and vending and poker machines. Here, men munch in silence, or compare notes.
9) The munch room leads to a dismal room holding several pieces of Universal gym equipment. Most guys simply walk through here without stopping. Those who are in good shape nod respectfully to the machinery of their success. Those who are out of shape avert their eyes and quicken their step.
10) The final room, having two entrances, marks a recent expansion consisting of twenty-five new cubicles framing a “U” shaped corridor with a shady open area in the bend where groups of silent men who cannot commit to even a briefly privatized pairing get acquainted in the shadows.
I am launched from the locker room wrapped twice around in a thin white towel implying that I’d still be welcomed should I get fat to the point of doubling my girth. If I were the manager of this place, I would immediately cut one foot off each towel in order to discourage the attendance of the morbidly obese. I discard this notion realizing that fat dollars support this business’s cash flow where thin dollars alone might not swing it.
I immediately walk the entire terrain of the place to determine who is the most attractive man available. He is a smooth-skinned Hispanic, exactly my height, 35-40 years old, with wide muscular shoulders over a lean body. His dark short hair falls over his forehead and he turns to look at me after he walks by. When we pass each other a second time, our eyes lock and I place a hand into the crevice between the halves of his chest. We are pressed up against someone’s door, allowing others to pass us while we squeeze the various features of each other’s anatomy eventually reaching the toweled territories. He leads me back to his room where we unwrap and take turns operating each other’s gears like unsupervised little boys playing unlawfully in machinery at a construction site. When he reaches behind me and grabs my ass in both of his hands while looking purposefully into my eyes, I know what he’s got in mind. (In my head, I am now Andrea Bocelli singing “Time to Say Goodbye”.) I smile, and whisper into his ear “Not gonna happen.” He smiles back and we find our towels and keys. As I reach for the door, I am aware of the music. “If you want to know if he loves you so it’s in his kiss.” We finally share an introduction. He is Luis. Originally from Mexico. We call each other handsome, and we end our aborted adventure on the good terms that will allow us to wink at each other and grab each other’s crotch whenever we cross paths for the rest of the night.
Having already claimed the gold, I feel like relaxing. I sit down on a stool at the bar and am presented with a Budweiser. Next to me are two tall long-haired men engaged in spirited conversation with a short guy with a ponytail. Odd hair aside, they are all trim, lanky and doable. The dark haired and more butch tall guy takes a bottle of “Iron Horse” poppers from the deeply tanned blonde tall guy. He opens it and inhales deeply.
“Oh yeaaaahh. Muuuch better than Jungle Juice.”
The bartender tells them that it is the stronger of the two brands and that Rush is a distant third.
“Doesn’t smell like dirty sox, does it?”
The ponytail says, “Oh look!” He points to the TV screen offering a video of a twink wearing an open-collared white shirt and kneeling between two standing naked muscular guys with engorged horse dicks pointing at his face. It is a close-up shot, cropping the twink at the waist, and the two standing guys from stomachs to shins.
“He’s got epaulettes!” shrieks the Pony Tail. I look again, and it does indeed look as though the two dicks are attached to the shoulders of the twink’s shirt.
“Dickalettes!” squeals the Pony Tail.
Luis walks by, distracting them. When he pauses to slide a hand under my towel before moving on, my stock soars. In a split second, I go from IPO to Blue Chip. The long hairs rope me into their party.
“Oh! I love that song.” gushes the blonde as we hear the phrase “Ruby throated sparrow. Chestnut brown canary.” The Iron Horse lifts his head from the bottle and says, “Oh yeah. It’s by…um…um”
“Crosby, Stills and Nash”, I supply.
“And Young?” wonders the bartender.
“And Young.” I affirm, not really sure if it was pre or post Neil Young. On a quiz show, I might go down in flames on this question, but in this crowd, and post-Luis, my word is gold.
I am now the center of their triangle, and the bartender presents us with a bowl of shelled and salted peanuts. After tossing down a few scoops of these, I speculate.
“What do you suppose would happen if I were to meet someone here after eating these peanuts? Someone who was highly allergic to them. Say I went into his room and started making out with him. Say his tongue dislodged the pieces between my teeth. He could easily have a reaction. Gasping for breath. Throat constricted. Turning blue. Eyes rolling back. I wouldn’t know what was going on. I’d feel insulted.”
“I think you have to eat a lot of them to get the reaction,” guesses the bartender.
“Not really” I respond. “Think of the warning on some food wrappers that says ‘This product is manufactured in a facility that uses peanuts and other nuts and seeds’. I think it takes very little to cause the reaction.”
The Pony Tail jumps in with “Such a one would be forced to wear a sign around his neck that says ‘I am allergic to your nuts’.”
The night spins delightfully out of control, and two hours later, the freshly anti-bacterialized me leaves to find my car undisturbed and the line at the nightclub stretching around the corner.
Back home, I find an email from Joe who, having meticulously scanned his site meter, sees that I have checked his blog from Fort Lauderdale. He expresses his chagrin at not being down here.
Joey, I deliver this post not sure if it will make you feel better or worse, but that Bud was for you.
posted by Father Tony of the Farmboyz at 11:07 PM
18 Comments:
Here is a helpful visual aid for your post:
Deep Creatures
Your ever helpful,
LTG
Andrea Boccelli?? Please say it ain't so!
Wow, do you write a guide to fuck clubs? You should. Heck, I should pick your brains about the NYC options, as many of them have closed or moved.
Regardless, nice job!
I think that there might be an opening over at Lonely Planet... :)
Why is it that the bathouse experience doesn't change? This could easily be an evening I spent 35 years ago at the Everard, or the old Club Baths on First Avenue. You've brought back some fond old memories. Including an encounter with a mirror.
And not that it matters, but no Neil Young.
Tony, you are such a sweatheart.
Never been to one of these but the front desk, lockers, peanuts, showers, cruising...sound an awful lot like the Northwest Club at O'Hare.
I love it.
Why is it one of your favorites? Just curious. =)
I am really not sure I could fuck to "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes." I get easily distracted when music is playing. I can just imagine my partner's dismay when:
Him - "What's wrong? You don't seem to be into this."
Me - "Wait, my favorite part is coming."
He'd be out the door, and I'd be sat there waiting for my favorite part (which, in this case, is the middle section beginning with "Friday evening, Sunday in the afternoon" and culminating in "How can you catch the sparrow?" but I digress).
It's a curse, but music just does this to me.
Some things never change, both the bath house experience, and your deightfully ironic, affectionately detached storytelling.
Andrea Bocelli? I would have thought Michael Bolton singing Messun Dorma more suitable. Snurf!
At l'Oasis, when my French was not quite there yet, the god-he-was-hot hunk looked at me and said, "Puis je te penetrer?" That I understood was remarkable, and fortunately my response, "uh-uh", translated just fine.
"are like those critters profiled in National Geographic having been discovered and photographed with special cameras on the ocean floor."
To me, this whole post is like an exotic National Geographic special. I read riveted.
No one writes like you. No one.
I must agree with Cooper; you are in a league of your own. I just don't picture you as a Clubhouse type of guy though. I have been to both The Club and ClubhouseII on numerous occasions, and always found the talent severely lacking at the latter. I sometimes felt like a fly on the wall at the Club, when to my distaste, the Twink factor was in ascendence. I do think the pickings are a little better at the Club though. Do you like ClubhouseII for the unexpected finds, or for the knowledge you are bagging the hottest game? Just curious. I would go to ClubhouseII for the sleazefactor at times, found it to be more honest and erotic than the eyecandy of the Club, like choosing to cruise an adult bookstore than a bar. Loved the piece, brought Ft L back in a steamy, popperesque fashion...
Chicago
If I need a guide for such assignations, I know who to call.
freshly anti-bacterialized
What did you use? Dog shampoo?
i have been fascinated with places like this since i first found out about them in my tender youth. when my boyfriends in houston would head out to "the bookstore" before we went to the bars, it was just inconceivable to me that they'd manage to get laid 2,3,6 x or more(?) (is that possible? is my memory failing?) in a matter of hours.
i have never been in one and it doesn't hold much appeal at this late date, though i love reading about it. i would fret about a future need for anti-fungals and look for the pubic hair on the bar of Dial.
Your sense of self-worth is incredible. I am so appreciative you take the time to apply it to a self-established forum like Perge Modo. We "little people" appreciate it and, personally, I'm SO glad I'm too old and too fat to merit your companionship. You're a fabulous writer though and you probably don't even have to use spellcheck.
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