Sometimes this gig involves a little bit more than journalism although most of the time it involves significantly less and this little piggy has to do more than go to market … he has to go all the way to ho.
The inaugural edition of Knock Knock's cosmo cock-fest, Girls Night Out, is one such night of literary method acting, and I think I'm up to it. After all, I've spent the bulk of my adult years (and some not) swinging beneath the proverbial teabag and waiting for rhythmic scrotal slaps. It's my personal pornographic futility, and I'm more than willing to lie in it, splash around awhile and laugh the laugh peculiar to psychotic aboriginal children.
But the thought of a heterosexual downtown male revue, especially on a gay columnist's allowance, leaves me feeling more than just a little bit detached. And although ABBA's "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)" is blaring from the approaching entrance, slapping me up-and-down into the context of an Australian drag-epic, I know that tonight I will be invisible. These sort of beefcake affairs typically involve contractual clauses protecting the paid protruders from any sort of man-on-man involvement. They've got reps to protect, after all. And scrotums.
So my friend Tony and I tiptoe warily into the sublime, pinching each other and feigning plastic transparency. No one can see us, after all. We're gay.
"Hiiiiiiii," swishes a promoter named Stephanie in our direction, seeing through our ruse and raising it by throwing us on a VIP couch. Dammit. "There are drink specials, but my friend over here has a bottle of Grey Goose if that's OK with you."
"You can drink my Goose anytime," winks said friend.
And with that, my goose is loose. Tony eyes a red boa on an adjoining couch, and with typical pink-card aplomb proceeds to explain to its owner that he has a better one at home. Unfazed, she offers Tony the boa as some sort of peace offering among people with divergent genitalia but congruent cock-fancy.
"Should I wear it?" he begs. "Does it go?"
"Oh, yeah," I dig into my reserve of taste. "It'll pop with your outfit! It'll pop like Schindler's List!" Nothing says "sex party" like the Holocaust.
And just then my pen gives out. Wagner (ahem) Bucci, the other promoter and probable protruder of Stephanie, approaches with a fancy silver pen in one hand and a mass of air in the other, offering a "good column/bad column" choice as a marketing tool. That all depends.
"Where are the boys?" I grunt, unfashionably.
"They're getting ready," Wagner leans in, and yet doesn't. "Billy can probably tell you something about boys getting ready."
"Oh," I think to myself, but dare not speak. Visions of Viagra and cocaine dance through my head like so many sugarplums and miscellaneous facts about Billboard chart positions in 1986. "Whatever do you mean?"
Doesn't matter. Tonight is for the ladies, which means a shameless assemblage of youngish estrogen is scattered throughout Knock Knock, seemingly tossed around like the stockings and scarves you couldn't possibly wear tonight. This is my big sister's bedroom and I feel like I shouldn't be here. So I eavesdrop.
"Sconces … blah, blah … markets … and 75 American dollars!" broadcasts into my right ear, albeit ineffectively. Women are strange.
"Ladies, this is not church!" booms the emcee, self-named, I think, Eve Lauren, whose boa has now made its way to my own nape. "I know you've been waiting with bated breath!"
"Masturbated breath?" chimes Tony, on cue.
With a tease of "Hopefully, he'll show us his nine millimeter," on comes the cop, some Puerto Rican beefcake named Angel. Alas, against the soured expectations of metric minimalism, Angel parades around the VIP stage appended with something the size of a billy club. Hopefully, being named Billy and all, I'll be invisible to him.
Nope. One booted foot lands to the left of my quivering thigh, and the other to the right as I look up into some reflective sunglasses and a sneer or at least what I can see of them on the periphery of a 9-inch mountain. I'm very uncomfortable right now. I need a pillow for my lap and a prison for my soul. As 10 seconds swell to feel like six weeks, I force myself into an existential haze, pulling myself out of the potential scent of ballfunk and baby oil, and reliving a similar experience that I had in a ninth-grade locker room. "Stop it!" I mouth (and mouthed) silently. "Heh … eh." Help.
Next up, a soldier disrobing to the sounds of Destiny's Child's "Soldier," which offers some obvious reprieve. He's clearly a homophobe, or at least parading as one, and I'm neither asking nor telling. His panties end up in some girl's mouth, and my pants stay decidedly in their flat-front position. Phew.
Crisis averted, the emcee goads the crowd for one last beefy male archetype with, "Girls, I know some of you don't like country music, but after this, I think you'll all be rednecks. Save a horse, ride a cowboy!"
Yeehaw. And then the strangest thing happens. The cowboy meets eyes with me in some dustbowl showdown, and actual words are exchanged.
"I've seen you before," he mouths.
"I know," I Dorothy right back.
Soon after, the cowboy surmises that Tony looks bored and decides he might or might not pull his extended member out and slap him across the face. I'm hoping that it is thong-covered, because that would be legal (I guess).
More funny, though, is the actual erotica that plays out next. Some middle-parted Farrah sits down next to me and wobbles through a little bit of drunken nothing talk, calling to her boyfriend, a skull-capped stud with piercing studs.
"You've been a bad girl, haven't you?" he looks down at her, rubbing his crotch. "You want me to slap this fat cock across your face right now, don'tcha?"
Without any reservations, Tony and I cry a resounding "Yes!"
"You see, the problem with that," he gazes down on me, "is that guys like me don't want to pull our cocks out with guys like you watching."
Pretend I'm not here. I'm invisible.
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