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;I am getting more than a ;little bit horny. Having just one-hand scrolled through a thrillingly un-(copy)edited transcript of Maf54's surly texting with 16-year-old "xxxxxx," up-and-down arrowing over the aesthetic value of textured cum rags and plaster-cast fetishes like a page boy with wine-cooler breath, my mind is racing with attention deficit possibility. I grab my vibraphone, my 7-and-a-half inches of dignity, and get to dialing.

;; "Tony? We need to go out and find Mark Foley," I swizzle my stick. "I feel for him and I think he's getting a bad rap. I mean, wasn't Loretta Lynn a tight 14 when Doo plucked her cherry? Sixteen is an extremely gray area, right?"


;"Ew," Tony hates me. "He's in rehab, anyway."


;"Duh, Orlando IS rehab."


;And with that, Tony's at my door in green plaid pants and a pompadour. We devise a scheme for netting the irony that is District 16's worst-kept secret and suck back a couple of politically mixed cocktails to lubricate our evening's legislation. We'll start at the Peacock Room, mostly because that's where people like Phil Rampy sniffle when engaging in unnecessary conversations about voting for Charlie Crist. From there, we'll follow the salt and pepper until it leads us to that great Log Cabin in the sky. Done.

;;Turns out that tonight is also the spooky art opening of Pat Fatica (who's been in a Back Booth or two himself) at the Peacock, one that illustrates the anxiety of big-eyed children when placed in harrowing situations: some involving trees, some involving stumps. Oil on wood, they are. Heh. I'd like some oil on my wood, etc.

;;The pictures are lovely and haunting, but the crowd is far too sparse to hide such a heavy focal point as a midlife closet case under media scrutiny. Still, we have a look around while I attempt to learn how to actually send text messages on my cell phone when I haven't been texted first. Oh, vanity.

;;"I love that you only know how to return text messages," snips Tony, who, I should note, has yet to graduate from the tin can and the string. "Very you."

;;Very not me is the inclusion of some of those old dead-people sepia photos peculiar to Southerners who took turn-of-the-century pictures of their miscarriages. They're part of the Peacock's whole creeptacular of fire code–busting gray webbery and electro-balls, their annual ode to being reasonably wealthy, drunk and scared. We are, in short, in a gray area.

;;"I have a friend in Wisconsin who has a collection of hair wreaths," Tony plays to the theme. "When I asked him whether or not that affects his dating life, he said, ‘That usually determines whether I'm having sex.'"


;And just as I'm coughing up a wreathed hairball, my thumb slips and figures out how to textually maneuver in the modern age.


;"Do I make u a little horny?" I thumb my coworker Jeff Billman (ew).

;;And imagine my chagrin when all I get back is a "Billy!" bong hit, er, message. Politico, my ass. "Did u use a towel?" I type back.

;;Sensing my oats a-sowing, I raise the bar to my editor Bob Whitby. "Is it rock hard?" I sign my pink slip.


;No response at all. Typical.


;Deflated but not defeated, I sleuth about the bar with Tony, slithering by a Brandon Flowers mustache ("The Killers are killing everybody!" I guffaw, cheaply) and even interrogating my olivine friend Nadeem after he insists that "this year I'm going to be Osama bin Loaded!" I've got some hair gel in my cell phone and I'm not afraid to use it, dammit.

;;Two "let's go"s later and I'm across the street urinating in the glory hole of the Studz bathroom. There are only three people present, which makes sneaky reconnaissance painfully personal, so we exit with the realization that our plan is dying.

;;"On your back or ur stomach?" I twiddle to copy editor Jessica's inbox.

;;"I KNOW you didn't mean to send that to me," she fingers back. "What's up, naughty?"

;;"If you really want to be naughty, we can go out to where Studz used to be," Tony cruises. "There's a new place called College Connections."

;;Nothing screams page boy graduation like a good college connection, so we twist our tassels, giggle and drive. Now, to describe the wretched decrepitude of this iniquity den would be to spoil its mystique. So I'll let the bar's owner do it for me.

;;"Of course you'll want to check out our backyard area. We have a good-boy patio, and we have a bad-boy area — for when you want to go a little Brokeback," he nudges my seventh rib with an elbow bunion.

;;WWMFD? We check for the Mountain, but find nothing there but an Indian burial mound that seems to smell bad. Anyway, manning the bar is a piece of college confusion wearing a "Griese" jersey. He sees that Tony is peeling the label off his Bud Light bottle and sets to tip-ee flirting. "Are you sexually frustrated?" he queens. "That's why we have the patio," he bites his lower lip and thrusts his hip. Tony plays dumb and just keeps pointing at the table talker advertising Thursday's "Tidy Whitey" night. "So, what, are they dirty tonight?"


;I am. I text my friend Dave, who is politically savvy and secretly very dirty. "What kind of underwear are you wearing?"


;"Boxer-briefs, congressman," comes back almost instantly.


;"I'd like to slip them off of you," my thumb sweats.


;"You must stop, since you're making me horny," his does too. "But just a little."


;When I look up, Tony is motioning to the guy at his left: a middle-aged man slyly grimacing while typing IMs into his laptop … at a bar. He has a mustache, but molested alcoholics often do.

;;"It's him!" Tony effervesces like head on a beer bottle. "It's Mark Foley!"


;"Is it rock hard?" I text Dave, not knowing what to do.


;"More like pumice," he chafes back.


;I am super double horny.


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