Last night, for reasons too incriminating to publish, I found myself at the bar/dance-club, SPLASH. As it turned out, Stephan Grondin was the DJ presiding over the main dance floor so the music was decidedly more hype than I had any reason to expect, and the crowd more familiar.
But SPLASH was still SPLASH. And, as such, would venture to shock and embarrass me with alarming new mutations of "Hot Gay Mess."
Having lived in New York City for seven years, I would think I have been more or less habituated to "Hot Gay Mess" antics -
I braved the poop on the dance floor at Black Party 2006.
I saw a Hot Gay Mess do a back flip on the dance floor at Alegria and land on a girl half his size.
I was at a roof top party when that other Hot Gay Mess shattered a beer bottle against a wall resulting in flesh wounds for multiple homosexual bystanders after someone called his boyfriend fat.
I've been to David Barton Gym during "rush hour" - a veritable forest of hot gay mess I wouldn't diminish by venturing to describe any single tree. (Vogue-ing in front of the weight rack, really, Faggots?)
That's a lot of 'Hot Gay Mess.' Before last night, I thought myself near shock proof. I was wrong. Last night, endeavoring to wash my hands after having tinkled in SPLASH's bizarro "erotic" urinal trough, I was rendered silent and still with Hot Gay TERROR.
The only double sink was already in use; a tall, thin, dark skinned, faggot wearing a red sleeveless shirt he could only have bought at "BANG BANG" circa 1998 with gerry curled bangs and a long, wet pony tail of black hair was bending his neck to the side so as to ever so daintily dip his pony tail under the running faucet and, with his bony, well manicured fingers, run the water through his hair back down into the sink. Yes, ya'll: FAGGOT WAS WASHING HIS HAIR IN THE SINK AT A CLUB.
Not being one to interrupt Pocahontas washing her hair in the river, I waited till the Indian princess was done before I washed my hands. Though it should go without saying, even after having had two showers since, I couldn't quite get to feeling clean. Inconsolable with post-traumatic-hot mess disorder, I looked to facebook for support and consolation. I only kind of got it.
But SPLASH was still SPLASH. And, as such, would venture to shock and embarrass me with alarming new mutations of "Hot Gay Mess."
Having lived in New York City for seven years, I would think I have been more or less habituated to "Hot Gay Mess" antics -
I braved the poop on the dance floor at Black Party 2006.
I saw a Hot Gay Mess do a back flip on the dance floor at Alegria and land on a girl half his size.
I was at a roof top party when that other Hot Gay Mess shattered a beer bottle against a wall resulting in flesh wounds for multiple homosexual bystanders after someone called his boyfriend fat.
I've been to David Barton Gym during "rush hour" - a veritable forest of hot gay mess I wouldn't diminish by venturing to describe any single tree. (Vogue-ing in front of the weight rack, really, Faggots?)
That's a lot of 'Hot Gay Mess.' Before last night, I thought myself near shock proof. I was wrong. Last night, endeavoring to wash my hands after having tinkled in SPLASH's bizarro "erotic" urinal trough, I was rendered silent and still with Hot Gay TERROR.
The only double sink was already in use; a tall, thin, dark skinned, faggot wearing a red sleeveless shirt he could only have bought at "BANG BANG" circa 1998 with gerry curled bangs and a long, wet pony tail of black hair was bending his neck to the side so as to ever so daintily dip his pony tail under the running faucet and, with his bony, well manicured fingers, run the water through his hair back down into the sink. Yes, ya'll: FAGGOT WAS WASHING HIS HAIR IN THE SINK AT A CLUB.
Not being one to interrupt Pocahontas washing her hair in the river, I waited till the Indian princess was done before I washed my hands. Though it should go without saying, even after having had two showers since, I couldn't quite get to feeling clean. Inconsolable with post-traumatic-hot mess disorder, I looked to facebook for support and consolation. I only kind of got it.
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