Panty Party

Despite not having health benefits or a 401K, there are undeniable benefits to working in bars. The most important being that you never have to pay for drinks in Manhatttan. And it seems that this benefit has continued on despite the fact that I'm no longer a cocktail whore.
Last Thursday, I went back to Tim's restaurant, Highline, to hang out with my good friend and to check out my friend Keo's fledgling gay party, Jet Set, in the downstairs pool lounge.
The two times I've made the party, Tim has been a vigilant provider of strong drinks. I find the space a bit cheesy with it's gaudy decorative touches, but the drinks and the Thai food are fanfuckingtastic. They're so good that I grin and bear the bridge-and-tunnel Jersey trash that frequent Highline in order to get my fill of mojitos and Panang with chicken.

And before I get any more e-mails from Jersey-ites about the merits of their state, let me say that "Jersey trash" and "bridge-and-tunnel" as terms apply to a state of mind, and not to a state of being. Simply living in the Garden State does not make you trash.
I have actually met wonderful gorgeous people who have come over on bridges and tunnels. The term "Jersey trash, " rather connotes an appalling sense of style and extreme sychopantisim. In other words, they are WANNABES.

If you name drop promoters names, wear trucker hats, or have any ever been mistaken for a Gotti or a Gastineau, then you are Jersey trash no matter where you live. I don't care if you own a penthouse in Tribeca.
If find yourself in the Meatpacking District Saturday at 1a, see Tara Reid more than four times a month, have waited outside a bar or club for more than 20 minutes to get in, then you are most likely bridge and tunnel.

But then again... I can be ridiculously trashy myself. I mean I don't wear polyester shirts, but I do go to underwear parties.
That's where I ended up after getting a bit trashed at Tim's bar.
I had run into Ned earlier that day at Crunch on Lafayette. Ned's a drop-dead gorgeous model/actor who barely looks in the mirror; meaning he's hot without really trying to be hot. He's one of those fortunate soles who was blessed with physical perfection without the need to primp. Which only makes him hotter, of course.
Anyway, Ned told me about the Panty Revolution Party at SIXES AND EIGHTS. He danced there as a shot boy. He poured shots of tequila down his stomach, me placing my mouth on his navel as I swallowed the stream that followed his happy trail.
Sounds hot, but I've known Ned for about two years, and his boyfriend was right next to me watching.

Anyway, the shot that Ned gave me was about the most exciting thing that happened to me at the party.
I found a room full of guys in their underwear strangely not that big of turn on. Hot guys would come up and feel my goodies, but I found myself a little bored with the whole affair.
A part of me wasn't intrigued by the idea of having four sets of hands on me, especially because four of those hands would be guys who I would never want touching me. Chow Chow calls this phenomenon "Bumble Bee Soccer." You start making out with one guy, and then three other guys cluster around to join in on the fun. I like controlling who I play with these days.

Plus.... I find the act of removing someone's clothes a HOT part of foreplay. I like stripping down to my underwear and making out with a guy...slowing revealing more parts of his body.
The party did, however, live up to its promise and was full of sketchy encounters and good music. DJ Nita provided some great music, and TJ, the manager was sweet enough to continue providing me with free booze.

On my way out, the door guy stopped me. A muscle daddy with a huge tattoo on his arm and forearm, he let me know that he'd see me around at the gym. It was kind of surprising since I'd never caught him looking at me before, but the hot door guy tried to pick me up. It was a great ego boost, and I might have taken him up on the offer, but I haven't been in a mood for one-night stands.

I like going to trashy-parties, but at times, I find that it's just enough for me to appreciate that such parties do exist. I'm sure the mood will come again where I want all of my goodies groped by strangers, and I want such options to exist.
But are there underwear parties in LA? I'm guessing there probably aren't. I'm expecting there to be much more "Jersey Trash" than Trashy gay parties.
I just don't get the sense that LA is a city full of much sexual energy.
Like today, I was driving along the West Side Highway, when a wave of hormones seemed to hit my body. My cock stiffened up in my jeans. I got horny....but for no apparant reason. I was at a stop light and when I looked to my right, I saw the Spike Art Gallery.
This art gallery may house modern art now, but according to the EX, Spike was once a very dirty gay bar full of tight levi's and hot guys. The kind of smokey room where men played pool and fucked in the bathroom.
I hate to sound all new-agey, but I suspect that I picked up on some gay sexual vibe left there from Spike's former life as a crusiey bar.
I mean, I hate hanging out in Chelsea, becasue I'm always simulataneously turned on and grossed on. Turned on by some abstract sense of raw energy, but grossed out by the depth at which the neighborhood is a gay ghetto. So I end up walking around with a bit of a woody, but with no interest in making any eye-contact with anyone walking by.

Driving around LA, I don't ever get these hard-ons randomly. I know for a fact that LA is not as dirty at New York. Very few cities are, and fewer have the number of hot guys that New York has.
There are hot guys in LA for sure, but they are a bit more reserved.

But fuck...what the hell do I know... I'm sure I'll manage to get into enough trouble when I'm out there, because I am after all a little trashy at heart.