The Party

I got home from RJ’s big bash after 4 in the morning, went to bed around 4:30, and then, for some stupid reason, I woke up at 7:45 and couldn’t fall back asleep. Great. On a weekday, when I really need to get up, I can’t, but on the weekend, my body’s just rarin’ to hop out of bed with the early morning birds. I think my body and I need to have ourselves a little talk.

So I’ve spent the entire day exhausted. This afternoon I met up with UrbanPlanner to see the Beaux Arts Trio, which was fabulous, despite the fact that I nearly fell asleep several times. I have a thing for chamber music. A chamber piece is like a conversation among friends: there’s one instrument per part, and you can listen to the interplay among them. A piano trio, you may or may not know, consists of a piano, a violin and a cello. The Beaux Arts Trio has been around forever, and the pianist, Menahem Pressler, is this cute rotund dwarf with a very expressive face; he’s so much fun to watch. The concert was terrific, made up of works by Haydn, Beethoven and Schubert.

We had lunch beforehand at Junior’s in Grand Central Station. Sitting next to our table was this Adonis eating lunch by himself. Oh my God. He was blond with incredibly clear skin, and he was massive; his smooth muscled arms were rippling beneath his tight white t-shirt, which was tucked into a pair of tight blue jeans. I couldn’t take my eyes off him during the meal. He was so hot that I was actually still thinking about him during the concert.

But anyway, you don’t care about this, right? You want to know about the party.

RJ and his roommate were super hosts. There was plenty of alcohol, a huge spread of food, a great apartment full of interesting people. These two know how to throw a party, and it was great of them to open their home to all of us horny homos.

It was a blast to meet some more fellow bloggers. First, there was the dashing and droll Troy. Then there was the joyfully charismatic and charming Sparky, with whom I talked for quite a while. (You can read Sparky’s account of the party; he’s totally pegged the embarrassment of explaining to someone that you’ve met the person standing next to you because you both have blogs.) And finally, of course, there was our host, whom I’d already met a few weeks ago — RJ, the man with the deep blue eyes and the heart of gold.

As for me, I was bubbling over with neuroses at this party. I’d been looking forward to it all week, but by the time Saturday evening arrived, my excitement had turned to nervousness. Could this party possibly meet the expectations I’d created in my mind? Would I meet someone for a hot one-night stand? Would I meet the love of my life? I’d pegged all my hopes on this party; I’d made it out to be the only social event of the entire spring season, the only opportunity to meet people between now and the time the leaves start to turn orange again. You can’t function well under that kind of pressure. Something has to give.

I wore the wrong shirt. I should have worn my black t-shirt. Instead I wore a dark blue short-sleeve cotton button-down shirt over a white tee. I was surrounded by all these gay men wearing tight t-shirts with short clingy sleeves to show off their upper arms, and I felt slightly out of place and unattractive. I saw potential targets, but nothing happened. I even would have slept with the guy with the black t-shirt and the big arms whom Sparky knew, the self-described “power bottom,” even though the guy was sort of weird. Jeez — you know, when it comes down to it, I really am a horny bastard. But I think I have to work on my vibes. Either I didn’t give off “have sex with me” vibes, or people just didn’t find me attractive enough, or maybe they weren’t horny. I was wearing the wrong shirt, or I should have worn my contacts instead of my glasses, or I shouldn’t have had a goatee. Although to be honest, most people left without a warm body for the evening. And you know what? That’s really all I wanted. Sex would have been great, but not necessary; most of all, I just wanted to cuddle up with someone warm.

My insecurity built over the course of the night. I was one of the last people to leave. I was feeling rather down on myself for various reasons, and I was feeling some things that were confusing, things I don’t think I want to go into here. I walked out onto the street and wandered around the East Village for a few minutes, trying to be all poetic, filled with hopeful visions of walking around brooding until the sun rose over the Brooklyn Bridge, just like a movie. But I was too tired to act out a drama on the streets of Manhattan, so I turned myself back around and walked the several blocks to the PATH station. Shortly thereafter, I got home and went to bed, and shortly thereafter, I woke up, exhausted.

That pretty much brings us full circle, doesn’t it?