Splash-XES Post-mortem: I begin to wonder

Stephen, I'm sorry, but I gave in.

It was raining harder than I had ever seen north of the Mason-Dixon line, yet, I gave in. I went to Splash. It was...different. That's the only way I can adequately describe it, since one of the bartenders thought I was somebody else, and I ran with it.

Why? I don't know. Perhaps it was that viewing of Seconds today that set me off.

Edit & Update: (See what happens when you post drunk. I didn't even think I had posted about last night.) Let me get a little more detailed now. In retrospect, I should've paid attention to the signs. While I was waiting to pay the cover, I was jostled by two men--who really should know better than to mutter "move, move"--eager to get somewhere inside pretty quickly. What it was, I don't know. Perhaps someone was buying back ugly and they wanted to sell theirs badly.

I went downstairs and parked myself at the bar, well, "parked" in the sense of standing in one place. This is very atypical for me, since there were no videos playing, thereby negating the main reason why I go to Splash. That said, my pants and shoes were soaked through and I wasn't even considering moving until I was dry.

What I was privy to was two bartenders or go-go-boys having a tiff with the photographer who was plying his trade in the booths. I didn't catch all of what they were saying but it looked like two tan hens fighting.

Finally dry, I made it upstairs. In lieu of music videos, there was a psychedelic collage of camp performances and assorted sex scenes. I should've figured out what would inevitably follow: go-go-boys dancing on the bars. As much as I really don't like having a crotch and thighs thrust in front of my face, I gave a dollar. 1) Because they're doing their job and 2) It makes them move...unless you start carressing them. I discovered the latter part when these two soul-patched men (when will that trend die, it looks like trimmed pubic hair on the face) were all over this one ornately tattooed dancer.

This led to another pondering thought as I was drinking another beer at XES (with another crotch & thighs bouncing in front of me): Why am I such a stick in the mud about the Cinderella hour? I've started using that term to describe--or perhaps justify--why I don't stay out much past midnight. It seems to only apply in New York. When I go on vacation, I'm out until the cows come home and I have a blast. Why not try to replicate it here?

As someone who really does prefer to go out alone, I like to bring the party with me, so to speak. Yet, being a keen observer, I've noticed that people take their time in relaxing. It takes time and alcohol for the barriers that we put up in order to get through the day to come down (CANE describes this perfectly), if they ever do. So I am going to challenge myself next Saturday. I am not going to leave the apartment until 11:30 at the earliest. Perhaps I may even use that black card.