March Madness

Sat next to two lovely men during Saturday's NCAA games at Whiskey Tavern. The first looked like PM Dawn, except for the Bluetooth and the Orlando Magic Tracy McGrady jersey. He flew into a strange, lisping rage when he returned from taking care of some sort of business outside to find the napkin he'd placed over his pinot gris had blown off. Later, he actually jammed several napkins into his half-full wine glass, then left and never returned.

The second guy was a 65-year-old, khakis-and-button-down Atlantan who immediately turned and asked:

“Do you know where I can find a good titty bar?”
“What kind of titty bar are you looking for?”
“Not one of those fancy places. I want a place where you tip a little, and you get to touch a little boob, and they like it.”
“So, a classic titty bar?”
“Yes, a classic titty bar.”

After texts with several outside sources brought up possibilities from Queens (“Is Queens dangerous? I don't want to get mugged -- I'll be alone”) to Flashdancers, we finally settled on New York Dolls, which is where our friend is headed in the picture above.

Yesterday at the same spot (more hoops to watch, and as evidenced by the McGrady-Khakis Confluence, it's a special kind of bar), we met a black sex therapist, who aggressively confessed to one of my friends that for a time she enjoyed having gay white men cover her in their gay white man-seed. She then showed him pictures on her iPhone. I only wish a Feist song had been playing.