By Kathleen Vanesian
By Amy Silverman
By Robrt L. Pela
By Jim Louvau
By Kathleen Vanesian
By Benjamin Leatherman
By New Times
By Becky Bartkowski
"Dude," says the kid with both his ears pierced, "it's so obvious you are gay. Why not just come out and say it, you fag? I won't judge you!"
I look at this guy who has turned up at Phoenix's notorious rip-off of the New York City Motherfucker Party, and realize it's amateur hour. They've let the kids in since the bar stopped serving booze.
"Come on, homo-boy," says Junior, with real peach fuzz over his upper lip and everything, "just admit you're queer for me."
I stare at the Ridgemont High Reject and wonder how this conversation even began at all. Then I remembered -- I'd gone to Hot Pink. The place to see and be seen in Phoenix.
I should have stayed at the Emerald Lounge.
"George," says my pal Brian, who works behind the bar at the Emerald most nights of the week, "you really WANNA go to Hot Pink?"
I look around the already half-empty club, and all I see is my reflection in everyone's drunken eyes. Or eye, in the case of the guy with the pirate patch passed out at the end of the bar.
"Yeah," I tell Brian, "nobody here is gonna remember I was standing in this spot, anyway."
Brian nods his head like he understands, which he does. We then quickly discuss the coyote situation, and how I heard on news radio they are running loose everywhere. And not only that, they are buying up real estate to house illegal immigrants.
Now, being from New York, I've seen some smart canines. Ones that can say "I love you," ones that can twirl on their tippy-toes, and even ones that help blind people bump into me. But filling out those mortgage papers and coming up with old tax returns? THAT is clever.
Anyway, I tell Brian I'm splitting, and say goodnight to Scene, who is working behind the bar as well. Then Greg, the guy who owns the place, and my bald friend Mike, who is too cool for words.
Then I'm off to the equivalent of a high school keg party.
When I first arrive at Hot Pink, I'm greeted by something I hadn't seen in months. Beautiful girls. Zillions of them. I mean, sure, I've seen some beauties at the Rogue, some babes at the Merc (who wouldn't give me the time of day), and the hotties at my gym. But this was different. Maybe because they were all making out with one another.
Anyway, I pay the door fee, get searched for what must be the rifle I'm hiding in my pants I shot JFK with, then make my way to the bar.
A very nice gentleman in a baseball cap gets me my drink, we make a little small talk, and I realize that even though I had walked through the doors of the club with my New York attitude, the vibe in this club was better. Well, in a way.
The vibe was more cozy, with much less posing, and a lot more emphasis on fun. In fact, I noticed some people who DIDN'T want to be seen.
"Don't tell anyone you saw me here," says one friend of mine I'd met at the Bikini Lounge.
"I was never here," says another fellow whose band I'd checked out in Tempe.
It was all good.
As I'm watching these two hot girls -- who can't be more than 27, total -- make out against a stripper's pole, I can't help but find myself with an erection. One so large that if I were to walk into one of the glass-covered walls in the place, I'd still break my nose.
These girls are wearing next to nothing, which is better than nothing, because it lets my mind wonder what's really there. I mean, trimmed, shaved, soft, or a she-male. There are plenty of them in New York. And I gotta tell you, there is nothing like that feeling of making out with a hot chick, then reaching between her legs to let your fingers do those tiny loop-de-loops, and finding a surprise.
It's almost better than those you used to find in Cracker Jacks, but are now more common in Trix, Cocoa Puffs, and Lucky Charms.
Anyway, I'm getting all hot and sweaty as I finally see one chick's nipple pop out of her loose blouse.
I look down at my women's stretch jeans, and they're stretching in the place where women don't. So I drop an ice cube from my drink down there and make my way to the restroom stall.
That's where I meet HIM.
"You can piss next to me," says the high-school-age kid, as we wait in line in the front of the club for the men's room.
I smile back and say nothing.
A minute or so later, two urinals open up, and peach fuzz takes one of them.
He whips out his wiener, starts to piss, and tells me there is a free urinal next to him.
"I'll wait for a stall," I tell the kid, and think no more of it.
But he certainly does.