It was gay pride in Manhattan this past weekend.
I started the festivities at an awful party. John Cameron Mitchell - of Hedwig and Shortbus movie fame - was hosting a “Judy Garland” soirée in the West Village. I’ve never been a fan of Miss Judy – and I once painted her daughter Lorna Loft, who was quite nice until I mentioned her sister Liza, but hey, that’s another story. I love John, so I thought I might meet some interesting queens.
Boy, was I wrong.
The bar was filled with pretentious artist wannabees – the kind whom take themselves sooooooo fucking seriously. Now don’t get me wrong, I love a pretentious fag, but they must be a pretentious fag with a sense of drama and humor– these fags were dull as dirt. Furthermore, there wasn’t an attractive man in the bunch. I mean, I hate going somewhere where you don’t find anyone interesting or anyone you want to fuck – now that sucks.
Saturday I went to Nowhere Bar – my usual Saturday night hangout. My buddy is the DJ, so I Black Bitch it up for free. The theme was double-headed disco, and the place was packed. Of course, nights like this – gay holidays – bring out the nuts. As I danced to Cheryl Lynn’s Got To Be Real, I met Don – a 50-year-old lawyer. He was high as a kite on X, and had a slight odor of BO, but I was hungry for attention, so I let him buy me a drink. After that, he wouldn’t leave me alone. Okay, he kept telling me I looked 25 - and he gave me a twenty-dollar bill to kiss him on the cheek. And yes, I took the dough; I have Botox to pay for. I guess my friends are right: I am a whore.
On Sunday, I went to the parade to watch my Israeli march in the Pride Israel contingent – he was shirtless and looked hot. He waved at me while he carried his flag. Sappy for an old broad like me, but I blushed like an innocent schoolgirl. What can I say; I’m a sucker for a man with an accent. We made plans for the following night.
Now that, honey, is pride.