Swelter

Chastened, but plunging on. A dinner party at Barocco Beach, a gentleman talking about seeing Turkish wrestling on television in Paris, a national sport with the weird quirk of allowing the winner to debase the loser, plunging his hand down the pants of the vanquished and goosing him. Chatter about Linda Evangelista leaving her mate, David Geffen being the equivalent of an eighteen-year-old socially, having only recently come out, and a troublesome question: "What do you breeders do in bed anyway?"

A party at The Spot after Kenny Scharf's opening at Hokin Gallery, hosted by Ocean Drive magazine, Scharf getting off a great line: "This is awful -- all my friends are here." A brief tour of the club's new decor scheme, then over to Warsaw, taking in a show featuring a guy dressed as the Eveready bunny. The bunny walking across the stage, and disappointedly enough, doing nothing of a sexual nature.

Desperate, heading down to Key West for the evening. Barefoot pilots at the airport, lending a little local color: "God, my liver think's my throat's been cut -- it's way past cocktail time." "Pervert row" at Rum Runner's, men lining up to suckle on the dancers' bellies, going off to booths for private dancing sessions -- ugly sex without artistic pretense. Club One, a picture of a lion sodomizing a young god, patrons singing along to "My Funny Valentine" at another gay bar. Tapped out at the end of the rainbow, but renewed again with a great bar story about Peter Allen's last days, as he lay dying of AIDS in Los Angeles: New York socialite Judy Peabody flying out to nurse him, but eventually, the sight of her solicitous face becoming too much to bear. Allen looking up, muttering, "Enough already," and dying shortly afterward. A rather instructive bravery, facing the end of the social whirl, the beginning of the ultimate long night.

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