In keeping with the sex theme, all of us stray dogs entering the ecosystem bubble that is Bar None. Well-managed, efficient, and blissfully kid-free, the VIP room equipped with various playboys, a financier extolled in tones of hush reverence ("Big as they get A the Revlon insider trading deal") and the reassuring Rita Schrager of the Delano: "Don't worry -- the hotel will be great."
Amid the rabid heterosexuality, the eye of the orgy, a fortyish "doorman emeritus," wit, and downtown scholar sharing some homoerotic tales. If you have something vulgar to say, do come and sit by us. A philosophical debate beforehand, both of us agreeing that the form, content, and length of this weekly spewing of filth makes for perfect toilet reading. Bless his soul, our faithful reader suddenly seguing into a perfect sound bite: "So there I was, rimming and blowing this guy, sending him off into a better day. I was an artist that night, the Toscanini of cocksucking. Afterward, just for something to say, I asked him how old he was. When he told me 39, his dick fell right out of my mouth, I was so shocked."
In tune with the cruel-youth-rules culture of the district, lambasting number-one fan for ministrating to the ancient, the diatribe drifting into a cold epiphany of the throwing-stones-at-glass-houses variety. After all we're a hard 39, no spring chicken, obscenely grateful for whatever comfort the night might bring.
Dead heat on the social merry-go-ground drawing to a boffo finish on Saturday, a truly American -- and better yet -- a truly Miami evening on the town. Beaming into the glory days of the Eighties with party designer Barton G. at his Sunset Island home, a time warp of money and glitz, the new Sun King -- along with Suzanne P., Nanci Ross, Bobby Alpert -- throwing a grand 39th birthday party. Guests entering the back yard underneath the crotch of an enormous drag sculpture, male legs in heels, a stage and dinner tables set before the tennis court for a cross-cultural jukebox. A chanteuse singing "Night and Day" accompanied by a revue of topless showgirls, the show sliding into a drag queen number, and a slick video bio of the birthday boy, featuring friends, fans, and past triumphs. Mr. G. affable enough about our bar mitzvah analogies, being called to the Torah of glamour. From there an array of go-go dancers climbing up on platforms, the males looking like something out of a Herb Ritts mechanics-can-be-hunky layout, society DJ Mark Leventhal working a wildly divergent crowd: Charlie Cinnamon, Roz Richter, and Louis Canales, among others. Always the perfect guest, bellying up at the fresh salmon display -- don't mind if we do -- and invading the upstairs bedroom, madly waving at the minions below like a demented Jay Gatsby. Truly, it's a great country, this free-for-all of excess, insanity, and pure possibility.