Though S&M may be a rite of Black Party weekend, we weren’t expecting to be hurt—quite literally—by DJ Micky Friedmann last Friday night at Splash. While we were hanging out in the VIP room with a bevy of beautiful boys, Friedmann plowed through and, in a fit of diva-ish pique, tossed aside a heavy wooden table that happened to land right on our foot. He didn’t even stop to apologize, and the memory throbbed all weekend along with our foot, which turned the nicest shade of purple. After the incident we promptly sought ice and a comfy couch, but we’re glad we stayed to watch the excellent aerialists Mantryx perform. Oh, and Micky, we’re ready for any apology anytime you’re ready.
Speaking of injuries, Steven Pevner assured us that no one died at the Black Party on Saturday night, contrary to popular rumor. One reveler did take a nasty spill down the stairs, but received care from the paramedics on the premises. Pevner says another partier got a busted lip and had to go get stitches, but still had such a great time at the party that he sent a bottle of champagne to the Saint-At-Large offices on Monday morning. Now there’s a trooper!
He was just one of thousands who swarmed into the Roseland Ballroom for its 29th event. While we loved the “Dangerous Party for Boys” theme this year, most guys opted for the traditional black leather attire, but there were some fun-dressed boy scouts and gothic drag queens for good measure. As expected, fetish shows spiced things up with hardcore bondage, some unprintable acts and porn star François Sagat (however, the fat woman dressed as a pig getting roasted over the spitfire center stage was a little heavy handed!). We especially loved porn pup Jake Deckard and his crew of sluggers acting out a raunchy locker room scene. We’re going to be more Simon Cowell than Paula Abdul when we talk about the music on the main dance floor—it seemed extra monotonous this year. Many of New York’s legendary DJs made their names by pleasing crowds and themselves, displaying a strong sense of creativity, adventure and risk-taking. These elements were definitely missing this year from the sets by DJs Stephan Grondin, Jonathan Peters and Joe Gauthreaux. And we were also hoping at least by 10am to be hearing some more vocals—but they were few and far between in the 12 hours we were there. The music at Black Party is supposed to be dark, yes, but there are certainly dark, sexy vocals out there (“Love is in the Air” not being one of them). On a more positive note, Guy Smith’s lights easily proved why he’s consistently a top choice for big events. He was the legend of the night.
Earlier that night, queens from around the country descended on The Marriott Marquis Hotel in Times Square for the Imperial Court of New York’s annual Night of A Thousand Gowns. Like a Renaissance fair on a glitter gluttony, the parade of court members decked themselves out in celebration of gowns (half of which seemed designed by Project Runway’s Chris March), headdresses and jewels. The evening mixed elaborate musical numbers, the knighting of gay community members like Lady Bunny, Rollerena and Florent and performances from Ari Gold, France Joli and a hilariously punned musical montage from Chicago (the musical and the band) by cabaret duo Cashino. While the event winded down, the party was just getting started out in the lobby/bar area where queens strutted and posed for pictures with tranny fierceness as tourists rode the glass elevators marveling at the spectacle of these towering beauties.
A three-letter word (H-O-T) would best describe the post-screening party for gay film A Four Letter Word at weekly HK Fridays. Cast, crew and fans were all on hand—including director Casper Andreas, stars Jesse Archer (who co-wrote the script with Andreas) and Charlie David—and there was a lot to celebrate: in addition to its opening night at Clearview Chelsea Cinemas they received a great review in The New York Times. Adding to the night’s excitement were guest DJ Keo Nozari, fabulous hosts Beto Sutter, S(he)quida and Dougie as well as doorman Dean. N
Black Party a Go-Go
Doug Repetti Learns his Lesson While Performing at the Legendary Event
 While not a leather enthusiast, I thought I owed it to myself as a gay New Yorker to experience the Black Party at least once. However, I’m a cheapskate and I didn’t feel like shelling out the big bucks to get in. I came up with a plan: I pretended to be a go-go boy, got myself booked to perform and strapped myself in—literally—for the kinkiest party in town.
Wearing my (ironic?) “Talent” badge and feeling like a star I walked into the makeup and wardrobe room on the big night.
Beautiful men—go-gos, performance artists and porn stars I’d spilled countless buckets watching—shuffled around in various states of undress. Like a baseball team in a locker room before the big game, the atmosphere was one of camaraderie and mutual admiration. There was, in fact, a baseball bat there—only later did I realize what for.
My “vignette” involved a pool table, three hot daddies, some rope and a pair of donkey ears. Like a scene of out of Pinocchio on acid, I was about to learn that Pleasure Island could be a really scary place.
Over the course of the next hour I was verbally humiliated, tied up and blindfolded and found out what “gag reflex” really means. I watched cue sticks and billiard balls go places I never thought they could fit. This was my first Black Party and I was being baptized by fire!
At one point I ripped the blindfold off, then immediately wished I hadn’t when I noticed a handful of people I recognized, including the ex’s close friends. Oh the stories they’ll tell!
Just when I thought I might be traumatized for life, it was over. The audience clapped and I made a hasty exit, disappearing into the faceless crowd of hot men to dance my ass off anonymously.
I had learned a valuable lesson: not everyone can be a pornstar. “What do they have that I don’t,” I’d often wondered. Now I realize it’s what I have that they don’t: fear. N
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