The following is a message from the purveyor of a relatively new party/cruising listing site, called Late Night Cruising NYC, who is a very nice guy and very smart, as well. I hope you'll check it out:
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Wednesday, 12/4/13 4:28 PM
Give it up, do as I say
Give it up and let me have my way
I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck
I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to...
“Erotica,” Madonna ‘92
I live just off 8th Avenue, near Penn Station. This is also where I host the parties.
When Madonna first moved to Manhattan, she lived at Chelsea Star, which is a couple of doors over from me. I often sit on the same Post Office steps, where she once sat looking across the street at Madison Square Garden, knowing that she was seeing her destiny. I told this to my friend, Carlos, who’s lived in this building for a very long time. He remembers her and said, “Not only that, I’d watch her walk in front of the building, find the Puerto Rican with the biggest cock, then take him by the hand and escort him back to her room.”
I like Lady Gaga, I respect Lady Gaga, and I play her music at the parties. But Madonna already invented her. She just won’t have nearly as long a career if she continues to party the way she does. That’s just the way it is.
On July 1, 1988, I spent a day in Manhattan with my friends from Long Island, most of whom had some experience in Manhattan (as well as taking the Long Island Railroad). I had never taken the train and I’d never been in Manhattan, alone. I was 19 years old.
We’d spent the latter part of the day in and around Greenwich Village. We also walked to and from the Lower East Side to meet up with a friend of someone in our group. I was a white boy from Long Island, wearing a tie-dyed Grateful Dead shirt, and likely very wide-eyed. At one point, now in the LES, I remember feeling that we were in a different part of town. Having been staring at the street in front of me for some time, I heard music and people; I raised my head and saw what initially reminded me of the painting shown during the credits of the 70s TV show, Good Times.
Did I say I was a white boy from Long Island?
There were a bunch of black folks hanging around on the street. One tall, thin woman said, “What’re y’all doing in our part of town?” It was a rhetorical question.
Back at Washington Square Park, we sat at the southeast part of the circle. That was around the time I first started smoking weed, but I don’t recall if any of us had any. I do remember a few of my friends inhaling whip-its there.
After Teddy and Christine left to catch a train to see The Ramones at L’amour East, in Brooklyn, I also left the group. I challenged myself to get back to Penn and take the train without help from anyone.
I walked up 8th Avenue through what was soon to become “Gay Chelsea,” but it definitely wasn’t that, yet. Somewhere around 15th Street, I walked past a utilities trailer, out of which walked a young black woman. As naïve as I was, I realized she was a crack whore. She started walking with me, up 8th, asking me if I would like to go back to the trailer for a $5 blowjob. I don’t recall what else we talked about, but after maybe four blocks, I stopped and gave her $5 anyway. I totally was not interested in a blowjob (from her), nor the pimp in the trailer who was likely waiting to hit me over the head and take all my money.
White boy. Long Island.
By about 28th Street, some young, white, grungy looking dude started walking with me and acting weirdly. So I started acting weirdly, too, in an attempt to get him to leave me alone. By the time I got to Penn Station, he peeled away from me.
I was very proud of myself for being able to defend myself from two obviously very sinister city people!
But then I couldn’t find the entrance to Penn. I walked down the subway entrance at the southeast corner of 33rd and 8th, and came upon a Latino couple sitting on the subway turnstile, kissing each other. I asked where Penn Station was, to which the dude replied, “Upstairs.” I said, “But this is where I remember being,” and he ignored me. Back up the stairs, I found my way to Penn, and made my way home. By myself.
I think of this a lot, because I now live so close to Penn, just off 8th Avenue. Every time I walk out of my building and head to 8th, I see in my mind’s eye, my 19-year-old self walking just ahead, trying to get rid of that crazy dude talking to me.
Life is so weird.
Ö Ö Ö
Treasure Island Media shot a scene here, the other day. Max Sohl and crew. They’d actually shot a video at my old Perry Street space in June ’10. That video is called, “SPERM ASSAULT,” and it’s the leading scene (as well as the cover shot).
Since then, guys have said, “I was jerking off to a video and I suddenly realized, Hey, that’s Scott’s place!” It’s very easy to tell because of the bright green walls, the plate glass mirrors placed to look like a grid, and the giant blue grid on the ceiling.
When Max was here for the second shoot, he told me that when he first walked into the Perry apartment, he saw the green walls and thought, Uh-oh...this may not work well. Turned out the green was not only awesome, but it’s a favorite scene among many because of the green walls, and how memorable it is because of the color. Not to mention the actors: Christian and Mr. Marky.
This Treasure Island crew is phenomenal. So professional, so relaxed, so unpretentious, so nice. The first time was superb, but this one was even better.
At Perry Street, they were all in-and-out, in less than two hours. Maybe less than ninety minutes. The set-up and clean-up, the time it took the actors to say Hi and undress, the twenty minutes they actually fucked. I sat on the floor, behind the kitchenette island, with Pinky Dude, my cat. They weren’t my type, so I wasn’t really interested in watching. I think I did a crossword puzzle, occasionally peeking around the corner to see what they were up to.
The guys at this shoot also were not my type (I get off on regular, middle-aged men, with decent bodies), but the scene took a lot longer. That is not to say it was problematic for me; quite the contrary: they were all so cool that I couldn’t have cared less how long it took.
I won’t divulge the identities of the actors, nor the title of the movie, in deference to Max and crew, but I will describe how it went.
First of all, they were precisely on time. The top arrived a few minutes later, but the crew needed time to scope the space and set up, anyway. There was not one iota of drama or anything uncomfortable at all. I’d bought some Snapples and had them set up where they’d be filming. One of my cats went sorta missing – I found him hiding behind a curtain downstairs, before they began shooting.
During the actual shoot, I sat at my “station,” upstairs, working at my computer. I could tell when they were shooting (so to speak!) because that’s when the talking stopped. Even from up here, I heard the oohs, aahs, and kissing sounds.
But then there arose a problem: the bottom couldn’t get all the top’s cock in. His hole was too small!!! It was actually his colon, which was too short...or just somehow blocked.
I always keep enemas in the bathroom, yo.
The top was like, “My dick just gets to a point and it won’t go in any further.”
So one of the crew came up and asked if I had any poppers. I did, of course. But then the bottom started passing out. I think he passed out twice, maybe three times. Damn poppers.
The bottom spent time in the bathroom, while the top put his clothes back on and got some fresh air, outside. When he came back in, I think the bottom went outside for a bit. I sat here and talked to one of the crew (Hi Johnny!), while the top lay on my bed, still with his clothes on, stroking his massive tool to get it hard again. I put on the video from Perry Street, which worked.
All rather surreal. But then so is my life.
Still on my bed, the bottom tried sitting on the top’s cock, a straight route up his ass, in an attempt to open up his hole. I was still sitting here whispering a conversation with Johnny, while Max sat, with his chin resting on his fist, watching the happy couple.
The young bottom, obviously pretty new to all this, was embarrassed at not being able to perform. What he didn’t realize is none of us really cared. That’s the thing about age and experience: we tend to learn that very little is actually about us, as individuals, and that problems tend to get worked out eventually. We just gave him what he needed, then waited patiently.
They went back downstairs and, maybe twenty minutes later, the deed was done. In the sling.
Working with these guys – actually, seeing these guys work – was a real pleasure. Totally cool. If you ever have the opportunity to have the folks at Treasure Island shoot a scene at your space, I highly recommend it.
And those of you who’ve been following me for a while know that I have never before recommended anyone for anything. I never want to be responsible if things go awry, but I can’t imagine that ever happening with Max and the crew at Treasure Island.
Max was kind enough to bring SPERM ASSAULT, the movie shot at the Perry Street space, as well as a bunch of others. So come check ‘em out. I hope to get some promos to give away at an upcoming party.
Ö Ö Ö
This Friday, we’ll be having a NOONER party, in lieu of the regular Friday night party. We haven’t had one in about six months, so we’re due. I don’t usually host them here because the in-and-out traffic is more obvious, in the day, than at night. However, doing one every once in a while should be fine. Like I said in a prior entry, the folks in this building are fabulously true New Yorkers. They get it.
The Örgy Guy