I wasn’t sure I’d make it to two parties, much less a thousand. I just dove in and kept swimming. My head went under few times, but I was able to struggle back to the surface and forge on.
One stroke at a time.
I’ve always hosted in my own apartments and have had them in four different spaces: Perry Street (’09-’11), East 7th (’11-’13), West 30th (’13-’15), and now West 37th Street. I’ve had a few run-ins and close calls, but nothing that wasn’t fixable. Who can really complain about such discreet guys?
Looking back, there are some experiences that really stand out.
Back in 2010, one party changed a guy’s life. T, a semi-regular, was in the sling. My friend Art (picture a 70-year-old Kramer) said to me, “There’s a fat guy who’s gonna break the sling.” I looked around the curtain to see T, hurriedly and in mid air, getting out of the sling. While looking at me. I felt so badly for him, but I just drew the curtain and whispered to Art, “Dude! He heard you!”
T wasn’t even that overweight, either, but maybe six or seven months later, he came to another party…and he was built like a dude who’d been a regular gym-goer for years. Shaved his head, shaved the beard; he even walked differently and had a (rather obvious) new confidence. I actually removed him from my list after a few more parties, because he became a bit too confident for the vibe I look for; he eventually asked, so I told him, and he was very cool about it. He became a nice guy again.
Six years on, he came to a party recently and he still looks great. It’s always good to see T.
A and D met at the 2010 New Year’s Eve party on Perry Street, and have been living together ever since. I think they’re married.
The night I first used the fog machine also happened to be the night of the fire alarm. This was also on Perry.
During the party, while on my way to the back room to check on things, I did a double take: there was a small fire set to the bathroom wall! So I knocked the candle into the sink and put the fire out. No biggie, but just as I was happy that the fire alarm didn’t go off, it did.
Now I’m thinking the guy upstairs, whom I used to call “Mr. Roper” because he was so nosy, is going to come investigate.
I ran to get a pair of shorts, bolted out the door, and went to the basement to retrieve the ladder leaning against the wall around the corner.
Only the ladder wasn’t leaning against the wall around the corner. At that moment, I thought, OK Scott, this is where you prove whether you can handle these parties. Flashlight in hand, I quickly found the ladder and returned to the apartment with it, hoping I wouldn’t run in to Mr. Roper.
Upon opening the door, the first thing I saw was a group of guys hovering around the smoke machine, pressing buttons, thinking it was the cause of the fire alarm.
I was able to shut the alarm off without any neighbors knocking on my door.
I’ve had three instances where someone did too much of whatever drug they were taking. Likely meth, but one of them told me it was Special K.
My parties are very relaxed, and if someone’s smoked a joint, I don’t care. But alcohol and hard drugs can lead to a scene. Most guys can handle themselves, but on these three occasions…
First one was New Year’s Eve ’09. Awesome party. One hot guy whom I’d fucked took too much of something. He was the last guy and it must’ve taken forty-five minutes for me to get his clothes on. He’d be standing up straight, then slowly tilt to one side. When we finally got him to the door, I realized that I couldn’t let this guy out on the street. So I let him crash.
The second time was at West 30th. This guy had been to a bunch of parties and I knew that he was on meth, but I don’t care as long as guys can handle themselves. This particular night, he couldn’t. Again, it took a long time to get his clothes on. He kept taking them back off; he even took a pillow sheet and kept trying to put it on. Kept yelping and contorting himself like Lorraine Newman from Saturday Night Live. I let this guy leave, but I watched him. As soon as he got out my door and on to the sidewalk, he appeared to immediately sober up. He walked a straight line, no indication he was high.
The third time was the second party at my current space. This guy was the worst of the three, because he just couldn’t stop yelping and howling, and thrashing himself about. With the help of one of the remaining guys, we managed to get some clothes on him, but he kept taking them off. I realized he had to ride it out, so the last guy left and I proceeded to clean up. Then I watched TV, all while he did his yelping thing. He’d pass out in a contorted position, then wake up five minutes later to continue the show. I kept telling him I’d have to call for an ambulance if he couldn’t keep it down. He’d yelp, then put his fingers over his mouth and look at me, to tell me he was sorry for being loud. Which was cute. When I came out of it, maybe two hours later, he was totally fine.
But considering the many thousands of men who’ve attended, three is indicative of how well behaved and discreet my guys are.
I once fractured my pinky finger while putting up the sling. Fell on it. It was shaped like a lighting bolt! My cat (funnily named Pinky) tried to protect me from whatever was happening. All I wanted to do was drink water. I became insanely thirsty from shock. I had the party, anyway, keeping ice on it. Finally got to St. Luke’s Roosevelt at around 12:30AM. I enjoyed telling the cute, straight doctor how I fractured it.
I’ve had other such party emergencies as a clogged toilet, two locked bathroom doors, a mouse, a broken (new) laptop, guy fall down the stairs, couple of guys fall from too much poppers (one put his head through my wall), neighbor scream at me, food delivery guy actually come in, a superintendent try to come in to see what was going on (the look on his face when I said it was a bunch of guys fucking), guys threaten me, apartment door come off its hinges, a broken mirror, and a few broken bottles. I think that’s pretty much it.
I always keep my toothbrush and toothpaste hidden somewhere. There’s the guy who might get a weird thrill out of putting it up his ass, knowing I’d be using it. No thanks. If I’m going to do that, I want to know about it first.
The only things I’ve had stolen from me have been the incense holder, a small package of Q-tips, and hand soap. Nothing has gone missing from any guys’ bags (which is one reason why I don’t play: I need to keep my attention on those bags of clothes and wallets and cell phones and laptops…). One guy said he was missing a belt, but his bag was right above my head, on a shelf, the whole time he was there. No one had access.
Fortunately, no fist fights or worse. I have no one working for me, so no drama.
I know that the guys who have the most fun, invariably are the most fun. They bring it, instead of expect it to be brought to them.
I know that nothing is a given.
I know that there are boons and dry spells, and that it’s important to stay above water and keep swimming.
I know that theme parties may interest guys, but they likely won’t get to that party until they hear about how it went…
…unless it’s a free party. I know that guys love free parties.
I know that summers bring out more guys than winters.
I know that most guys clean up after themselves (well, the guys I invite), but there’s always one guy who drops his condoms.
I know that, when in their own apartment buildings, most New Yorkers keep to themselves. Same with landlords, as long as the rent is paid.
I know that gay men listen to a lot more than just House music.
I usually know what guys are going to do, before they do it.
But I don’t know how many guys are going to come.
Regardless of what I know and don’t know about parties, all of those who’ve attended have been angels. They’ve each contributed to my years-long trip of hosting orgies. And I really appreciate each and every one of you.
So come celebrate our 1,000th party on Tuesday, February 16th. Thanks guys.
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The Örgy Guy