Drinking with the Stars

An exciting new addition to the Gayborhood scene a few months back was the Walnut Street Supper Club. Taking the place of a dated Italian restaurant, there”s a certain allure to a new restaurant that actually pays those hopeless theatre fags to sing as well as serve food.

There’s a certain allure to a new restaurant that actually pays those hopeless theatre fags to sing as well as serve food.

About a month after its opening, I joined Philly Homo T and a group of his friends to try it out. We had a good time, but the large party was seated in the upper balcony with limited view of the stage and cute boys adorning it. The service was good and the food was as well, though overpriced. And I nearly proposed to the busboy serving our table that night.

Afterwords, PHT and I agreed we might try it again at some point, but we were a bit more taken by the 20% off Happy Hour advertised on the sign outside, which brings us to today”s story.

A few weeks later, PHT and I decided to try out Happy Hour at the Supper Club. When we arrived, the bar was crowded, but our friendly bartender Amber assured us they were a large party waiting to be seated, and the bar would empty out shortly. Sure enough it did, and we took seats at the bar.

We gave the cocktail menu a thorough once over and ordered some of the star-studded elixers they have on offer. I had a go with a few Marilyn Monroes, while PHT was filled up with Dean Martins and the Rat Pack. We also ordered some snacks, including the mushroom ensemble we”d ordered during our previous excursion, because what happy hour is complete without an ensemble of mushrooms and risotto?

..because what happy hour is complete without an ensemble of mushrooms and risotto?

We had a great time, chatting with the seemingly bored Amber and her sexy colleagues, Jeremiah and Nathan, who seemed to visit the nearly-empty bar quite regularly during our stay. Needless to say, in our progressively more silly state, PHT and I were quite taken by the boys. Unfortunately, we weren’t taken to either of their apartments after work.

Fast forward three hours. Yes. Three hours. As we browsed through our iPhones, showing each other old pictures of ourselves, we realized it was after 9pm. So much for happy hour. We killed an entire evening in a restaurant bar– a notable accomplishment. I”m sure Amber was impressed. Having spent over $100 already, we paid and headed back to my apartment, but not before we took a moment to photograph each other posing in the restaurant”s entry. I”m sure we were the subject of conversation amongst the staff after we left.

I mixed us a few more cocktails and the night continued onward. So much for a little happy hour.

Editors Note: The preceding account took place on a Thursday evening, and we were both hungover as hell the next day for work.

Oh shit…it’s Osher

Sunday Out is famous for booths no one really wants to go to, run-ins with gays you don”t care to see, boys you”ve boned, crappy booze that allegedly benefits gay non-profit organizations, literature you don”t need, a lack of clean restrooms….and of course performances from citizens of this year”s “country of the year,” Israel.

Granted, the booze booth we found was considerably better than your usual run-of-the-mill gay event shitshow alc tent. It at least had brands of alcohol somewhere between well and middle shelf. Hell, let”s admit it: Stoli in a plastic cup at the Piazza is better than Banker”s Club in a pint glass at Woody’s.

But I digress. The talent at this year”s Sunday Out left something to be desired, and call me crazy but I prefer my drag queens to at least attempt to look feminine. Or be funny. Or have a decent karaoke voice. Or be able to dance. At the very least, be able to get through one song in a pair of sensible heels. Preferably all of the above, but I realize that”s a lot to ask in Philadelphia.

Oh, Osher. You’re Kosher, but not quite. Just like you’re a drag queen, but not quite. I don”t want to sound like the type of queens I despise, but


If you”re going to skip wearing tits, a wig AND HEELS, you better have a hell of a lot to make up for it or else you”re just a man in a dress. Speaking of which…that dress. Honey. Yellow is not the color to compliment your furry olive skin and skin-tight is not your size.

Don”t get me wrong, I would have forgiven all of this…yes, ALL of this…if you”d had the vocal talent to justify the hype. But I had the chance to see you perform twice – once at Tabu and then on the stage at Sunday Out – and both performances fell flat. As flat as the flats you probably should have worn instead of the shoes you ditched mid-song in the Piazza.

Of course in that case I”d be writing about your poor shoe choices, but again – I digress.

Allow me to quote you, the one and only Osher of Isreal, as part of my closing:

“Oh, you people are so nice! In my country, they don”t tip the drag queens!”

And now we all know why.

Before I throw you completely under the bus, I must say that the DJ you brought with you is a complete delight and I”ve spent each evening since pleasuring myself while blasting a techno remix of Hava Nagila and devouring jar after jar of gefilte fish.

Mazel tov!

Avoiding a Guest Role on Unsolved Mysteries and/or To Catch a Predator

Here’s a carefully crafted list of scenarios to avoid when heading out for that midnight romp. Kids, please don”t try this at home.

  • Entering through dimly-lit back gates of someone”s home.
  • Having a rendezvous in a pool house.
  • Letting yourself into a strange home to find your mate ready and waiting.
  • Going down on someone on the side of a high school football field during a regional band event.
  • Meeting a sexy stranger on the street and following him into a dark alley to fool around.
  • Picking up a guy you met online at his mother”s house.
  • Having sex in the back of your car, parked in a high school parking lot.
  • Meeting a boy in the woods behind a park to play on top of a boulder.
  • Tag-teaming a bottom at the bath house with four of your friends.
  • Continuing to tag-team the same bottom at your apartment for the rest of the night.

 Editor”s Note: Yes.. I’ve done all of these.

On Hiring a Houseboy

Houseboys are the quintessential decorative touch for any gay household. Most often, these domestic demigods are depicted as being accessible to only the most affluent of gays. While I’ve always been intrigued by the concept, I never really thought I’d be able to secure one for myself, at least not in the near term. But it’s easier than you’d expect.

Several months back, I checked out houseboy.com, just for kicks. The results were less than stellar. The site is mainly a ploy to pay for their service, the selection is limited (although tantalizing) and the majority are quite a distance away and want some serious financial compensation.

I recently mused about having a houseboy again as I stared at a pile of unwashed dishes in my sink and, on a whim, posted a quick ad with my old friend, Craigslist.

Much to my surprise, within the hour I received a few responses.

The clear winner was a strapping 20-year-old, who wrote succinctly and attached some enticing photos of himself. When he revealed his face, things got even more exciting. Suspecting fraud, I continued to interact with him about potential times when we could meet and have his first interview. As it turned out, he was available the very same evening. We set a time. I cautiously broached the topic of compensation as we continued to converse. To my surprise, he wanted nothing in return. Win.

I was still suspicious. I mean, this was a bit of a nefarious position I was hiring for, so I wasn’t expecting the brightest minds of Philadelphia to come rolling up to my doorstep, especially with no compensation. But he did. He had given me his number earlier in the day and kept me abreast of his whereabouts before his arrival. He arrived on time, and sure enough, he was the very same boy whose pictures I’d seen hours earlier. I let him in and sat him on the couch.

This is where things broke down a bit. Having never hired a.. domestic assistant.. before, I wasn’t really prepared to conduct the interview. I somewhat awkwardly sat on the chair next to the sofa and rattled off a few questions about where he goes to school, what he was studying and why on earth he was in my apartment volunteering to clean it for me. He was clearly nervous, but appeared to be intelligent and genuine.

After asking a few more questions about timing and frequency, I ran out of things to ask. So I went for it. “Well.. um.. I guess.. why don’t you show me your body?” It was a bit tense. We both knew it was coming– it’s part of the job, but it just sounds weird coming out. However, at my command, he stood up, removed his shirt and pants and displayed his body to me. That was too easy. I was hooked.

He sat back down and we talked a bit more. I got a bit more specific as I asked him about what he would and wouldn’t be willing to do. Serve drinks to my friends. Check. Wash the dishes. Check. Do my laundry. Check. He was extremely accommodating, so I led him to my bedroom to see how things would go in a different context. We stood by my bedside, where I touched his body. He didn’t protest. I began to remove his underwear, and he asked me, “So does this mean I get the position?” I said yes, and put him to work.

The Awkward Moment When: You Accidentally See Your Friend’s Cock

It happened rather quickly and the details are a bit of a blur.

We were joking around on the couch as usual, and our phones came out. Time for a quick check of Grindr and Scruff.

“Look at this cutie I”ve been talking to,” he said, handing me to phone to more closely examine the scantily clad stud that adorned his iPhone”s screen.

“Mmmm.” I purred, as I scrolled back through the pictures. What a tasty guy, I thought.

Then it happened. I hit the back button to see if there were any more. I saw the series of photos from the guy on the left. I scrolled up a but more to see what else there was.

Oh, and there was more.

Except it was on the right, you know, where the messages from the phone”s owner go.

“Oh god.. that’s.. that”s.. “

“Yes, that”s my cock.”

Cue awkward silence. And giggle.