You're not one of those Half Naked Go-Go Boy Fags...

...but you do like your Cher of attention. Especially after a few cocktails. But first things first because you're getting ahead of yourself. Last night you had a quiet evening planned with the Ex's Cousin, but when she cancelled you decided it might be good to do a little extra work. And when you say "a little" you really mean "a little," because moments after the cancellation your BFF calls to inform you that tonight is the monthly Ski Fags Party at Therapy and they're having a 2-4-1 Happy Hour till 8pm. If you hurry you'll be able to get in a few cheap rounds, so of course, you hurry. Since you don't want to schlep your laptop bag uptown, you decide to leave it at your Writing Space. You briefly think about shoving everything into your minuscule locker, but that will take more skill and patience than fitting enough cute Fire Island weekend outfits into your carry-on luggage (not to mention the fact that every minute wasted is cutting into your Happy Hour), so you just leave your laptop chained to the desk with a Kensington lock and tell yourself you'll pick it up on your way home.

The Ski Bums party is super cute and you know a lot of friends there. Unfortunately you tend to do more gay drinking than gay skiing, but let's face it, while equally fun, gay drinking is a much less expensive sport (not to mention the fact that the outfits are much more revealing.) So you enjoy your 2-4-1's, and, since you're drinking on an empty stomach, your right hand turns out to be a pretty cheap date. Eventually the Bartender gives you the bad news that Happy Hour is over, but then he quickly points out that $3 Draft night has just begun. The Silver Lining! So you order a Stella as you try to conjure up that Ancient Chinese Proverb, "Beer before liquor? Liquor before beer?" but you can't remember how it goes so you hope that your liver can't either.

Eventually, the Ski Bums with real jobs slowly begin to dissipate, and the replacement crowd is not really doing it for you. Your BFF suggests taking a trip downtown to XES, where the drinks are cheap and the boys are cheaper. You know your BFF only likes the place because it's around the corner from his apartment, but you agree to go because it's very close to your Writing Space so it'll be easy to pick up your laptop after another round. Or three.

You know you're drunk when you offer to pay for a taxi downtown, but you're having a good time so it's all good. It's definitely slim pickings at XES when you stumble in and are accosted, almost instantaneously, by a Drag Queen who introduces herself as Mimi Imfurst. She's recruiting for a little strip contest she refers to as "Ass Circus" where boys strip to their underwear and the crowd applauds their favorite ass. Your BFF cackles and then offers to buy you a drink if you enter. Although you are the type of fag that would do anything for a drink, this particular trade definitely seems like a Lose-Lose situation. That's when Miss Imfurst tells you that she'll also buy you a drink and then sweetens the deal by informing you about the $100 cash prize. You quickly browse the fugly crowd and realize that, indeed, you do have a chance at winning. You did legs and abs at the gym earlier today so your butt is especially perky. You didn't eat dinner so you're stomach can't be that flabby. Plus there's barely anybody in the damn bar to witness the entire humiliating escapade, so you inform Miss Imfurst that you will, indeed, participate.

By the time you reach the stage you are officially hammered, but all is good because the competition isn't that stiff. Actually, it's pretty damn flaccid and you feel like you're a a shoo-in to win the Ass Circus. A Skinny Boy with the Chest of a Seven Year Old Girl begins the strip show, and you're pleased as punch while the Bean Pole dances around in his saggy panties. Afterwards Miss Imfurst tells him that he must now show his ass to the crowd. You are suddenly horrified and consider pulling out of the contest all together because this was not part of the job description! But before you get a chance to protest, the Bean Pole happily moons the crowd with his prepubescent ass and Miss Imfurst yanks you up on stage.

Mimi Imfurst asks a few simple questions: "What's your name?" "Where are you from?" and "What do you do for a living?" But you're totally having a wide-eyed "Cindy Brady/Baton Rouge" stage fright moment, so you just stutter or possibly slur your way through your lame one word answers. Luckily that's when the DJ begins to play Rhianna which immediately loosens you up. You decide it's best to take your time, ease into the song. Nobody likes a rushed striptease. Besides, you've seen Gypsy and remember Mama Rose's advice: "Make 'em beg for more. And then don't give it to them!" You decide to start with your shirt which comes off easily and you turn around and shake your ass for the crowd as you attempt to slip your shoes off. Unfortunately one of your Nikes goes flying off stage and hits Bean Pole's belly button. Bean Pole gives you the Evil Eye and begins to campaign against you as you mouth the words, "I'm sorry." But the show must go on so you begin to unbutton your jeans. The crowd seems pleased until you get all tangled up in them and end up tripping onto the stage floor. Eventually all the clothes come off except for your new Diesel briefs (50% off at the Union Square location BTW) and the DJ abruptly stops the song, even though he's ironically playing, "Don't Stop the Music." So you just stand there in your skivvies, humiliated, while Miss Imfurst instructs you to turn around, pull your underwear down, and shake your grove thing for the crowd. You do as you're told but you're not at all happy about it. Your BFF is both laughing as well as applauding, but you definitely expected more applause. Way more. Could the Bean Pole be cuter than you? Oy vey. You're premiere striptease number is bad in a pathetic Showgirls kind of way.

A few more contestants compete but you're too humiliated to pay attention. And Miss Imfurst won't let you get dressed till the end of the damn show, so you just sip your cocktail as naturally as you can, even though you're not wearing anything but your skimpy little Diesel underwear, in a fucking bar. After the final contestant humiliates himself, the crowd ends up voting by applause and you can actually hear the crickets chirping when Miss Imfurst instructs the crowd to clap if they want you to win. The good news is that now you can get dressed, go home, and blackout this entire experience. Which you do, immediately.

God knows what time it is when you stumble up the six-flights of your walk-up and pour yourself into the hovel you call Home Sweet Homo. You flip on the lights and start rummaging noisily through the fridge because you still haven't eaten any dinner, but you're shocked when you realize that you've woken up your Hobosexual roommate. For some unknown reason he is sleeping on the living room couch. You slur an apology and ask him why he's not sleeping in his bed, to which he shudders, "Bedbugs." Needless to say, you instantly lose your appetite.

The next morning you are woken up by an early morning, completely inconsiderate 11am phone call. Caller ID informs you that it's coming from your Writing Space (which is odd) but you let it go to voicemail because you're embarrassed that your raspy morning voice will definitely give away the fact that you're way too hungover for a workday. But you're even way too hungover to listen to the voicemail which says, "Did you by chance leave your laptop in the Writing Space last night? Because we had a break in and several computers were stolen. The police are here now so give us a call when you get this." Anyway.