More Delayed Reaction

Arriving at JFK I'd arranged for us to be picked up by a friend (another lovely surprise for The Boyf), and because I was so ill he whisked us back to his home in Westchester rather than us heading to the hotel I'd booked. Once there he and his partner cooked us a wonderful meal and generally pampered us, and then at some point very early on I was told to go to bed and rest whilst The Boyf stayed up to into the wee hours talking and drinking.

On Saturday morning our friends drove us back into NY and to our hotel, and then we decided to try to go for a little walk. It was as much as I could manage just to stand up, but dragged sorry ass along regardless. Neither of us had been up the Empire State Building, and it's one of those things that tourists have to do, by pain of death. Mind you, I've been to San Francisco twice now and still haven't been to Alcatraz. Anyway, we bought queue-jump tickets and headed up, and I have to say that it was well worth it. The weather was lovely, although it was rather windy up the top (as I assume it always is pretty much), and it helped to blow the cobwebs out of my head, albeit only for 10 minutes. After that I managed to stumble up to Times Square and then on to Central Park, where we had a nice rest in the sunshine. After that I needed a rest and wanted to head back to the hotel for a sleep in preparation for the Black Party, which I really wasn’t looking forward to.

On the way back to the hotel we passed the Abercrombie & Fitch shop, and being uncontrollably gay we were drawn inside. What hilarity! We've not long had Abercrombie & Fitch in the UK and The Boyf and I have never ventured in. The NY shop was dark - the house music was doing the old thumpa-thumpa at a ridiculous volume, and the assistants were dancing. For a little while I actually forgot how ill I felt as the rhythm caught me and dragged me around the shop, giggling. I phoned The Drag Queen back in Blighty.

"Where on Earth are you? Are you in a club already?"

"No, we're in Abercrombie & Fitch and I think some drugs I took a while back are coming back up"

"Huh? I can't really hear you. What club did you say it was?"

(Shouting) "Abercrombie & Fitch"

"They've opened a club now?"

(Shouting) "Apparently. And they're trying to flog clothes while you dance"

"I'm gonna go - I can't hear you over the top of that wailing diva"

That really did sap the last of my strength so we went back to the hotel and I had a fitful 4 hour sleep before lumbering out of bed and getting ready for big night out.

We arrived at the Black Party at an unseasonal 10.30pm, thinking that we wanted to scope the Roseland Ballroom out, having never been there before. Plus The Boyf likes to watch people arrive and see the night build. The cloakroom was a paragon of efficiency, I have to say. Way better than the clubs in England, but then we don't really have any dance parties of that size, although of course we have so much choice every weekend which NY doesn’t have any more.

So, what do you want to know about the Black Party? Well, the men were gorgeous! It was so nice to go out and see fresh faces (to us at least), and some of them were stunning. I utterly fell in love with a Middle-Eastern gentleman and couldn't take my eyes off him. Elsewhere some sexy guy was being spray-painted on a pool table (not sure why), and upstairs someone was being hung by hooks through his back. Not the kind of thing I like to see when out clubbing, but hey-ho. As for the music, I didn't actually hear any. There did seem to be incredibly loud construction work going on somewhere in the building though, and people were dancing to the rhythm of it. Well, shuffling from one foot to another anyway.

Everyone was giving me a wide berth, and when I caught sight of myself in a mirror I wasn't surprised. I really did look awful. Actually I looked like a junkie who'd just been on a month-long bender of alcohol and drugs. Little did they know that the only drug in my system was Tylenol.
We bumped into a group of guys we knew from London and ended up dancing with them. I mean, you don't go somewhere foreign to mix with the locals! I jest of course, it was just that I couldn't hear myself think over the metallic banging noise (with the odd diva-scream vocal, or some guy repeating "I wanna fuck you") which seemed to be in perfect time to be throbbing headache. I did manage a few words with a very sexy guy from Chicago, but then his boyfriend gave me a fearful look and dragged him away. No doubt he'd seen the Infected in "I Am Legend" and recognised my look.

Early on I'd noticed a medical tent upstairs, and by 6am was having trouble standing so thought I'd pop up and maybe have a sit on a bed for a bit. When I got there the place was packed. "Christ", I thought, "lots of people aren't feeling well". I pushed my way inside and that's when I realised the examinations being performed were of a completely non-medical kind. I'd wandered into an orgy. Needless to say I really wasn't in the mood, and it made up my mind that I should call it a day, leaving The Boyf to enjoy the revelry.

Our Sunday was largely spent in bed. The Boyf had over-done it at the Black Party and felt awful. I just felt dreadful, so we stayed in the hotel for most of the day, only venturing out for food and some fresh air, before returning and sleeping until Monday when we had to get up for an early flight.

And that was our Black Party. For me a total loss, but at least The Boyf enjoyed himself (the tales he's told me since would make a whore blush).
Oh well, there's always next year...