On a typical Saturday night of bar-hopping in New York City, a friend’s birthday brought a few buddies and I to Evolve. Formerly know as O.W. or Oscar Wilde bar, Evolve is located on the Upper East Side, a section of Manhattan which is rarely gay and rarely frequented, a least by us.

“Oh my God, look at that go-go boy,” a friend exclaimed.

“Hideous!”

“He’s so ... old.”

“And just not cute.”

“Is he flexing his pecs to the beat?!”

“EWWWWW!” we all chorused. We couldn’t stop looking at the train wreck on the make-shift stage.

"He’s really not a go-go BOY," I pointed out.

My friends jumped in with, “Go-go man?”

“Go-go guy?”

“Go-go home.”

We soon did, or at least off to another bar, but I left wondering: are we too judgmental?

It reminded me of the night in January when Martinifun and I went out in Miami before leaving on the gay cruise the next morning. We went to Twist, one of the larger and more popular gay bars in South Beach. One room in the back was full of rotating go-go’s who may or may not have done a little more than dance, if the right amount of cash were offered. But as we looked at them, we couldn’t believe anyone would pay them for private time. There wasn't one we found attractive. We reached that agreement just as a host announced over a microphone: "Welcome to Twist! Hope you’re enjoying the dancers - we got some of the hottest guys in the United States!”

We gave each other wide-eyed looks, and gulped our margaritas.

Back in New York, a new gay bar opened in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Have you been to Bartini?” asked GarrettJuice, as we sipped grape vodka at The Ritz.

“That’s that name of it?” I exclaimed with disgust. “Awful!”

“It’s a cute space,” he replied. “It’s the crowd that’s the problem.”

“Not cute?” I asked.

“Oh they’re all cute,” he replied. “They’re just all bottoms. I look around the room like Cute? Bottom. Cute? Bottom. Cute? Bottom. It's Bottomtini.”

I slammed my empty glass on the table. “We’re going immediately.”

Bartini did turn out to be a cute space, and on a Saturday night was indeed filled with lots of cute boys. We stood at the bar, looking around.

“That bartender is hot,” GarrettJuice said. “Do you think he's good in bed?”

“No,” I replied after watching him for a moment. “See how he shakes that martini?”

“Lazy?” Garrett observed, as the bartender listlessly waved the shaker back and forth.

“Exactly. He's lazy in bed.”

“Probably just lays there,” added Madambien.

Just then, one of their friends who was visiting from out of town walked up.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. We explained our theory about the bartender.

“Y’all are crazy!” he exclaimed. “That bartender is hot, and I bet he’s great in bed. You New Yorkers - y’all are just too judgmental!”

“Shut up,” replied Madambien, “you’re crazy!”

“Yeah,” added Garrett, “You’re from the South, you don’t know anything!”

I just shrugged.

I bumped into The Sexican at a house party in Chelsea, and as we sipped our cocktails the conversation immediately turned to our dating lives.

“Oh just the other night I met this really hot guy,” he was telling me. “We met at a bar, and he bought me a drink, then I bought him one... we were talking, flirting, touching - it was going really well!”

“Mmmm hmmm,” I prompted, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“And he was hot - soooo hot. Just SEXY.”

“So?”

“So, we finish our drinks, and we go outside, and he has a motorcycle! Sexy!”

I laughed a little, but nodded in agreement.

“And THEN,” the Sexican says, dramatically holding his drink in the air, “he gives me his CARD.”

“What!?” I exclaimed.

“I know.”

“His business card??”

“I KNOW.”

“A guy with a motorcycle shouldn’t even HAVE a card!”

“I KNOW!” He took a huge gulp of his vodka. “I wasted all night on this guy! I was sure I was getting laid! And he gives me his card!?”

“I guess that’s one of the risks of meeting a stranger in a bar,” I said. “You just don’t know what they’re thinking.”

“There’s a lot about them you don’t know,” he replied.

Really, he was right. It reminded me of a conversation I’d had months earlier, when MuppetDinnerTheater and I decided to go out for a cocktail, and for some reason chose Cleo’s. Now officially named Ninth Avenue Saloon, Cleo’s was the first gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen, established years before HK became gay and trendy. And in 20 years, nothing has changed except the removal of “Cleo’s” from the sign, leaving just Ninth Avenue Saloon. The decor, the bartenders and the crowd are all exactly the same. No one knows what happened to Cleo.

MuppetDinnerTheater and I took two stools at the dark bar, ignored the toothless old men eyeing us from either side, and ordered two drinks.

“Why did we come here again?” I asked.

“Because the drinks are cheap, and strong,” he replied.

“Cheers.”

He was right, on both counts. But after a few sips, I couldn’t help looking around. We brought the average age down to about 57. He saw the look of distaste on my face as I scanned the crowd.

“It’s not so bad,” he said.

“C’mon, you could never meet anyone here,” I replied.

“Oh, I have.”

I waited.

“The last time I was here I was flirting with this guy. He was sitting right here when I came in!” MuppetDinnerTheater said, then started to laugh.

“And?”

“And he was cute...” he went on, “and he was buying me drinks...”

“And?” I asked again.

He started laughing, hard, knowing the absurdity of what he was about to tell me. “And he only had one leg.”

“What?!”

“I mean, he was cute...from the waist up.”

“Did he have a peg-leg? Was he a pirate?” I asked, now also laughing.

“No! Well, not exactly...”

“Oh my God. Did you sleep with the Peg-Leg Pirate?!”

MuppetDinnerTheater shot me a dirty look. I’m still not sure if that signified a yes or a no.

Either way, for quite a while that topped the list of my friends’ Crazy Guys I Met In A Bar stories. Until last week.

I was having Thai food in Chelsea with two friends, one of whom lives outside the city and always drives in. I’m always fascinated by people who drive their cars around Manhattan, as the concept is so foreign to me. We were discussing sex of course, and the topic of older men came up. AutHoMobile jumped in with a story.

“I just met this older guy at a bar the other night,” he told us. “He was 49. Which is definitely older, but not crazy-old.”

We nodded.

“Plus, he was hot. So, I was totally fine, we’re having drinks, things are going great, we decide to leave the bar. So we go to my car, and totally start hooking up. Big time.”

“Big time?” I asked. “In your car?”

“Of course,” said AutHoMobile. “So, things are hot, pants are off, he’s blowing me, and everything is totally great ... until he starts really getting into it and suddenly goes: ‘Oh yeah, finger my tight forty-nine-year-old ass!’”

I almost sprayed vodka soda across the table.

“He did not!!”

“Dead. Serious.”

Five minutes later, when my hysterical laughter subsided, I managed to say, “Wow. From now on I’m only meeting men online, where people are normal.”

Of course we were talking about sex. It was Thanksgiving weekend, which always seems to be a big party weekend for the gays. MartiniFun was visiting from Chicago, and we were out at Therapy with a few friends. No one ever remembers how these conversations start, but we were talking about sleeping with boys, their friends, or friends of their friends.

“Does sleeping with a friend of a friend put you 2 degrees away from sleeping directly with that friend?” I asked.

“I'd be hard pressed to be 2 degrees from any of you,” AuntPharm said.

“Hell, 1 would be rough,” I replied, noticing that I’ve actually slept with most of my friends at some point. “In fact,” I went on, “I could probably go up to any stranger in this bar, and say ‘I've slept with one of your friends.’ And it would probably be true.”

“And how does that make you feel?” AuntPharm asked, laughing.

“Like it’s time to leave New York?” I quipped sarcastically.

But it did get me thinking about how many men I’ve actually slept with in my decade in New York. Was my number too high? Or was I just a typical New York gay?

I was immediately reminded of a conversation that took place, of course, on Fire Island. There, it seems, all conversations are about sex. That night in July I walked into the kitchen was no exception.

“So he was blowing me on the roof of his house,” one of my housemates was saying. “Everything was going was going great until he looked up at me just as I happened to be checking my watch...”

Everyone laughed.

“Do straight guys have this much sex?” TastyCake suddenly asked.

“What guys?”

“Straight-huh?”

“Who cares?”

“No, seriously,” TastyCake went on. “Ok, so there was this hot guy at the gym, and we were cruising each other, and we hooked up in the steam room. And he kinda looked familiar, but I couldn't remember him. So later on that day, I suddenly get a text from him. He knew me, he had my number, and... his number and name were in my phone! Can you believe I didn't remember him!?”

“Hello!” D2 cried, rolling his eyes. “This afternoon you introduced me to someone on the ferry that I slept with 5 years ago, and I just realized it now! I mean, sometimes I see a guy and I'm like, ‘I think I had sex with that person, but I’m not really sure...”

“Well,” TastyCake said, “how many guys have you slept with?”

“Oh, no!” I scolded. “We’re not getting into that game!”

“C’mon,” he replied. “100?”

“Easily,” I admitted.

“Totally.” added D2.

“This month,” chimed in Madambien, as everyone laughed.

TastyCake continued, “I can't wrap my mind around that number. Straight guys would say 5.”

“But,” I replied, “you can’t compare that. Straight guys live in a totally different world.”

Maybe, I realized, that was the key. It isn’t about being a Fire Island gay, or a New York gay – it’s just about being gay. It is a totally different world. But then I wondered, do all gay men live in that world? Or just the men I know?

Earlier this year, I went on a date with a very cute boy that was actually a set-up through a mutual girl friend of ours. He was sweet, smart, and funny – but I could tell right away we were very different people. The dissimilarities started when we were arranging our meeting. He worked very close to Hells Kitchen, so I suggested gay bars where we could meet. Vlada, Barrage, Ritz... He hadn’t heard of any of them. I was shocked. He’d lived in New York for 5 years, he was a gay man... how could he not know any Hells Kitchen gay bars?

Our separation became more evident as we chatted over drinks. We were discussing recent vacations, and he spoke of a camping trip where he’d spent a week in the woods with bears, snakes, and 4 straight girl friends. I spoke of the gay cruise, where I’d spent a week on a boat with bears, twinks, and 3000 gay boy friends.

“Well,” he announced, “we both slept in a cabin!”

I laughed. And then, I asked him point blank the question on my mind. “You’re just not... in the Gay World, are you?”

He smiled. “Not most of the time,” he admitted. “I like the gay world. I do! I just can’t handle it on a daily basis. But when I visit, it’s great fun. It’s like a big costume party! And who doesn’t love a costume party?”

I know I do.

It was a perfect summer Saturday in New York City. I was walking through Hell’s Kitchen with a cute boy, who I’ll call Shirley Temple, as he was an adorable actor who doesn’t drink. We’d just finished an early dinner at Arriba Arriba, and were deciding where the night would take us. I’m not sure if I was craving a second margarita, or if I just wanted to sit outside, but we found ourselves at Blockheads in Worldwide Plaza.

Blockheads had been one of my favorite summer locations for several years, because of the rare combination of outdoor seating and cheap drinks. It was also great for people watching: not only was it in the middle of uber-gay Hells Kitchen, but on one side of Worldwide Plaza is a Bally’s gym, so hot boys wearing gym shorts and tank tops are always walking in and out. Unfortunately, this summer it seemed that the secret of Blockheads had gotten out, and that night, like the last couple times I’d been there, the crowd was looking very straight.

I automatically scanned the area for cute boys, something I normally wouldn’t do while on a date, but we’d been playing a game of “Who Will See The Most People They Know In Hells Kitchen,” and I was determined to win.

I saw a cute-ish boy, who was indeed wearing gym shorts, with a t-shirt and baseball cap. I only looked at him long enough to determine that I didn’t know him, but that apparently was long enough to catch his interest. As we stopped in the middle of the plaza next to the fountain, the boy walked by and continued checked us out. A lot. He was obvious about it, and we both noticed.

"He was totally undressing you with his eyes," said Shirley Temple.

"Ha. Yeah, it was a little much," I agreed.

"And," ST continued, "he’s walking back."

Sure enough the boy had stopped, began talking to a girlfriend, and was now walking back toward us with the girl at his side. Then it got interesting.

He passed us, and as he walked by he began "adjusting" his t-shirt and waistband, such that his shorts "accidentally" slid farther and farther down his ass. He wasn’t wearing underwear. For a good 15 seconds, half his ass was totally exposed, right there in front of Blockheads.

"And now," ST continued deadpan, "he's undressing himself. "

I was dumbfounded. I’ve been flirting with boys a long time, and will admit to getting cruised by some very forward boys in some very interesting places. But flashing your ass in the middle of Worldwide Plaza? Seriously?

"We have to go." I said. "This place is way too straight."

My friend The Photographer and I were walking down Ninth Avenue in SoPA (South of Port Authority) to get dinner at Market Café. Out of the blue, around 39th street, we were stopped. He was a young guy with a cute face and what looked like a nice body.

“Excuse me guys,” he said, with what sounded vaguely like a Russian accent, even though he looked more Israeli, “Can I ask you question?”

We waited, half expecting a plea for money. After all, it was SoPA.

“Can you tell me – where is gay bar?”

I was uncharacteristically speechless. Really? Just like that, no hesitation, or anything?

Photog recovered first, but not really. “He would know,” he said, gesturing toward me. Sell out.

The truth is, I know the Hells Kitchen gay bars in my sleep. I can name them north to south, alphabetically or by drag queen headliner. I was, for some reason, dumbfounded. “Uhhh... Well, there are lots in Hells Kitchen,” I blurted, vaguely gesturing north.

“I need magazine, yes?”

“Uh, yes!” I said. “HX, or Next. You can find them at any bar. The closest one is ... uh...”

Finally, Photog broke in “Ritz?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “Ritz.” In actuality, I was skipping over HK, but that was technically a restaurant, and only a gay dance party on the weekends. And also skipping over Cleo’s, technically called Ninth Avenue Saloon, and always called tragic. “Ritz is on 46th street,” I went on, anxious to recover. “This is 38. Just keep walking up Ninth until 46, and make a right. It says “Ritz” with a blue awning.”

“Forty-six,” he repeated in his ambiguously Russian, sexier-by-the-minute accent. “I see rainbow flag?”

“Uh, no...” I stammered yet again, “No rainbow flag...”

Photog jumped in with “It’s decorated like a ship!” and made gestures with his hands like he was helming a pirate vessel.

I struggled to say something else, but nothing came. What was wrong with me? Where were the obvious lines that should have flown out of my mouth: What’s your name? Where are you from? How long are you in town? And of course: Gay bars are all dead on a Monday, but my apartment is alive and well!

With his typical ambiguous-Russian directness, he took his leave. “Thanks guys,” he said, and headed north.

We were silent for a moment, and then Photog blurted, “What was that?!”

“I have no idea. But I suddenly need some vodka.”