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.”