Arrested Development

TowelBoy tries to meet “age appropriate” gentleman callers, but he usually fails miserably. The timeless Blanche Deveraux once complained: “All the gentlemen out there only want girls in their 20's and 30's! What's an attractive gal in her 40's supposed to do?” Well, I've discovered all the attractive middle-aged homos are only interested in “bois” in their teens and twenties. Apparently, an attractive gentleman of 32 is just screwed. (Or not, unfortunately.) My attempts to meet available thirtysomethings online or at the clubs always fail miserably. I'm too old, or too thin, or too hairy, or too nelly. (I am really starting to feel empathy for Richard Simmons, people.) Oddly, the guys that usually do reciprocate my interest are younger. I would say a lot of the guys I meet are ''college age'', and I'm not talking about Campus Ladies*, either. I profess to be completely aggravated by my inability to meet someone my own age. I pout because I'm stuck with this endless parade of “bois”, and I can't meet anyone with substance or maturity. (Except the long line of would-be-suitors who are old enough to hang out at those city-sponsored “cooling centers” when it's above 80 degrees. Although Patches does rave about them, I think I'll stick to mesh hoochie pants and a ceiling fan.) Poor me: How many Point Park performance majors do I have to have mindless sex with before I can find a mature man to provide comfort and stability?!? Last night, I meet a handsome twentysomething online who shows up on my doorstep with a killer smile and the “Hairspray” DVD. I agreed to watch the movie as a plan of seduction; ironically, I was the one seduced. (Alanis: this was an event contrary to what was intended or expected. The seducer gets seduced. Are you writing this down?) It wasn't my date that had me completely aroused, however. Sadly, embarrassingly, completely contrary to my professed desires...it was Zac Efron that was driving me wild. Oh Linc! I could not keep my eyes off of him. Every time he'd do that little wink thing, I would fall off of the couch. He sang, he danced, he gyrated, and I laid there sweating like Nancy Pelosi during a Botox shortage. I think I had a spontaneous orgasm when he was crooning to the big girl’s picture, and their big-dance finale was just titillating. After the movie was over, I practically devoured my gentleman caller. I latched onto his member like Ryan Philippe on a hooker. We kissed, we coupled, we coalesced. And I pretended the he was Zac Efron the entire time.

I woke up this morning in a cloud of panic & guilt. What had I done? Zac Efron is not age appropriate. He’s not even old enough to have a cocktail. It is legitimate for a man of my age to acknowledge that he's “cute”, or even “handsome”, but what kind of creepy pedophile would imagine him in compromising positions? I began to sweat over thoughts that some sort of vice squad was examining my video rental habits and planning some sort of sting. I imagined myself spending my prime as Twanda Carlisle's cell mate, and then cursed the rest of my natural life, forbidden to roam within a 100 yards of a Disney store. Trying to gather my wits and calm my nerves, I googled “Zac Efron”. Good news: He's 20. Mere weeks away from 21. Zac is a “consenting adult”, and in the eyes of the law (and a lot of hungry queens) he's fair game. I can whack off to carnal thoughts of Zach Efron until I explode without ever ending up on one of those registries. Hell, at least three of the last ten gentleman callers that I've entertained have been younger than Zac Efron. (And all legal, people. I try to verify age in a thousand different ways before I agree to meet someone. Seriously, I've even made a few show me ID. I have no intention of ending up on Dateline.) So I can continue to fantasize about Zac and my other Disney Darling, Jesse McCartney, without a visit from the police.

Speaking of police, they definitely recognize TowelBoy's queenly shriek by now. As I mentioned before, the most interesting part of the book I could write about seven years working at a bathhouse would be all about the times I've dialed 911. Call it Guys Gone Wild or Queens Whipped & Woo-Woo, the last seven years standing behind the front desk has been interesting, to say the least. Let's take a stroll down memory lane, shall we?

The Club Pittsburgh Rule: Hopping Saturday nights, porn performances, major events, and big holidays will pass with no incidents. Hundreds of guys come and go, and everyone behaves while they're here and leaves on two feet. We weather a tidal wave of business with nothing particularly notable or eventful. Then comes the innocuous Monday afterwards, and all holy hell breaks loose. It is extremely unusual to have any calamity on a busy night; it's those cold January school nights that TowelBoy keeps Mayor Tutweiler's boys in blue on speed dial. It's been seven years of calamity, and here are my seven favorite “Club Pittsburgh Gone Wild” moments:

7) For some reason, Sunday nights seem to bring out the crazies. I have a theory on this: By 2 AM Monday morning, most respectable members of the gay community have washed down two Ambiens with a Long Island iced tea, and are well into their tour of dreamland in preparation for the workweek. Those that show up at the tubs at 2 AM Monday morning are HARDCORE. They’ve been intoxicated since 5:01 on Friday afternoon, and they’re not going down without a fight. On one of our very first Sundays, a customer came to the front window in a panic because someone was having a seizure in the darkroom. (Work that one into a eulogy, Reverend.) I rush downstairs to find this giant muscle guy in tighty-whities convulsing in the sling. I enlist the housekeeper and we attempt to get this guy back to his room. (It took a whole lot of trying just to get up that hill – TowelBoy is a tad waifish.) We put him on the bed and got him appropriately attired in case I had to call the paramedics. I search the room but find no evidence of drugs or liquor. Then the housekeeper notices something odd in the trash can: a can of paint thinner. Apparently, one of our utility closets was inadvertently left unlocked, and Hedda Huffer found herself a cheap high. He was breathing normally, so I decided just to keep an eye on him. He eventually came to and went on his merry way without any recollection of frying his brain with his feet in stirrups. I promptly reported him to Whitney Houston, and our Do Not Admit list had its very first entry.

6) A few months after the huffing incident, another hysterical customer summoned me from my “I Don’t Give A Damn” stress-relieving meditation. Apparently, an older gentleman had fallen in the shower and needed some assistance. (And he didn’t have one of those Life Alerts. It’s quite nifty. You just push the button, Mary. “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”) He’s conscious when I arrive in the shower room, thank goodness. I ask what happened, and he says he just got a little dizzy and slipped. I offer him a double room on the house to recuperate. (Frankly, I find a visit from ambulance-chasing TV lawyer Cindy Berger just as frightening as a visit from Dateline. I would perhaps be willing to go as far as a nice blowjob to avoid a lawsuit, but I digress.) But when I went to check on him, the room looked like it had been occupied by the split pea girl from “The Exorcist”. Oh dear – I’m almost positive that passing out coupled with Satanic vomiting is a sure sign of a stroke. So I called the paramedics. They arrive, looking like Sculder & Mulley from the X-Files. I eavesdropped outside the door while they were examining this poor dear. I learned a very important lesson from their conversation: Do NOT take a handful of Viagra, huff some Jungle Juice, and then sit in the hot tub for an hour. Apparently, this can cause stroke-like symptoms, or perhaps the actual stroke. Mulley hits me in the head with the door when she throws it open. Then she asks if I have a wheelchair. (What?!? Where would I get a wheelchair? You’re the medical professional, Mary.) I didn’t have a wheelchair – but I did have a chair on wheels. So the paramedics dumped Viagra Veronica’s limp ass in my boss’s leather desk chair and rolled her out to Penn Avenue.

Poor dear. He’d fallen, and he couldn’t get up. And the half bottle of Viagra just made it worse.

5) We’d get occasional visits from this colorful crack-head that I’d affectionately nicknamed Fry-With-Pam. (Long, long story.) We’d be having a perfectly lovely evening, and then F-W-P would ring the doorbell and chaos would ensue. We finally decided to put F-W-P on the DNA list after we could no longer ignore the crack-pipe burn marks all over his sheets and towels. We tried everything to be good proprietors and avoid this: We spoke to him. We threatened him. We played “It’s Not Right, But It’s Okay” at a high volume in a continuous loop. He just didn’t get it. So we put him on the naughty list. That worked for about nine months. Then, on a frigid (you guessed it) Sunday night, Fry-With-Pam shows up at the window. He explains to me in his cute crack babble that nine months is plenty of time for forgiveness and redemption. He should be let back in! I explain that according to US Magazine, crack is still whack. “Perhaps you’d enjoy a nice cocktail at Lucky’s,” I suggest. But he refuses to leave. In fact, he grabs onto the counter and squats down as if he were in one of those beatnik sit-ins that Patches always raves about. (Hell no, he won’t go!) I threaten to call the police. Then F-W-P calls my bluff and dials 911 himself. His English is somewhat broken (Perhaps because he’s from a foreign land, or perhaps because of the crack…), so he asks me to explain his dilemma to the dispatcher. Ten minutes later, a dozen of Pittsburgh’s finest come dashing out of the elevator to apprehend a startled F-W-P. While I went to get a camera, F-W-P kept trying to convince the police that nine months was an unreasonable amount of time to be barred from the bathhouse. He’d paid for his sins! Unfortunately, Officer Krupke didn’t buy it. I watched in the security monitor as they took F-T-P down the elevator and flung him into the police cruiser like some tipsy woo-woo wife beater on an episode of “Cops”.

Dumb queen, dumb queen, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you…

4) So if you haven’t guessed by now, the mean girls at the front desk have nicknames for just about everyone. These are customers that have brought us that special warm feeling (not gas, Sally) over the years. We nickname because we love. There’s Sally & Debbie, Campus Lady*, Miss Pittsburgh 1941, Magoo, the Dutchess, Scary Poppins, and Blair Warner, just to name a few. (Blair Warner do like a nice group plowin’ in the 4th floor shower. Just giving you a “heads up”…) Well…one night “Oliver Platt”comes falling out of the elevator drunker than Mel Gibson on the Santa Monica Freeway. He stumbles through the lobby, knocking over the magazine rack and pushing things off the counter. He then starts pulling wads of $20 bills out of his pockets. He stumbles around a little. I ask him what I can get for him, but all that comes out is drunkard drivel. And then the demonic barfing starts. Lots of it! Apparently, Mr. Platt did enjoy a nice trip to the Ponderosa before sending Sparkerella to Tahiti with his liquor tab. Poor Oliver starts throwing up so hard that he can’t support himself anymore, and his portly body comes crashing into the counter. I call 911, again keenly recognizing the signs of a stroke. While Oliver Platt was squirming across the floor, Shwami darted out into the lobby with a wet mop and a hateful expression. “Don’t clean anything up until the police take him out of here,” I say. “I ain’t mopping anything,” Shwami replies. “I’m shoving this mop up his ass!” Well – I certainly wasn’t going to let any anal pleasuring transpire without receiving valid photo ID and $23 first. I calm Shwami down, and together we wait for the same testosterone squad that wrestled Fry-With-Pam to submission. But who does Pittsburgh’s finest send? Some 4’10’’ cop with an uncanny resemblance to the tiny little female cadet with the squeaky voice in the “Police Academy” movies. Now seriously, Oliver Platt is a BIG GIRL. (This is the perfect time to google “Oliver Platt. I’ll wait. Oh – and may I suggest clicking on “images” once you’ve googled. ) Yet somehow, Officer Squeaky manages to pick Oliver Platt out of his own sick, stuff him in the elevator, and dump him out onto 12th Street. Four days later Oliver Platt shows up with no recollection of being hauled out by the police. He did wonder where he’d gotten such a horrible headache…

I should probably mention that acclaimed actor/comedian Oliver Platt has never been to Club Pittsburgh. We just call this queen Oliver Platt because of his uncanny resemblance to the notable thespian. See – this is how rumors get started.

Okay. I have exhausted myself with this trip down memory lane. You’ll have to wait until next time to get the Top 3. I will give you a hint: the last three has someone hiding in the basement, drenched big girls scurrying down Penn Avenue, and a visit from the medical examiner.

One offense that staff members @ Club Pittsburgh take very seriously is animal abuse. Many of us have beloved pets at home that make the crazy calamities at work all worth it. Our manager, John, is especially committed to spreading awareness of animal abuse and the horrible conditions dogs face in puppy mills. You’ll see puppy mill information and photos the next time you visit Club Pittsburgh. If this upsets you, too, here are ways that you can help. Please visit these great websites for more information:

HSUS.org
www.stoppuppymills.com

Well, I think I’m going to watch Zac Efron clips on YouTube now. I will get back to the list in a few days. We hope that you find every trip to Club Pittsburgh safe and enjoyable. We work hard to make your visit a pleasant experience. But if you’re thinking of stirring up some trouble, Mary, I will dial 911 faster than you can say Fry-With-Pam.

A Zealot for Zac,
TowelBoy

*Campus Lady: A middle –aged homosexual who stays perpetually enrolled in college to get cheap and/or free bathhouse lockers. They’re extremely fond of “mixers” -- both the political and alcoholic varieties.