A Night @ CLUB PITTSBURGH

An Addendum from the Creator of TOWELBOY

2009-02-09T22:41:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is not very smart. For days, I have been shattered by the rumor that I'm somehow compiling customers' personal information and tracking their automobiles. I haven't slept or eaten, worried that my valued members think that I'm some sort of crazy turncoat. I even posted "A Message About Privacy", which I sincerely hope you'll read.

I've been perusing the blog and enjoying your comments. I occasionally like to go through the entries and read my own work. I can see mistakes much more clearly after time, and I hope this clarity improves my writing in the future. I was stunned after reading over recent entries to discover the source of the address/automobile rumor that's circulating on Craig's List: ME!! In a December posting, I was rambling about Hot Tranny Messes. In one of my stories I mentioned that I noticed that a customer lived in an affluent neighborhood and that he put an expensive automobile key in the security box. In hindsight, that was incredibly stupid. Let me assure you that I was trying to support my story, and I didn't even consider that I may be mentioning information that some would find alarming. I, as it turns out, am the Hot Tranny Mess.

Let me say for the record that I have no interest in anyone's personal information. I was trying to use those points (stupidly) to support my story. Sitting here now, I have no recollection what the "affluent" neighborhood was. I can often attribute a key to its manufacturer. The reason is really simple: I'm a bit of an idiot-savant when it comes to car logos. I recognize the logo on the key. That's how I knew he drove an Audi. I have no idea what model, what color, etc. I could never actually use the logo information from the key to find someone's car. I now see why everyone was so alarmed, and I apologize for my indiscretion.

Confidentiality makes generating web content extremely difficult. I frequently take stories from my own life and my own unique generalizations and try to spin a clever tale. It's a (sometimes ineffective) attempt at humor. Since I really can't say anything sexy or scandalous without betraying confidentiality, I try to get people to come to the website with humor. I don't think of me as "TowelBoy". In my mind, he's this invented character with his own personality, experiences, and opinions. Although I often tell my own personal stories through this character, I always to write these stories in what I believe to be TowelBoy's voice. He has fictional aspects that I've invented to make a point, or to simply crack a joke. Perhaps I've gotten carried away. I apologize if I've caused any anxiety with my comments. My intention was to entertain you, not to upset you. I take protecting your privacy very seriously.

I have read the offending entry repeatedly, and I can't find any specific information that could betray a customer's identity. If you ever think I've gone too far, please let me know. I read every comment. If something concerns our members, it should concern me, too.

Please read "A Message About Privacy". Please ignore my stupid comments about folks trying to bring us down. (I sound like Hillary Clinton screaming "vast right wing conspiracy" while Bill was getting blown.) And most of all, please forgive this Hot Tranny Mess.

Thanks,
Damian
AKA "TowelBoy"

A Message About Privacy

2009-02-08T20:22:00.000-08:00

Hello -

Recently, friends and co-workers have brought some unsettling rumors to my attention. I guess it's appeared on Craig's List that I, as a Club Pittsburgh employee, keep extraordinary surveillance on our members' personal information. It's rumored that I know all our customers' addresses, as well as the cars they drive. Nobody has bothered to contact me directly to ask me about these rumors – it's all “anonymous” postings on internet message boards. Let me say that I have no interest in our membership's personal information whatsoever. Such information is of no use to me.

I have worked very hard over the past seven years to separate my personal life from my professional endeavors. I do not live in a neighborhood that is popular with the gay community. That is intentional. I don't drink, and I'm not a very social person by nature. Therefore, I do not patronize the gay community's bars, clubs, or after-hours establishments. I'm not criticizing these business -- it's just not my lifestyle. I am not a member of any of the gay community's social or charitable organizations, including the Delta Foundation. I have made a conscious choice not to get involved. I have no vested interests in the politics of the gay community beyond fulfilling my professional obligations and earning my paycheck. I have no social connection to the owners and employees of the city's other gay businesses. In fact, because I'm more or less a recluse by choice, I haven't even met most of them. I HAVE NO ANIMOSITY TOWARDS ANY OF THE BUSINESS OWNERS, THE CHARITABLE ORGANIZATIONS, OR THEIR EMPLOYEES. I ENCOURAGE EVERYONE TO PATRONIZE THESE BUSINESSES, AND TO STAY ACTIVE AND INVOLVED. I JUST SIMPLY CHOOSE TO LIVE MY OWN LIFE PRIVATELY. I work at Club Pittsburgh because of the excellent wage and benefits. That, in turn, provides me with security to quietly live my life outside of Pittsburgh's gay drama. I just want to do my job and be left alone.

Even if I were interested in our customers' personal information, the sheer volume would make keeping track of it impossible. I see hundreds of customers each week, which I'm sure has amounted to tens of thousands over the past seven years. That's tens of thousands of names and addresses. I'd like to think that I'm a reasonably intelligent guy, but frankly, I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I do not have the capacity to retain that much information. I am not Rain Man. The claim that I somehow know what you drive is even more ridiculous. Club Pittsburgh doesn't have a parking lot for customers. I never even see their automobiles. I have joked to customers that I have a knack for identifying a manufacturer by a key. But a generic GM or Chrysler key could potentially start hundreds of different models. I could not waltz down the street and identify someone's car by the key.

For the past few years, part of my job responsibility has been to maintain and expand some sort of web community. Writing this blog and generating web content has been extremely difficult because I am so committed to protecting our members' privacy. Because I don't want to betray anyone's confidentiality, I will often use stories from my own life as filler. These blog entries are always a light-hearted attempt at humor, and I frequently fill my stories with exaggeration and hyperbole. Perhaps comments that I have made in the past have been taken out of context or misconstrued. I record your personal information when you visit Club Pittsburgh because it's part of my job. Frankly, that information is of no use to me personally.

If I was ambivalent about the Pittsburgh gay community before the events of the last month, I am now certain that I have no personal interest in all this drama. I have known for seven years that there are some members of our community that bear considerable animosity towards Club Pittsburgh. Each person is entitled to his own system of values and believes, and although I do not understand these prejudices, I've tried not to let them interfere with me doing my job. Lately, the attacks and accusations have become very personal. I am completely stunned and deeply saddened by all of this. I have always tried my best to be a good employee and an excellent servant to our customers. In fact, that's true of all of the fine men that have been my co-workers over the years.

I realize that these prejudices are the crusade of a very small minority. I am grateful for the love and support of the majority, who has been so kind and generous to us for all of these years. Thank you for your phone calls, your emails, and your kind words when you visit the club. It's your support that has made the recent hassles of my job worthwhile.

Thanks,
TowelBoy

Not So Fast, Sally!

2009-01-29T15:03:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy has been hearing shocking rumors of his demise all through the Steel City. Not so fast, Sally. I realize that Club Pittsburgh has received a lot of media attention lately. I personally have hired an entire staff just to manage KDKA super snooper Marty Griffin. (I do not appreciate your comments, Marty. If anyone is going to soil my reputation, it's going to be me.) I know that there are lots of rumors and speculations. I get inundated with emails daily. Although I'm genuinely moved by your legitimate concerns, some of the wild rumors have made TowelBoy laugh so hard that I've soiled my hoochie pants. Allow me to set the record straight...

FACT: On January 4, a member passed away at the club. Although it appears to be a tragic accident, the medical examiner has not determined the cause of death. The media has made wild speculations, but no official cause of death has been released. The owners, managers, and staff of Club Pittsburgh are deeply saddened by this event, and we offer our condolences to his family and friends. As with any untimely death, there is an investigation. The same inquiry would have occurred had this accident happened at a bar, a club, a hotel, or McDonald's. Club Pittsburgh is cooperating fully with the authorities.

FACT: Club Pittsburgh was not "raided". No membership information has been subpoenaed or compromised. There is absolutely no chance that any member's identity or confidential information will be publicized. The investigation is driven by this unfortunate death, not the nature of the club. Enjoying the club responsibly is perfectly legal, and you will not be arrested for visiting Club Pittsburgh.

FACT: In light of recent events, the management and staff at Club Pittsburgh is more determined than ever to enforce our rules. Drug use or distribution will not be tolerated. We have always worked very hard to keep drug activity out of the club. For your safety and protection, we have increased our efforts. All members are expected to abide by the rules. I mentioned above that you will not be arrested for enjoying the club responsibly. You may be arrested if you choose to violate our drug and alcohol policies.

FACT: We are not closed. I've heard nobody even mention closing, and I'd be the first to know. And I have a huge mouth, so you'd know immediately. I'd probably even send you a text. Thankfully, it's business as usual. Nothing about the Club Pittsburgh experience has changed. We do have new hours because of the slower winter season. I expect our hours will return to normal in the Spring. You can find the special winter hours on our homepage.

FACT: The owners or attorneys or police or the Holy Boo haven't suspended the blog. TowelBoy is just extremely lazy, and he figured this was a good time for a little winter break. I've been planning to take January off since October. Wait until February -- I will be annoying the masses from my desktop once again.

So what have we learned, Sally? First, don't believe everything you see in an internet chat room or hear from Drunkerella at the bar. Sometimes even the paper or the television news only gets half the story. Poor Marty just won't let this pass. Between you and me, he asked if he could take a tour, so perhaps he's just bi-curious. It's business as usual, nobody is getting arrested, and the district attorney is not calling your mother. We're still making your privacy and security our first priority.

I hope to see all of you soon. I miss being rude to you.

Resuming my hibernation,
TowelBoy

Happy New Year, You Hot Tranny Mess

2008-12-31T13:35:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy personally supports the plight of our transsexual...hmm...brothers & sisters. I personally believe that gender identity, much like sexuality, is rarely a clearly definable, black and white entity. Most of us exist somewhere between the extremes of masculine and feminine. Hell, I'm practically a transsexual myself. That's why I have to clarify that I mean absolutely no malice to the trans-gendered community when I refer to something or someone as a “Hot Tranny Mess”. I realize this could be construed as offensive. But for some reason, I just can't stop saying it. “Hot Mess” just doesn't seem very lyrical to me; inserting “tranny” in the middle makes it phraseology at it's finest. I have moved beyond janky and discovered the beautiful world of the Hot Tranny Mess. And let me tell you, people, examples abound.

And now you're asking, “TowelBoy, what exactly do you consider a Hot Tranny Mess?” I'm glad you asked. Let's say a beautiful young guy comes into the bathhouse. In his mid-twenties, he's physically flawless and could easily pass for nineteen. He has seductive eyes, a perfect body, and a smile that could melt butter. I nosily spy his license and discover that he resides in the city's most exclusive real estate. (Patches gets mad when I look at the address on the ID. I have a compulsive need to track these queens for migratory purposes.) The handsome, well-dressed, debonnaire gentleman pays for a gaggle of his most attractive young friends to enter. He buys all sorts of accoutrements, such as lube, poppers, cockrings, and the nouveau chic anal spike, bringing his total to something a little greater than what I spend on hormones. During the transaction I can't help but notice that he smells delicious. He's polite to the point of condescending. He comes to the next window and puts a shiny new Audi key in the lockbox. With his items secure and his followers in tow, the beautiful demigod winks at his laymen and disappears into the abyss. I've suddenly discovered that it's incredibly warm in here, and I don't know where I'm going with this. Why wasn't I on this boy like Oprah on a Dorito? Oh – I remember. This entire group of Young, Rich, and Divine was more intoxicated (and altered) than Drunkerella on a birthday bender. My guess is that they're “friends of Tina”, and I'm not talking about that good-time gal with the badonkadonk. It took all the discipline of Angie Jolie at a Happy Husband's Convention for the hot friend with a striking resemblance to certain talk-show queen's heartthrob husband to remain in an upright position during the check-in process. (This infamous cutie has a reputation for maintaining a rock-hard erection while completely unconscious. It's truly a magic wand.) Honestly, if I had a group of beautiful men following me like the Pied Piper into the depths of a hedonistic haven, I'd certainly want to remember it in the morning. Frankly, I'd probably be scribbling in my little notebook while it was happening. Yet I have a hunch that nobody in that bunch had any recollection of their bathhouse adventures the next day. The whole scene looked like a very special episode of Shadyside 90210. Young, rich, beautiful....yet irretrievably altered? That's a Hot Tranny Mess!

I just wanted to explain this because “Hot Tranny Mess” is truly the new “Janky”. I look around and see Hot Tranny Messes everywhere. The leaky office ceiling at Club Pittsburgh is a Hot Tranny Mess. My coffee-stained wardrobe is a Hot Tranny Mess. My inability to understand the difference between a hedge fund and a hedge hog makes me a Hot Tranny Mess. (Apparently, I won't be driving the Audi anytime soon. But I'm really looking forward to government cheese.) And it goes on & on. So now when it comes up, and I'm sure it will, you'll understand what in the hell I'm talking about. I have a hunch that 2009 will be full of them.

The ten days between the winter solstice and the new year is easily the busiest period of the year at Club Pittsburgh. (Yep – way busier than even Pride.) I always warn my co-workers that keeping the yule tide gay is no easy task, and we're probably going to get our asses kicked. This year has been no exception. Obviously nobody has told the randy gays that we're in the middle of an economic meltdown, because over the past week I have personally serviced every horny homosexual in the tri-state area. Saturday night was the third busiest shift since we opened seven years ago. The only other two shifts to beat Saturday night in attendance were both immediately following Pride in the Street events. In spite of a whopper recession, this has been the busiest holiday season that I can remember. From Christmas night through the last few days, it's been crazy. I'm completely expecting to take it up the ass on New Year's Eve. (I mean we're going to be really busy, Mary. I'm not that kind of girl.) Friday night was a really fun, eclectic crowd; Saturday night was pure youth and beauty. This year we truly saw many flavors of guys, and I think the crowd had a little something for everyone. For us, the holiday season is usually a preview of the year to come. I love you like a fat girl loves cake, Erin Burnett (Google her. She'll make you crave vagina.), but I have to disagree with CNBC and all the economic naysayers – 2009 is looking mighty damn fine.

It is amazing to me that we're just hours away from the start of the last year of the first decade of the new millennium. (And I just finished my Y2K Emergency Kit, too.) Time goes by so incredibly quickly, and embedded precious moments are fast and fleeting. Life happens with such speed and fervor that we often don't realize that good things are happening until they're gone. I've spent the better part of this decade behind the window at Club Pittsburgh. I've enjoyed over seven years of amazing moments and wonderful memories, and I'm sure I've missed a few, too. I'd like to thank my employers for the opportunity, my co-workers for the friendship, and you for the adventure. I look forward to an amazing 2009 with all of you.

Happy New Year. Have fun, but don't be a Hot Tranny Mess.
TowelBoy

Kiss My JANKY Ass

2008-12-18T11:31:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is juiced up over all things janky. Any day now, I'm bound to write a long post about all the wonderful things that happened in 2008. I'm hopelessly nostalgic and tend to look back on even the most horrendous events with laugh or a smile. With a little bit of time, just about any tragedy or difficulty turns into a Lifetime Movie in my estrogen-soaked brain. My mind is a denial converter that turns monumental disasters into pleasant memories. Okay, so Bubba hijacked my Thanksgiving and ruined my holiday. (Two days pass.) Oh, she's a pill! Okay, so my cat Socks has urinary crystals that clogged his urethra and I lost my entire stimulus check having his penis vacuumed. (Two days pass.) Oh, he's so cute & fuzzy! Okay, so I have an unfortunate encounter with Chlamydia Connie and now my own urethra is clogged. (Two days pass.) Oh, isn't Cipro a medical marvel! You get the point. Hormones and tequila take over, and everything formerly awful is now absolutely fabulous. So I've decided to make a list of all things janky so that I can refer to it later when I'm drunk on sentiment. (Or Stolichnaya). First, a little vocabulary lesson: As you may recall, janky is a word carefully developed by Queen-in-Crisis Esta La Mierda meaning something between “junky” and “skanky”. A broken eyeliner pencil is janky; so is an imitation-Latina dancing whore. The word is really quite versatile. It can be used to describe anything that's “not quite right”. And for me, really, thinking of something as janky instead of junky or skanky takes it from bad to badd (as in “Get on with your badd self!”). In the holiday spirit of (temporarily) feeling (not so) good, here is TowelBoy's short list of 2008's jankiest things.

My camera. Did you notice that this blog doesn't have photographs anymore? That's because the cheap-ass digital camera that I bought at Walmart is janky. I purchased the camera as a Christmas gift to myself two years ago. It was tragedy from the start. First, the imbecile associate in the electronics department double-charged my check card. I discovered this three days later when I went to buy groceries for my Thanksgiving dinner and the card was declined. It took three calls to the customer service manager and a Shwami curse on Bentonville to solve that hot mess. Then I spent enough money on batteries to feed a third-world nation. (Had I read the instruction manual, I would have known to buy rechargeables.) Of course, the version of Windows Shit-sta on my computer doesn't recognize the device, so I had to upload and edit my pictures on the office computer at Club Pittsburgh. (But it did make me look busy at work, which I appreciate.) The last straw came a few months ago when I was trying to photograph my ass (literally) for my online profile. I was stunned when I uploaded the images onto the screen. Admittedly, I don't have Tina's ba-donk-adonk, but my glutes aren't exactly janky. Something was definitely wrong. Either that camera is broken or my ass looks like cherry Jello with fruit cocktail suspended in the middle. Those photos wouldn't even get me a senate seat, let alone a handsome Bohemian gentleman from Pittsburgh's east end. Obviously, I threw that janky digital disaster in the trash and found a cute Point Park art major to paint my ass instead.

Cindy Sealer. Due to many years of use and abuse, lots of equipment at Club Pittsburgh is approaching janky. That, frankly, could be a separate list. From DVD players to gas dryers (see below), our hard-working, over-used machines and electronics are always on the verge of a breakdown. One gadget that's been at the brink of death longer than Dick Cheney is Cindy Sealer. Cindy Sealer, also known as the HeatSeal H110, is our card laminator. If you have a Club Pittsburgh membership card in your wallet, clutch, or man-purse (or you've lost one when you upgraded any of those), you have been personally touched by Cindy Sealer. In theory, we put a laminating sleeve over the new membership card, insert that card in the front of the sealer, and the card comes out the back with an impenetrable coating melted protectively over it. Cindy, ironically, is screwy and confused. Sometimes she prefers that you stick the card in the rear. (This befuddles me, and I have to hold it upside down to see what I'm doing.) She grunts and groans and squeals and squeaks. Patches thinks she's transmitting messages from extraterrestrials. Sometimes it takes multiple insertions, and sometimes she doesn't seal at all. Frequently, the lamination is jumbled or rippled. After two days the seal falls apart. Yet she keeps trudging along, card after agonizing card. Truly, that janky laminator is Tiny Tim in mechanical spirit. Get your tissues out, because here's the part that's really sad: Poor Cindy Sealer makes this Herculean effort to laminate a proper membership card, and these queens lose it as soon as they walk out the door. That's kind of...well...janky.

TowelBoy's Toe & Tooth. I've written previously about the perpetual perils of my Funky Toe and my Drag Tooth. Both can be accurately described as janky. Let me be frank, Mary: There aren't a lot of prospects for a fading starlet like me. My time in the conjugal sun is quickly passing. I just don't look like the kids on Gossip Girl anymore. And any physical malady just reduces my chances of connubial companionship. Basically, the toe and the tooth are detriments to getting a husband. I have made some progress with these janky appendages, though. Thanks to Walmart cotton balls and hand sanitizer, I have practically eradicated my funky toe. (This is not for those with weak stomachs.) I pinch off a piece of cotton the size of a healthy pea, squirt a dab of hand sanitizer of equal size in the palm of my hand, and then roll the cotton in the medicinal goo. I then force the sterilized cotton wad under my toenail with a key from a '95 Olds Achieva. (Seriously. The car is long gone, but the key continues to protect and serve.) I immediately cover my foot with a tight (and usually mismatched) sock to keep the cotton from shooting out of the nail. Once the cotton is secured, I can pick from one of three pairs of shoes that don't cause blinding pain. I can wear them for approximately six hours. (Thank goodness I don't work the standard ''eight hour'' day!) I estimate that in three short years, the cotton will force the nail to grow properly, and my funky toe will be cured. The Drag Tooth is a little trickier. Obviously, I can not perform oral sex with a Buick* in my mouth. And if I can't perform fellatio, how am I supposed to build a solid (fifteen minute) relationship? *(Okay, I love the word “Buick”, but I've learned from experience that a bathhouse parking lot full of Buicks means that there's been a security breech at Shady Pines. I recommend high-tailing it out of there. Don't worry – you can outrun them.) The best way to alleviate the pressure on my jaw is to chase an extended-release pseudoephedrine tablet with an analgesic and/or alcoholic beverage. Thanks to the Tina Queens and their “PNP”, Michael Chertoff and the Department of Homeland Security have put limits on how much pseudoephedrine We the Congested can purchase. (Seriously. It's actually part of the PATRIOT Act, if you can believe that. Google it.) I have no choice but to buy Sudafed PE (phenylephrine), which is just janky. I have discovered, however, that it will down-grade Drag Tooth to a janky tooth if you triple the recommended dose and choose more potent distilled spirits.

The Amish Kidney. Poor Patches has a janky kidney. I think this explains why he's generally cranky and bloated. (It's not your imagination – those koolats are a little tighter lately.) You see, his kidney is inhabited by this little tiny tumor that he's affectionately named Timmy. Don't worry – Timmy isn't cancer or anything particularly malicious. He's just this lumpy (my hunch is ''fatty'', too) cyst that causes poor Patches occasional discomfort and bleeding. Club Pittsburgh has welcomed Timmy into its extended family. At regular intervals, Patches goes to the urologist, has some really cool digital pictures of Timmy taken, and adds them to a scrap book that we've started for our little fibroid friend. The Sisters of Mercy then examine the photographs to make sure Timmy hasn't shifted, multiplied, or aborted. (I just hope they read his chart carefully, because those sisters have a reputation for organ-eating.) Medical science isn't quite sure how Timmy appeared. Perhaps it's a genetic defect passed down through generations of Amish brethren. Maybe it was caused by Patches' hard living during the Carter years. (And a brief, fuzzy period in 1993 when he thought Ernest Borgnine was President.) Or possibly Timmy the Tiny Tumor appeared as a reckoning for seven (plus) years of battling the insurgent queens on the Club Pittsburgh night shift. (My personal favorite theory is that the grotesque growth was caused by ME.) Don't worry – Timmy the Tiny Tumor is definitely painful and debilitating, but not (necessarily) life-threatening. Patches and the tumor, with the help of numerous opioid analgesic prescriptions and a little nip of gin, have learned to co-exist with mutual appreciation and good humor. That is, of course, unless the janky bastard bursts. That is potentially deadly, obviously, or at the very least excruciating. But it would make a wicked story for Weezie to text to all of her friends. Be sure to give her your number so you'll be one of the first (million) to know! (That's assuming her janky Red Cross phone holds up.)

The Unimac Dryer. Initially, the Unimac washer/dryer was heaven sent. It could wash and dry a batch of big-girl towels in no time at all. We could stuff that sucker like Aretha Franklin at the Inaugural buffet, and everything would come out as clean as Jesse Jackson Jr. at the end of the Blagolevich bust. After years of abuse, however, the entire unit is plum tuckered out. In particularly critical condition is the dryer. I have been in denial over the demise of the Unimac for some time. I have kept drying, load after load, ignoring the clunks, groans, roars, and shakes. (I just assumed it was Patches.) A certain employee who shall remain nameless (but Zsa Zsa Gabor would call “Zooter”) has refused to use the Unimac dryer for well over a year. In fact, this refusal to tumble towels in the Unimac has frequently resulted in what the night shift affectionately calls the “Sally Load”. (The “Sally Load” is an evening's worth of laundry crammed into the good dryer at 10:45 PM. If the Holy Boo is on our side, the sopping bale is “top shelf” dry by the time we get a stampede of drunkards when the bars close.) Of course, we're always stuck with the Sally Load while Gee Min* is in the house, which makes it worse. *(Gee Min [not really Asian] is a favorite customer of ours, bless his heart sweetie darling sunshine, who goes through six bushels of towels when he's here. And I would sooner have Punxy dry the towels above the bonfire in the center of The Circle than have poor Gee Min chafe.) I try to put some of the Sally Load in the Unimac, but lately I just can't take the noise. It sounds like a jet plane trying to make a landing. Perpetually. So Sally, you win. I concede what you have known all along: the Unimac dryer is janky. Countless and constant repairs in the past have brought this poor dear back from the brink more times than Britney. Not this time. It is beyond Clark's care and attention. Changing the roller or sticking matchbooks between the washer and the dryer to ''balance'' the unit isn't helping anymore. Even the Maytag Man is hanging up on us. Is there any possibility that this janky sucker can be revived one more time? Not on my watch, Sally.

Obviously, you're sick of hearing how janky “future plans” hook-ups are, so I won't go there. (But they are, people. Really janky.) I'm almost ready to concentrate on what was great about 2008. I have one last janky beef, first. My co-workers and I are a little miffed at Her Royal Highness's recent visit. Look – we love The Queen like Smack Pappy loves to ride the White Horse. We always look forward to her visits. She is now and forever intoxicating, no matter where she chooses to rule. But if you're going to spend the entire weekend for free, skipping in and out tipsy woo-woo at your leisure, with guest in tow, bragging about how your living the life of a wealthy Hausfrau, at least have the decency to tip us a fucking dollar on your way out. Making us hold court all weekend and not leaving us a little cha-ching to show your appreciation is just janky. Ironic, isn't it?

Okay, okay – let me quickly mention a few things that definitely aren't (or at least no longer) janky. The 5th floor shower is now repaired, revamped, and open for your aqueous pleasures. All four shower heads are in good working order. I'd like to thank Clark for finishing the job quickly and correctly once the parts arrived. (He's now re-tiling the 4th floor shower so it won't be janky, either.) And our Club Pittsburgh Holiday Party for employees was anything and everything but janky. It was a wonderful evening of great friends and delicious food. I had very high expectations, and this year's shindig definitely surpassed them. Thanks to Pete and Steve for always treating us like royalty, Bill and Jay for manning the club (again!) so we could celebrate, and Bob for being an incredible host. I can't wait to see what you guys plan next year!

Well, now I need to start scribbling “What Was GREAT About 2008” in my notebook. I'll let you know my personal favorites from this interesting year soon.

Oh: If I've offended any of my co-workers with this post...

Kiss My Janky Ass.
TowelBoy

Touching You Inappropriately

2008-11-30T17:57:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is plum tuckered out from a very busy holiday weekend with “family” in all senses of the word. “Why is this really good news?”, you're wondering. Well – I am perhaps to worn out to babble incessantly about overbearing mothers, out-of-town drunkards, bathhouse calamities, felines with disabilities, and internet hook-ups gone horribly wrong. Have I spent the majority of my Thanksgiving holiday bitching and moaning about those very things? You betcha! But in the spirit of the season I'm going to take inspiration from the pocketful of sunshine we call Patches and see the glass half full (of distilled spirits). This will be brief, people. I just want to ''touch base'', update you on what's going on in my (delusional) world (and Club Pittsburgh, of course), and talk a little about our Big Gay December. Now would be a good time to start that three minute egg...

First, I hope everyone had a really nice Thanksgiving. Mine went reasonably well with both ''families'' – the brood in Wanker County and the bunch at Club Pittsburgh. I always claim political neutrality, but I admittedly approached the holiday with the “No Drama Obama” approach. If The Big O can offer former nemesis HRC the most important post in his cabinet, I can surely split a turkey sandwich with Bubba. I'm pleased to announce that we've reached some sort of détente. I've forgiven all former transgressions and completely moved on. Arm in arm, we've now teamed up against my sister. I stopped in at Club Pittsburgh on my way home from Thanksgiving dinner to do some ''work''. That turned out to be absolutely delightful. I would like to give a shout-out to the cute Hispanic guy that that I stalked until he relented. That was the best steam I had since the Great Sinus Infection of '03. Thanks for letting me think it was your idea. (And a special note to Clark: Please re-direct those steam jets. I was stunned to wake up Friday morning with a hairless ass.) It was a great way to relax before a really hectic weekend. Friday was our busiest evening shift ever. (And poor Sally had the sniffles and couldn't get her drink on!) We were packed Friday, filled to the rafters on Saturday, and still out of rooms when I slithered out on Sunday morning. And to all of you from out of town who 1)can't find the building, 2)don't know where to park, 3)have no idea how much it costs, 4)mentioned at least 500 times that you were from out of town, 5)seem to have misplaced your key – TWICE, 4)accidentally threw grandpappy's heirloom watch in the trash can next to the sling, 5)had such a good time in the ''big city'' you can't wait to come back over Christmas: I'll leave the light on.

The staff's favorite weekend moment is when a prominent member of The Circle popped in just to give Punxy a holiday hug. Gosh, he needed one. Hakuna Matata, queens.

I talked a little in the last post about some changes in specials and promotions. First, what's out: half-price Tuesdays, “Funch” lockers in the afternoons, and and dancer Wednesdays. What stays: Naked Lunch (obviously), Sunday leather discounts, and cheap locker Mondays. Oh – don't worry Campus Ladies – we've got your backs. You'll still get a $10 locker with valid student ID (emphasis on VALID) always. And now, what's new:

MIDNIGHT SNACK: On weeknights, lockers will be discounted to $10 for everyone between 12 AM and 2 AM. This is a full six-hour rental for ten bucks. Discounts, unfortunately, can not be applied to rooms.

HOLIDAY COUPON SPECIAL: This is a little complicated, but in the spirit of Ms. Bonnie Franklin, just hold on tight and will muddle through. Each time you purchase a full priced rental during the month of December, you will be offered a coupon. The attendant will attach a receipt to the coupon (proof of a full priced rental) and initial the back. When you return for a weekday visit, you can present the coupon for $7 off any rental (lockers, single rooms, or double rooms). This is a really good deal. We're talking lockers for ten bucks, and single rooms for less than twenty, and it's a full six hour rental. Obviously, there are some parameters here. These coupons are for weekday rentals only, valid from 12:00 AM on Monday to 11:59 PM on Thursday. (That's clearly printed on the coupon.) This isn't Giant Eagle, folks – there are no ''double coupons''. We'll only be issuing these when a customer purchases a full priced rental – not during promotions such as Naked Lunch, locker discount night, etc. I've given the attendants these specific instructions: Offer the coupon, but don't force anyone to take them. (God forbid your wife/boss/boyfriend/mother/drag mother finds them.) Attach the receipt and initial the coupon when issuing, and only redeem coupons with a receipt and initials. Religiously obey the time restrictions. Now, here is the part you may want to write down or put in your raspberry or your gooseberry or whatever the fuck that is. We must have the coupon present to give the discount. I don't care if you lost your coupon. I'm not particularly moved if the coupon is in your other pants/other car/other purse. It's completely irrelevant if you drove the whole way from The Mistake by the Lake and left the coupon at home. Animal lover or not, you'll get no sympathy from Walter if little Precious the Poodle ate (or urinated on) your coupon. Nor can we “look it up” or “keep it on file”. It's a coupon, not one of those Angelina-Jolie-Third-World babies. I'm confident you can keep track of it.

Pardon me for being a tad cynical. If I offended anyone...well, it was on purpose. As Weezie once said to his therapist, “Girl, of course I drink. You don't know what I've seen!”

There are two other things I'd like to mention before wasting the rest of the night looking for pictures of Lipstick Jungle's Robert Buckley online. (Google him – you won't regret it.) First, we are having another Squirt Party tentatively scheduled for Friday, December 19. I have to get off my lazy ass and contact Ed @ Squirt for more details. I certainly will keep you posted. I have heard raves from guys who got free Squirt memberships at our last event earlier this month. If we get a decent turn-out from Squirt members at this party, a Squirt Night will become a monthly event. Finally, we're hosting an anniversary party for “Party Naked Pittsburgh” on December 13. This appears in our ad and on a schedule that I sent to the mailing list. (If you're not on the mailing list, WHY? Don't you want me directly in your in-box?) I have received a lot of telephone calls asking about Party Naked Pittsburgh. PNP is a local nudist organization that caters to enlightened, open-minded gay men. It's run by a really great group of guys, and they host a lot of fun mixers and events. Unfortunately, I don't have a lot of information beyond that. I'm going to ask some of the folks from PNP to provide some sort of description to the mailing list. I will post that info here, too.

I have spent way too much time being productive, and I'm now returning to blankly staring at my computer screen. I hope to see you at Club Pittsburgh soon.

See! That was unusually brief.
TowelBoy

How Was Your Thanksgiving, Patches?

2008-11-21T16:34:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is getting chastised for not mentioning the Squirt party in my prior post. Silly me, I assumed that my life musings were far more valuable then rehashing the tantalizing events of a titillating party. Apparently Bitch assumed wrong. Thank you for all your curiosity about the Squirt event. (And Squirt in general.) As I'm sure you know, we had our first Squirt party at Club Pittsburgh on November 1. Ed, my connection @ Squirt, sent fabulous goodies like key chain lights, posters, banners, and free website memberships. If you don't subscribe to Squirt, you missed a great invitation to the event that Ed and his team put together. I initially thought that the response to the event was mixed. I received fewer invitations from Squirt members than I had expected. Club Pittsburgh members, however, really enjoyed the Squirt goodies and give-aways. I've gotten a lot of positive feedback on the free website memberships the we gave out, and many of you are now cruising Squirt. I was keeping quiet in the hopes that you would share your feedback about the party and the website. Apparently you have. Ed contacted me a few days ago to tell me that the traffic on the Club Pittsburgh cruising listing @ Squirt is incredible. You guys (and new guys!) are raving about the club on their message boards. (Thanks! It appears that notable drag queens are not the only ones that can drum up support on the internet.) Ed would like to have another Squirt event at Club Pittsburgh soon. It's not set in stone, but I'm thinking December 19. Indisputably, the busiest time of year at Club Pittsburgh is the ten days between the winter solstice and New Year's Day. It would be really fun to get things started with a Squirt Party. There's also talk of a monthly Squirt event. I will give you the details soon. In the meantime, keep visiting the club's cruising listing on the Squirt website, and definitely keep up the positive comments.

A monthly Squirt event isn't the only change coming to Club Pittsburgh. As the year comes to an end, we plan to shake things up a little. We're going to replace a lot of our older promotions with what we think are better deals and more exciting events. I should say first that NAKED LUNCH is definitely staying. Mondays through Fridays, lockers will still be only $5 from 11 AM to 2 PM. We have an incredibly loyal Naked Lunch crowd, and I can't imagine that promotion changing anytime soon. We'll also continue to welcome the Burgh Bears and the leather crowd on Sunday nights. Tuesday's half-price special, as well as bi-monthly dancers, are going away...at least for now. My boss is replacing these events with a whole list of new deals and specials. Of course, I'm not smart enough to have that list in front of me. I do know that when you visit and purchase a regularly-priced rental, you'll receive a coupon to get $7 off your next weekday visit (Monday through Thursday). That discount applies to both lockers and rooms. There's also a new promotion called MIDNIGHT SNACK, and we'll be offering late-night discounts during weeknights. I'll have more information for you when I actually remember to bring home the list. And don't forget that the holiday season is a very busy time at the club, and there's always something fun going on.

Disclaimer: I am going to regret saying this. Keep in mind, people, that I'm not Moses. Nothing is written on a stone tablet. Business at the club is generally unpredictable. However, it has been my experience in the past that the holiday crowd at Club Pittsburgh is a lot more diverse and skews a little younger. This trend starts around Thanksgiving and goes through the new year. I see a lot of new faces, as well as a lot of hot guys I only see on holidays. There are a couple of reasons for this. Pittsburgh is an old ''family'' city. A lot of people that no longer live here (or never lived here) have roots here. Parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins, aunts, & uncles. A lot of folks come to Pittsburgh once a year to connect with family, and they've made it a part of their traditions to visit us. I can immediately name a dozen guys who come to pay a holiday visit to Pittsburgh from places like Miami, Chicago, Dallas, and Los Angeles. We always welcome the fresh faces and the new perspectives at the club. I suspect that they make a lot of new friendships while visiting Club Pittsburgh, too. Pittsburgh is a great college town, and we get a lot of students from Pittsburgh's schools year-round. During the holidays, however, we get students studying across the country that come home to Pittsburgh. Because they're only here for a limited time, they don't have a huge network of gay friends, acquaintences, and tricks – so they hang out at the club. I am not guaranteeing you that you will meet some hot young law student from Pepperdine visiting Grandma on the down-low; I'm just saying it's usually an active time.

Speaking of the holidays, I've decided to wave a white flag in Bubba's face. (See the previous post.) I have finally decided ''what my problem is”: my life is far too awesome and far too short to be a bitter pill. I would be insane to let anger and animosity ruin my holiday. Frankly, Bubba can bite me. We each seem to be happiest when we're pissed off at the other. But I have an incredible niece, a grandfather that means more to me than I could ever describe, an aunt and uncle that I miss dearly, a sister that could really use a brother and a friend, and a brother-in-law that is kind of hot in a creepy “Deliverance” sort of way. And I've decided that it's just not a holiday without my crazy brood. (Besides, I need to score Patches some turkey.) So Bubba be damned, I will show up in Wanker County on Thanksgiving with a cheesecake and a smile. I encourage everyone to use the holiday to set aside pride or anger and reach out to your friends, family, co-workers, and neighbors. It's all about karma, people. Be nice and watch football with your nutbag Uncle Stewie all afternoon, and life just may reward you with a romantic (or filthy, naughty, sexy) rendezvous all night.

After you get stuffed at Aunt Wilma's holiday buffet, why not come and get stuffed at Club Pittsburgh? And don't forget to ask Patches how he enjoyed his Thanksgiving. (Just make sure the lanky geek in the do-rag is standing in earshot when you do it.)

Happy Thanksgiving.
TowelBoy

Stuffed for Thanksgiving

2008-11-13T19:48:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is really anxious to get his turkey stuffed. I look forward to hosting my family for a giant Thanksgiving feast every year. I cook, I clean, I decorate, and damn it, I'm festive. I watch parades and muse at the witty repartee of Willard Scott. I take things out of the cold box, stuff bread in them, and put them in a hot box. I baste things. I bake pies and delicious little cakes. (Okay, I buy them at Walmart, but I take them out of the package and put them on festive plates before my company arrives.) I put up the Christmas tree, hang wreaths, and string lights around the dead bushes and '83 Cavalier parked on blocks in the front yard. It is the one day out of the year that I feel joyful, relaxed, and fulfilled with my clothes on. It is my loving gift to those ingrates that I call FAMILY. That is why I was completely disheartened (royally pissed, actually) when I discovered a few days ago that Bubba has conspired with hell's demons to ruin my Thanksgiving. (“Bubba” is my mother, also affectionately referred to as Sergeant Barbara, Oh – Her!, and That Old Woman.) Honestly, I have no idea why I even bother calling Bubba. She lives in her own parallel universe out there in Wanker County, and it's really frustrating trying to communicate with someone who speaks English but refuses to understand it. Imagine Mama Harper crossed with Bill O'Reilly. Most of my conversations with Bubba start by her asking, “Do you know what your problem is?” And before I have a chance to respond, she tells me. I am truly living in the shadow of Eunice Higgins. But I digress. Apparently, Bubba has decided to hijack Thanksgiving. She's hosting the family this year because the forty-five minute trip to Camp Carrick is ''inconvenient''. This year, I do not get the joy of spending $250 and two weeks preparing to listen to the family bitch all evening that the food is too bland, the house is too cold, and my TV set is too small. Every year, these fat cats pilfer my food, house, and wallet – and I enjoy it immensely. I feel like the divine savior in Steve & Barry's sweatpants. This year, however, I have been given instructions to show up on Bubba's doorstep promptly at 3 PM with a cheesecake and a smile. Apparently she gets all the joy, which means she'll also get to do all the complaining afterwards. Bubba considers herself a martyr on par with Joan of Ark (who was never on Knots Landing, it turns out), and this year we're all pawns in her evil plot of immortality.

Newsflash, Bubba: I will not participate in this lunacy! I am not driving to Wanker County for your sadistic version of family togetherness – the back window in the Cobalt isn't large enough for a gun rack. And I can't remember the last time I had my Christian Conservative Nutbag vaccination. (I do enjoy the Wanker County magic trick: Once you pass the sign that says “Armstrong County Welcomes You”, all 187 stations on XM play the theme to “Deliverance” on a banjo.) I will not spend my favorite holiday in the Land of the Lost. I will instead spend Thanksgiving trying to get laid by any means possible. If I can't share holiday joy and love with my family in the intimacy of my own ghetto, I plan on spreading it just about everywhere else.

I feel inspired to do something completely out-of-the-ordinary for my solo Thanksgiving. I googled “alternative Thanksgiving”, but I kept getting results about volunteering at soup kitchens. Unless it's a desperate line of needy sexy people, I really don't think ladling gravy to the guy who lives in the orange shopping cart in Mulberry Way screams ''festive''. (Correnction – ''lived''. Clark confiscated the shopping cart and turned it into a dolly. True story.) My co-workers embrace the holiday as a chance to get away from me, so I'm not expecting any invitations from them. And it would be a huge let-down to go from turkey with all the fixin's to Patches' Holiday Fiber Surprise. (Apparently constipation NEVER takes a holiday.) I don't have friends, or at least the kind that don't require a condom and a Hepatitis A shot. There's really nobody in Pittsburgh I can ''pop in'' on. I've considered taking a day trip to another city. Perhaps I could spoil myself to a seedy motel with closed-circuit television. Just me, a bucket of KFC, and a bedspread with stains of love gone by. The Motel 6 chain thrives in places like Youngstown, New Castle, and Weirton – those are possibilities. Or perhaps I could just visit a 4-star hotel right here in Pittsburgh. But which one? I have several favorites! The economical route is obviously to score an invitation from someone else. Hmmm. If you're coming to Pittsburgh for the holiday and you're looking for company, let me make some suggestions...

Disclaimer: I've only spent about forty-five minutes in each of these hotels. That's just enough time to get the essence of the space without having to explain to a pissed-off housekeeper why the sheets are ruined.

The Downtown Hilton is a really swanky affair. They have those sleep number beds that poor washed-up Linsey Wagner is always babbling about on those late-night infomercials. I slept rather comfortably on the sleep number bed in room #1232 without waking up a pathetic shadow of my former “vagina network” self. I should warn you that if you're planning a threesome, you'll want to carpool. There's just not much parking in that area. And trust me, nothing ruins the buzz of a refreshing sleep number nap than going out to Gateway Center to find the Cobalt has been taken to the impound lot.

The Courtyard Marriott (downtown) is definitely geared for the business traveler on a budget. I typically wouldn't set foot in any place that's “semi-detached”, but it was a nice in-between point for me and our Queen's immigrant sidekick, Latina Magnifico. Latina was a cute culinary students whose cakes in his jeans were even tastier than the cakes on his plate. I hear he's shacked up with some Suger Daddy in the Everglades while the Queen plays house with her Smack Pappy. But I digress. He couldn't have company at his place, and I didn't feel like trekking him the whole way back to mine. Fortunately, we found this really cute business traveler from Virginia who was hospitable enough to invite us to his room at the Courtyard. If anything can kill the mood, though, it's a room at the Courtyard. The room is covered in gaudy neutral fabrics that I suspect are stained. And the windows face the attached side of the building. Well – I don't understand Mr. Hospitality's taste in lodging, and I certainly don't understand why he preferred Latina Magnifico over me. I spent most of my time watching TV while those two canoodled. (And it wasn't even flat-screen.) In case you're wondering, I had no better luck at the Courtyard Marriott Shadyside. I drove across the city in a blizzard just to have Glenn Close's homely brother answer the door. And get over it people – the hotel is technically in Bloomfield.

The Marriott City Center is by far the nicest in the Pittsburgh Marriott family. It's very easy to find parking in that neighborhood in an unseemly hour. The city keeps the streets plowed for the Penguins fans. And if you hit it just right, cute hockey boys are pouring out of the Mellon Arena. I met some cute guy in a dog collar who was in Pittsburgh with the national tour of “Aida”. We had a huge, comfortable bed, wireless internet, and a flat-screen TV. The hotel provided tons of fresh towels, and we didn't get sued over the watersports.

When you're in that neighborhood, walk right past the Double Tree. It's full of married creeps. Your wife isn't the only one that doesn't understand, Mary.

I have had numerous wonderful times at the Omni. The hotel provides a breath-taking view of downtown, and I suspect a group discount for randy homosexuals. Last winter, I met this hot guy who invited me to his room at the Omni. He suggested when I got there that I ask a friend to join us. I used his hot pictures to lure one of my obsessions over to the hotel. We did it on the bed, we did it on the floor, and through a balancing miracle, we did it on the nightstand. I thought that housekeeping was going to have to scrape me out of the shower. I met this cute but crazy jaybird there a few weeks ago. He lit so many scented candles that I got a sinus infection. But we did have great sex, and I convinced the Giant Eagle pharmacy to sell me another box of extended-release Sudafed, so it was a ''win-win'' situation. If your trick is boring, one of the nicest Starbucks stores I've ever seen is in the lobby. I recommend keeping your cell phone handy (like I have to tell that to the gays), because the elevators are a little rickety.

The Holiday Inn chain provides a nice atmosphere, and it is frequented by more urbane travelers. There are three of them in the area: North Hills, Greentree, and Forest Hills. The one in the North Hills is the home of the Big Drag Pageant. This has been an annual tradition for Club Pittsburgh employees since the Holy Boo was Her Royal Majesty. I skipped one year because I had a cold, only to be summonsed to the hotel by an attractive gentleman from Ohio in need of a little fellatio between evening wear and the talent competition. I actually hid from my boss in the lobby of the hotel. It took me twenty-eight minutes to drive there, and exactly twenty-eight seconds for Mr. Buckeye to get off. I know that I've been to the one in Greentree a handful of times, but the only thing memorable is me once crashing a wedding reception and mistaking the groom for my trick. There's some other hotel out that way that's practically interchangeable, and frankly, so are the men. I did have a great experience at the Holiday Inn in Forest Hills. First, I could see the Expo Mart from my trick's room! My trick turned out to be this arrogant pretty boy that bordered on misogynistic pig. He assumed that because he was young, athletic, and flawless I would be his bitch. Obviously, I had a great time. And I think when I was pulling out of the hotel driveway, I saw Sally Wiggin stumbling to her car.

I've had mixed experiences with the Wyndam in the Oakland section of the city. I've actually had sex in the hotel twice, and both times were mediocre. I spend more time focusing on my car alarm screaming out on Forbes Avenue than the advances of my gentleman callers. I once met this delightful guy from Michigan at Club Pittsburgh, and he had me drop him off at the Wyndham. If I weren't so hungry that I was seriously considering breezing through the Taco Bell drive-thru without Immodium in the glove box, I would have gone back to his room with him and enjoyed another delightful round with the Energizer Bunny from the Motor City. He definitely had the power to change my opinion of the entire Wyndam experience. But my stomach won, and I drove straight into the arms of the only man who always gives me pleasure: Burger King. Speaking of Oakland, there is a hotel above Panera Bread, but I can never remember its name. That, too, has brought mixed experiences. Both had a celebrity connection. The first guy I met there was the spitting image of Justin Timberlake. Only younger and prettier. The deal was that you violate him sexually, and his middle-aged boyfriend comes in and ''catches'' you. The boyfriend didn't touch my junk, and I realized the kid had more in common with Gumby than Justin. Oh, good times! The last time I showed up at that hotel, however, another celebrity wanna-be answered the door: Corky from that Patti Lupone TV show “Life Goes On”. I gave him the number for the Circle of Life and moved on. But on that trip I learned that Panera Bread actually has other things besides bread, so it wasn't a total waste.

I once had sex at the Days Inn on Banksville Road. All I remember is that Banksville Road is divided by a cement median, and it cost $600 bucks to replace the steering rack in my car.

Oh, how I love hotels! One of these days I'm actually going to spend the night at one. Question: If I spend the whole night, is that considered a relationship?

The problem with hotel sex is that someone in the hotel has to invite you over. I learned the hard way that up-scale hotels like the Omni do not appreciate you lurking in their lobby, looking for horny travelers. Want to know where you can always find a horny traveler? Club Pittsburgh. It has become Thanksgiving tradition that after I send my ungrateful brood packing, I go down to the club for a little holiday delight. And every year, I go home feeling a little empathy for that bird I overstuffed twelve hours earlier.

Gobble, Gobble!
TowelBoy

We The Cruisers...

2008-10-31T17:16:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is so excited about Tuesday's election that he could nearly explode. It's been an eternity since I've been able to have my morning coffee without being hijacked by Barack, Hillary, John, Joe, or Sarah on KDKA or CNN or MSNBC. I have spent two years getting fired up, making a firm decision, backing down, changing my mind, and starting over. I find myself straying away from Manhunt and Squirt to check the campaign allegations in Ohio or the polls in Virginia. My co-workers and I have spent much of a quickly-dwindling 2008 discussing it, fretting about it, arguing over it, and trying to move past it. (And frankly, the discussion in the office at Club Pittsburgh is always far more interesting then the squawking on “The View”) I have been so fixated with Decision '08 that finding a (30 minute) husband has fallen to a distant second in my priorities. Whether you're Joe the Plumber or TowelBoy the Trollop, everybody has a stake in what happens on Tuesday. The foundation of our government is so strong that it's cradled us for over two hundred years. The Constitution and the Bill of Rights are, perhaps, the most brilliant words ever written. Those ten items give us a sense of direction as a nation, and they keep us out of trouble. That said...

I can't help but wonder why nobody has ever written a Hook-Up Bill of Rights. Neither campaign has mentioned one word about how they're going to make getting laid easier. Will Barack Obama ban “future plans hook-ups”? (I really, really hate those. It's now or never, Mary.) Will John McCain fine any delusional queen that shaves ten years off his actual age in his internet profile? Will Sarah Palin banish you to Russia for palling around with obnoxious drunkards? I truly believe most of you guys need some serious guidance. You would think it would be incredibly easy: Take two attractive, horny guys, throw in some sexual compatibility and geographic capability, and the result is a most perfect union. At least for an hour or so. Well, my friends, this is not the case. I have given you a million chances, and you've found a million ways to fuck it up. I've decided that perhaps we could use some guidelines to increase conjugal relations and decrease whining and complaining. Through extensive research (and a few trips to UPMC Southside), I have reduced the art of conjugal bliss to five easy concepts. Yep – it's really this simple:

#5) KNOW WHAT YOU WANT. I am always amazed by the number of guys in chat rooms and bathhouses that don't know why they're there. Anyone familiar with an internet profile knows that there are usually little boxes where you can check your interests. The common choices are conversation, friends, relationships, hook-ups, or fuck buddies. (The most ridiculous of the ''pre-fabricated choices” is Travel Companion. I am constantly amazed at the number guys with a photo of their asses in the air who claim to be looking for a Travel Companion. But I digress.) Yet some guys get testy when you say something sexually suggestive on a hook-up website or touch them in a bathhouse. The cruising websites seem to be littered with “bi-curious” guys who have been curious since the Clinton administration. At what point is your curiosity satisfied? After eight years of sucking dick, I think you have enough information to make a firm decision. Knowing what you want also means being aware of what turns you on, as well as a sense of boundaries. I have a list of activities that turn me on. None alone is usually an absolute requirement. But if someone asks how to turn me on, I'm ready with a few suggestions that have worked really well in the past. I also know that I will not bareback, top or bottom, no exceptions. I will not be ambiguous about that (or lie about it) just to land a hook-up. Nobody can turn you on (or off, for that matter) if you can't define what does it for you. Be aware of what you're after, and make sure you're in the right place to get it. You wouldn't go to Giant Eagle for new tires – don't go to Squirt looking for a Travel Companion.

#4) YOU WIN SOME, AND YOU LOSE SOME. I have spent fifteen years chasing after sex, friendships, and love with varying success. There are some periods where I meet a lot of guys, and other times when I get no attention whatsoever. It's a process learning to appreciate when you're hot and staying upbeat when you're not. Even though I spend equal time in each realm, the active periods seem fleeting, and the not-so-active times feel like an eternity. I would have sex with a new handsome, passionate, and compatible guy everyday if I could. That, unfortunately is a fairy tale for just about everyone. I have a handsome young friend who recently wrote “I must be ugly because everyone deletes my messages” in his internet profile. If he can't get laid, there is absolutely no hope for the rest of us. I had a very attractive roommate for several years that would complain about ''dry spells''. It's all about circumstance. Some of the world's most beautiful guys aren't getting laid. Often, a hook-up comes down to a chemical reaction in the brain, or a snap judgment that has nothing to do with who we are. There are so many different factors that make us desirable and attractive, and an internet profile with a grainy photograph or a glance in a bathhouse can't convey all of those things. I recently had a co-worker tell me that he was giving up on cruising because rejection is too hard. I agree that it sucks – but I'm slowly learning not to take someone's disinterest as a value judgment. There are many handsome, sexy, incredible guys out there that, for whatever reason, don't spark my interest sexually. I realize that just because some twink in Room 503 isn't interested doesn't mean that I'm the Elephant Man. On the flip side, if I'm interested in someone, I let him know. (There is a huge difference between expressing your interest and being a pest. Learn to take ''no'' for an answer and move on.) The pattern for me is that guys that I'm sure will be interested (similar age, stats, etc.) pay no attention to me, while guys that I think are totally out of my league end up approaching me because I'm too self-conscious to make the first move. So my advice is to go for it! And even if he's not interested, it's just a matter of time before some sexy stud will be.

#3) A LITTLE HONESTY GOES A LONG WAY. I personally can no longer watch MTV. Everyone is ten years younger, ten times prettier, and gets ten million dollars for doing squat. For a lot of years, feminists have complained that the media portrays physicality in a way that's unattainable (or unrealistic) for most women. I think every gay man will agree that we fall into this trap. We have certain ideas about how we should look and how other people should perceive us. We forget about all our other fabulous attributes because we're not young enough, not smooth enough, not buff enough, or not socially connected enough. And I know first-hand that we discriminate against each other based own our own “inadequacies”. (That's why the internet's biggest flamers will only talk to ''masculine'' guys.) But if you plan on actually meeting someone and getting naked in front of him, he's going to eventually figure it out if you let Karl Rove write your profile. No amount of candle light can make a 42 year old man with a spare tire look like Justin Timberlake. Anything short of twenty cocktails won't make this same guy seem “buff”, “smooth”, or all these other ridiculous qualifiers. Let me lay it out for you: I'm 32 years old. I don't look 22, 28, or even 31. I am not athletic, muscular, filled-out, or even toned – I'm lanky bordering on bony. I have splotchy skin, more hair on my body than most homos consider acceptable, and not nearly enough on my head. I have to move financial mountains to make payments on my base-model Chevy, I think clothes from Walmart are too expensive, and I can't afford to hang out at Spin, Images, or 5801. I talk incessantly, especially when I'm nervous. I'm not a drag queen, but I'm not particularly butch, and I'm way too lazy to be dominant. I am far more familiar with Anecdotes and Fucking than Abercrombie & Finch. Why am I telling you this? Because if you met me online and I showed up at your house, you would know all these things the moment you open the door. It would just take one glance, and all my secrets would be out. That's why it's my policy to be 100% honest 100% of the time. Next year I'll be 33, and perhaps I'll have a spare tire or a hunchback. If so, I promise it will be in my profile. Please stop talking to the so-called ''friend'' that tells you that you look ten years younger than you are. (Unfortunately, a lot of times that ''friend'' is Jose Cuervo.) Being completely honest with your gentleman callers (and yourself!) will save you from being completely disappointed in the end.

Oh – and none of those really unfashionable things about me keeps me from having sex with amazing, hot guys. In fact, it turns them on.

#2) PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. Nobody wants to wake up at the bathhouse lying next to Drunkerella. A little bit of self-control can go a long way. For seven years, I've watched guys pass through the door at Club Pittsburgh that are far too inebriated/intoxicated/altered to make smart sexual decisions. I've also had guys show up on my own doorstep reeking of cigarettes, alcohol, pot, and all sorts of other undesirable things. The Paradox: Everyone is attracted to a ''hot mess'', but nobody takes them or their advances seriously. I had this on-going thing with this really attractive guy that just couldn't pull it together. At first, I would meet up with him because I found him dark and alluring; after awhile though, I would get together with him because I felt sorry for him. Sometimes he'd be so drunk that he couldn't even get out of bed to answer the door when I showed up. His apartment was so incredibly filthy that I had to literally dig a path from the front door to his bedroom. He wouldn't shower before sex or after. The last time we met, he got so sick from something he drank that he had to lie still on my bedroom floor for an hour before he felt well enough for me to drive him home. And the hot mess, alluring as he may be, can almost never perform. I've finally realized that a handsome guy is one thing, and a hot mess is another. Some advice to avoid being someone else's ''hot mess'': Clean yourself up. Shower, wash your hair, brush you teeth, and put on some clean clothes. Open a window and let out some of the cigarette smoke, and empty the ashtrays while your at it. Don't invite someone to your house if it smells like your Uncle Morty is lying dead under a pile of laundry. Don't expect some hot stud to shove his tongue down a distillery. And don't show up at the bathhouse so drunk that you won't remember who you met the next morning. What good is having hot sex with that amazing guy if you have no recollection of it tomorrow? How is it sexy to wake up in Room 307 missing 33 bucks and your dignity without a hot memory to take home?

#1) DRAMA AND SEX DON'T MIX. This is what it all comes down to my friends. Remember earlier when I said that two attractive, interested gay men having sex should be simple? Anything that complicates an otherwise simple union is DRAMA. Drama is complaining to a potential trick about your boyfriend, your wife, your family, or your job. I should be able to have sex with you without ever knowing about your fag hag's bi-polar disorder or your boyfriend's drinking problem. Your dog's liver disease has nothing to do with a good blowjob. I don't want to know that your friends suck, your boss is a dick, or that your father left your mother for his secretary when you were five. Drama often starts with a simple, seemingly harmless statement. “I really want to get together tonight, BUT...”. But I have to work in the morning. But my sister is visiting from Phoenix. But my grandma has cancer. But my car is in the shop. (Honestly, you'd think every queen is Pittsburgh drives an '87 Yugo because I've had dozens of potential hook-ups ruined by a car that won't start. Get AAA, people.) Not knowing what you want and expecting someone else to figure it out for you is drama. Complaining that nobody wants you is drama. Telling me you're ''athletic'' when you're built like Jabba the Hut with a gland problem is drama. And being so drunk that you ping pong off the walls of the bathhouse is drama. Honestly, here's how this should go. Write this down:

ME: You're really hot. You have a great (smile, ass, whatever...).
HANDSOME, SOBER, SANE GENTLEMAN: Thanks, you too. What are you looking for?
ME: Some hot sex. Anything safe is cool with me.
H,S,S,G: Wow, that sounds great.
ME: Are you looking?
H,S,S,G: Sure. My place or yours?
ME: I'm on my way...

Yes – it can be that incredibly simple. And once in a blue moon, I meet someone handsome, sober, and sane, at that's exactly how it goes down. Notice neither of us said anything about a jealous boyfriend or a crazy wife. Please note there were no excuses such as broken-down automobile or a bout of Colitis. I was honest, he was honest, and that pretty much guarantees that we both know what we're getting into. We're going to meet, we're going to have a great time, and we'll both remember it fondly tomorrow.

I, frankly, have no idea which candidate can whip you guys into shape. But I do know that someone should whip your ass if you don't waddle it to that voting booth on Tuesday.

Please VOTE :)
TowelBoy

Buckeye Brethren

2008-10-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy has a funky toe. I have been cursed with this terribly unsexy affliction since 2004. For reasons that defy medical science and the nurse practitioner at the free clinic, I have suffered terrible agony from a recurring case of onychocryptosis on my left foot for what seems like six lifetimes. (“Onychocryptosis” is the medical term for an ingrown toenail. “Drag Toe” is the whorehouse vernacular for the same disorder.) My toe turns deep purple and swells to three times its normal size. I can't walk, I can't wear shoes, and Marlee Matlin can hear me scream when my bed sheet brushes up against my antagonistic appendage. Even after a surgical correction, my drag toe was back in three months. Obviously, this makes interaction with gentleman callers a tad tricky. I can never take my socks off because my festering toe is a visible horror. I can't get on my knees because that position grinds my toe into the floor. And I certainly can't jump out the bedroom window when Mr. Discretion's bodybuilding, beer chugging, shotgun toting boyfriend comes home from work early. I've learned to be a proper companion in spite of my funky toe, however, and 99.9% of the attractive gentleman who take the Carrick Tour are none the wiser. One notable exception was a kinky bitch who had an unexpected encounter with podiatric pestilence. (Okay, so I pulled that word out of my ass. But I checked – much to my surprise, ''podiatric'' is an actual word that means ''pertaining to podiatry”. Google ''podiatric medicine''.) I met this young cutie a few years ago during a particularly grueling bout of Drag Toe. Let's call him Adam2. (We're calling him that because, as it turns out, I once spent a delightful drunken evening with his roommate, Adam1. To clarify: Adam1 was drunk and remembers nothing – I didn't drink and gleefully remember everything.) I met Adam2 on some internet cruising site, ironically just like Adam1. Adam2 decided to come over to Camp Carrick immediately for raspberry tea and small talk. The tea was really hot, so we took our clothes off. (I was a bit uneasy when I noticed my pile of clothes on the floor clashed with this great rug I practically stole from Value City. This should have been a warning.) But I was having a delightful time getting acquainted. I was entranced by kissing, touching this really great massage over my back and down my legs. And then I felt this sharp pain shoot through my foot and up my spine. I jolted my eyes open and was shocked to see Adam2 nibbling on my purple, swollen, festering toe. Apparently my scream scared the wits out of him, because he fell off the bed. Either that or I kicked him. It's hard to say – I was in so much pain that I simultaneously felt suicidal and superior. “Don't you think it's erotic when someone licks your toes?”, Adam2 asked. “Nibbling on a toe is erotic,” I agreed. “But nibbling on gangrene is disgusting.” That day, Adam2 learned the important lesson of paying careful attention to what he sticks in his mouth. (Don't feel bad, Adam2. I learned that one the hard way, too.) But I digress. The point is that my funky toe can put me in a real funk. And for TowelBoy, the short days of late fall and early winter are the funkiest time of year. Combine the two, and you get TowelBoy's worst Sunday of the millennium...

My bad luck actually started on Saturday night. Jack Frost brought my six-month flip flop streak to a chilly halt. I headed the ominous warnings of Kevin Benson (I had to watch that weather report three times because I was so distracted by his eyebrows. Lay off the tweezers, girl.) and forced my funky digit into a comfortably-worn pair of cross-trainers. This simple yet impossible feat is accomplished by stuffing massive amounts of cotton under my toenail. I spent the entire night hobbling around the whorehouse like I was the guest of honor at a Jerry Lewis telethon. I was convinced that nothing would take my mind off of my festering toe.

Nothing, as it turns out, but this charming drunkard visiting from the Mistake on the Lake. (Sorry, Sally. I've been there. It ain't ''all that''.) He was good looking and age-appropriate, with a nice body and a cute smile. Let's call him Jason52 (I'm giving myself some breathing room here. I've always had very good luck with Jasons.) Admittedly, Jason52 and I got our romance off to a rocky start. First, he was tipsier than Drunkerella after dollar draft night at the Rusty Anchor. He spoke extremely loud and looked right into my eyes. “I'm from CLEVELAND,” he say. “Do you have a pool?” No. “Can I get a room with no music?” No. “Is my room good for twelve hours?” No. Then he proceeds to inform me that all these amenities are available at the best little whorehouse in Cleveland, and you get all these things with out the ''queasy Appalachian feel” of Pittsburgh. Well, as handsome as Jason52 is, here's a newsflash: Cleveland may have “quiet rooms”. Cleveland may have two swimming pools larger than Sparkerella's money vault. And Cleveland may let your drunken ass stay passed out for twelve hours. But Cleveland does not have Mamslee! Or Sally, for that matter, except on drunken binges of debauchery immediately following Pride or right before AARP-sponsored birthdays. When is the last time that Cleveland has received a good general cleaning? I've been there – it could use one. And how many Flex employees have three Olympic gold metals for butter churning? Hmmm?!? (Okay, so he made them out of aluminum foil and dryer lint, but we play along.) Cleveland is also void of weekend visits from Sugar Snaps, spooky Verdungalungs, and Kribitz. And I'm willing to bet that our very own Mayor Tutwieler (or at least incarcerated councilwoman Carlisle) could kick Frank G. Jackson's Rust Belt ass. Or at least trade some space on a pretty billboard for a little campaign cash. I've driven to Cleveland exactly four times, and I've gotten laid exactly ZERO. But I digress. I checked Jason52 in with a smile, and repeatedly fantasized about trapping him with an unwanted pregnancy all night. (It is incredibly unfair that my sister has that option and I don't. I really want a gay-by). He kept coming to my window repeatedly. He wanted me to order him a pizza at 4:00 in the morning. Apparently, in the wee hours before sunrise on Lake Erie, you snap your fingers and a large pepperoni and jello shot pizza just appears. I told him that I couldn't get him a pizza, and he offered to dine on my ''little swimmers'' instead. That sealed the deal. Swallowing on the first date? This, dear reader, is obviously true love.

After I finished “work” at 9:00 on Sunday morning, I did the only logical thing: I stood outside Jason52's door and eavesdropped. (Because everyone knows that bathhouse espionage is the most effective way of trapping a handsome gentleman into a lifelong commitment.) Jason52 was obviously entertaining a gentleman caller, which frankly is the only thing that stopped me from barging in. They were in the post-coital ''awkward banter'' phase. Jason52 actually has a great since of humor. Not only is he devilishly handsome, he's also quite witty when his blood-alcohol level drops to a level considered ''mundane'' by Archduke and the post-Jitters crowd. The gentleman caller sounded incredibly sexy too. They started talking about their conjugal match-ups and whom they considered studs and duds. And then Jason 52 says, “I still think the cutest one here was the tall geeky bitch that checked us in.” Mr. Gentleman Caller immediately concurs that the lanky douche behind the counter is ''sorta sexy'' in a ''really weird way''. Geeky? Geeky! Well, I was about to bust through that door and tell him that this geek has a throbbing toe that makes on-the-knees fellatio an incredible sacrifice when that dick head assistant manager screamed for me to cover my pasty ass and get back to work. Stupid rag headed, hair pinned, middle management ass kisser! That movie nailed it – Damian truly is The Omen. He probably just wanted them both for himself...

I went home incredibly dejected. And wound up tighter than David Duchovny at a tittie bar. I relentlessly searched all the cruising websites until I convinced some stud to come over for an afternoon delight. According to his internet profile, he's 28, blond, and built like Justin Timberlake. And he has the pictures to prove it. We'll call him Eric202. Only when he arrived, I was stunned to discover that he's 128, all his blond hair fell out years ago, and he's built like Boxcar Willie. Perhaps I should have been tipped off when the pictures where black & white. Honestly people, I always say that I'm not going to put myself on fire sale, but I'd been awake for over 20 hours, I'd ''worked'' more than ten of those, and I was willing to offer deep discounts in my usual standards. I momentarily considered letting Eric202 fall to his artificial knees and have his way with me. But then I brushed my hand against his ass. It was like grabbing a melted Ziploc bag half full of jello. Absolute yuck. I used my “I suddenly have really bad GERD and can't have sex” excuse, which (thank you, Holy Boo!) worked. He went home without any lovin', and certainly without any raspberry tea.

(One time I really did have this sudden attack of GERD during a fellatio marathon, and I was intrigued by how repulsed my gentleman caller was by the notion of esophageal reflux on his love wand. I've since discovered that GERD can get me out of just about any unwanted sexual experience. Go ahead – try it.)

This geeky bitch was now more dejected than when I was pleasuring myself outside the door of Room 313 four hours earlier. I called my therapist, Dr. Cheyenne Beaumann, who is volunteering his time as an au pair for the Palin children until the election is over. He was rooting through the medicine cabinet looking for the bottle of ''morning after'' pills when I called. Exhausted and in tears, I told him my sad tale. Inspired by the view of a bustling Russia through the bathroom skylight, Dr. Beaumann gave me the common-sense advice as wise and timeless as the Old Country: “Wash three Benadryl down with a bottle of Sam Adams and go to bed like you do every morning. You'll be good as new after two straight days of well-deserved rest.”

That worked for exactly 1 hour and 47 minutes. That's when the top sheet brushed against my gangrenous toe, waking me in a fit of agony. The combination of a half dozen antihistamines and a pint of Boston lager left me groggy and listless for the big drag pageant later that evening. I was the only queen there wearing $3 whorehouse flip flops, and I was too tired to care. And I couldn't get laid in a ballroom full of randy fags, either. Not one gentleman (or possibly transsexual) returned my glances and advances. Typical, I think the man of my dreams went home with Tina. There's some consolation for you, Madame Ziffel: It obviously wasn't my year, either.

Thank goodness October is almost over and there's only 22 frigid Sunday mornings until Spring. If you're like me, and you need a few fun events packed with handsome gentleman to get you through, I have some suggestions. There are two great back-to-back events on Halloween (October 31) that you can't miss. First, check out SPELL, the spooky Halloween bash to benefit the Persad Center. The spectacular Manse on the Mountain is the venue for this guaranteed crowd-pleaser. Join some awesomely fun guys for costumes, drinks, prizes, and fun. We have tickets for Spell available at Club Pittsburgh. Tickets are $50 in advance, $70 at the door. Don't miss Walter's final year as Condoleeza Rice! After Spell, get your holiday ass down to the club for our annual Halloween party. We're offering $5 lockers to those in a politically-themed costume. See – that ratty up-swooped wig and Tina Fey glasses you have crammed in your glove box can save you some serious cash. Is hanging out at Club Pittsburgh's Halloween bash more fun than ''palling around'' with Patches and his Amish brethren? You betcha! Enjoy these events, but PLEASE save some stamina for my Squirt Party on Saturday, November 1. Scroll down to “Squirt on TowelBoy” for more information on this fabulous event.

Are you still thinking about missing any of these awesome events?!? Say it ain't so, Joe.

I returned to my wits on Tuesday and made up for Sunday's disaster by having two handsome gentlemen make their way from the freshman dorms at Pitt to the bright lights of Carrick. As these two studs walked through the door, they simultaneously said the words that fill me with fear:

Wow, you have really sexy feet...

Interpreting a Morse Code call for help from a butter churn,
TowelBoy

Squirt on TowelBoy

2008-10-09T15:19:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is very excited to tell you about a super event unfolding at Club Pittsburgh. On Saturday, November 1, we'll be hosting our first-ever “Squirt Party” in conjunction with the Squirt cruising website.

A few weeks ago, a very handsome gentleman named Ed stopped into Club Pittsburgh. Ed is touring the country on behalf of www.squirt.org . He's on an adventure to find businesses like ours who want to cross-promote with the website. Never one to turn away from an attractive gentleman, I was intrigued by Ed's mission. He left some promotional materials, and I discussed the possibility of tandem events with my boss. We've been exploring ways to thrive on the web for a long time. We realize that the epicenter of cruising has shifted from bars & bathhouses to sites like Manhunt and Gay.com. We've really tried to find ways for internet cruising to benefit Club Pittsburgh and its members. That's why we've introduced our new website, the online community, the blog, etc. But I digress. After exchanging several emails, Ed made a proposal that we couldn't refuse. We're now committed to a fabulous event that will introduce Squirt cruisers to Club Pittsburgh while providing great benefits to our current club members. Squirt has sent a really sexy invitation to their targeted members with a great incentive to check out the club. And Squirt is offering current Club Pittsburgh members free memberships to their website. We'll also be giving away tons of Squirt logo items. I think that Squirt's promotion to their members will draw a new and exciting crowd to the club. I'm very excited – I'm sure this is going to be a lot fun. (This is the first event that TowelBoy has coordinated for the club.) I've been hearing a lot of complaints about the ''new'' Gay.com. There are a lot of bugs & technical problems, users can't log on with their own chat client, and the damn thing crashes my computer. The site has been down numerous times the past week while they work out the bugs. Manhunt is reliable but offers no information about the city's cruising hot spots. Squirt gives you the resources to connect with hot guys online and off. I think this is the perfect time to check out Squirt...

Squirt has been around for a long time. I've had a Squirt account since ''back in the day'' when I was a horny grad student in Boston. My last semester, I lived in this development that I'm pretty sure was a public housing project. (A little sidebar: housing in the Boston area is outrageous. This was, by far, the cheapest housing I could find. And ten years ago, the rent for this place was four times what I'm currently paying in MORTGAGE for Camp Carrick now. I wasn't asking any questions.) The apartment was tucked back in a hidden cul-de-sac (sort of a government cheese version of “Knots Landing”) off of the highway. The place was extremely difficult for me to find, let alone possible gentleman callers. There was, however, a shopping center anchored by a giant K-Mart a few blocks away. I figured it would be easiest if my internet hook-ups just met me in front of Big K. Just about any time of the day, you could find my bony ass in the outer lobby of K-Mart waiting for my potential Prince Charming to pull up in front of the store. Mind you – this place was swarming with security guards, and Boston police constantly patrolled the parking lot. Yet day after day, there I was standing in the lobby. And it went down like this: A car pulls up. I lean into the car. If we're a match, I get in the car. If not, the car pulls away. No match means I go home and get back online. And the whole thing starts over again. It wasn't unusual for me to be standing in the K-Mart lobby five times a day. Oh, and did I mention that I'm naturally thinner than a strung-out crack whore? Yet oddly, neither the security guards nor the Boston police ever questioned this. Think about it: The car pulls up. I lean in the car. Sometimes I get in the car. There's obviously some negotiating going on. One would think that you wouldn't have to be Melina Kanakeredes from “CSI” to suspect something fishy was going on. Drugs? Prostitution? A plot to kidnap the Heiress Von Mamslee? Yet neither the store's security guards or the Boston police ever said a word. It's safe to say that I screened dozens of gentleman callers in front of that K-Mart store. Morning, noon, and night – sometimes several in one day. Nobody ever questioned it. Thank goodness I wasn't a black tranny, or I'd have spent my sexual peak at San Quentin. (Wait -- I'm not sure that's a bad thing...) My point is that I had tons of fun experiences as a result of cruising Squirt. Together we may have single-handedly saved Big K from bankruptcy. I also found bathhouses in Boston and Providence through Squirt, which in some strange way brought me to my current reign as Bitch of the Baths. I eventually met this incredibly handsome Brazilian gentleman on Squirt who kept me entertained for the rest of my Boston tenure. Perhaps K-Mart put my picture on the sides of their milk cartons in my absence. I really should have taken a photo of myself in front of that store, just for the warm memories.

Squirt is awesome. So is the handsome Ed. I suspect our Squirt party will be the first of many.

Do you want to know what isn't particularly awesome? Losing control of your bowels in the lobby of the whorehouse. I noticed something was quite fowl while I was checking my Squirt email instead of paying attention to the front counter last night. At first, I thought the Saint Barnabas escapee that checked in a little while prior was just a little gassy. As Helen illustrates just about every weekend, gastric eruptions are just a fact of life for the old & ornery. (I still vividly remember her ''beans are a cheap source of protein'' phase!) But the smell just got more...pungent. I started to think something more serious is going down. I considered getting up and checking it out, but the big chair is really, really comfortable. Oh, and I got an instant message! Then the elevator door opened, and a horrified gentleman cried, “I think someone crapped in front of the ATM machine!” I peered out over the window...and sure enough, that's exactly what happened. Oh dear! Either someone was trying to make a statement over Sparkerella's ludicrous ATM surcharge, or Miss Mary LaLa is having control issues. My boyfriend Dr. Cheyenne Beaumann suspects Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I think he overindulged at Mexican Night @ the Ponderosa. (One wonders if we learned anything from June Allyson's relentless 80's adult diaper campaign.) At any rate, what started out as a delightful afternoon of wasting time turned into a rather shitty evening. If the mystery crapper is reading this, may I make a suggestion:

http://www.hulu.com/watch/10308/saturday-night-live-oops-i-crapped-my-pants

Since Mr. Poopy Pants ruined my impeccably-planned evening of doing absolutely nothing, I've scheduled another one. I'm sitting at the computer wasting my time doing this instead of focusing my energies on finding a gentleman caller. So...

Please, please, PLEASE come to my Squirt Party. It will be more fun than Sarah Palin....ummm, geez....errr...oh crap: MAVERICK.

Getting Back Into Life,
TowelBoy

Oh – duh:
Please visit:
www.squirt.org

An Important Message from a Notable Queen

2008-10-02T14:42:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy has spent the last 32 years in pink haze of confusion. That's why it's sort of ironic that I may have caused a queenly katzenjammer with comments that I made in a prior posting. Apparently, there are some rumors floating through the community as well. (Gee, that's shocking.) I mentioned in my last blurb that some issues with the city have led to some changes. We're now hearing rumors from our members that the city is shutting us down, and that our demise is imminent. I have been fending off rumors of Club Pittsburgh getting ''raided'' for the last seven years. I've addressed this issue in the blog several times. We are a licensed, legal operation that exists with transparency in the community. The city not only knows that we're here, they've granted us permits to operate. In this case, however, this particular bit of overblown gossip may have spun from an actual event. Apparently, the city has received persistent, numerous complaints from one source. The merit of this person's grievance is unknown. We don't know who it is, or why he/she is so angry. There are several possible motives, from a religious zealot offended by a gay business to a personal vendetta against someone in the Club Pittsburgh family. However, the city has a fiduciary responsibility (I love that word because it sounds like ''douche''.) to investigate any complaint it receives. We got word from the city in late August that they'd received these complaints and that they were checking into them. The discussion with the city was extremely friendly, and we were completely cooperative during their inquiry. The whole ordeal was an administrative issue that never involved law enforcement. There was never a chance that the club would be ''raided'' or disrupted. After several meetings and discussions, the situation is now completely resolved. After this process, we've decided to make a few administrative changes to avoid future problems. These changes relate directly to our employees and their job function/description. That is what I was referring to in my previous post. These changes should have no impact on our members' positive experience at the club. I received an email from a concerned member asking if nudity was still permitted. Absolutely! Another sent me a message asking why we altered the website and removed the photo galleries. Simply put, we made these changes to make our website more palatable to the community at large. I'll be posting new photos soon. (I'm glad you enjoy them!) We are always looking for ways to make the website intriguing and informative. We're also planning to add a HEALTH section as a source of community outreach. I'll keep you posted.

The bottom line: It's business as usual at Club Pittsburgh. We weren't ''raided'' (my boss loves when I put that word in quotes), and we're not closing. The club is the hedonistic haven that it's always been. I promise your experience at the club will be the same. We've accepted that rumors and complaints will persist as long as we're here -- we're just getting smarter at dealing with them. You still have a great place to be yourself and relax. The facilities haven't changed. The amenities haven't changed. The staff hasn't changed. (I'm still dizzy, Patches is still ornery, and Punxy is still snackin'.) And I still have a job. I can continue to revel in all my Ghetto Bling. (And that's really the most important thing, people.) Now that all that ugly business is behind us...

Check back soon for my take on the great events @ Club Pittsburgh this October!

TowelBoy

Coming Out Mamslee

2008-09-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is ready to say farewell to summer. Autumn officially arrives on Monday morning, and I am definitely ready for the change. The past month or so at Club Pittsburgh has been incredibly hectic. My boss, as well as a handful of co-workers, had taken some time off to enjoy the remains of the season. Requests from the city forced us to change some of our rules and policies. And plans for the big 7th anniversary party with a last-minute surprise (and not a good one) from Barrett Long kept everyone in a frenzy. Our staff and our schedule (more or less) has returned to normal. Both our employees and our members have taken some mandated changes, including the smoking ban, in stride. And the anniversary party was a wonderful success, albeit not exactly the party we planned. We're now cruising through that wonderful (and very short) time of year where we all catch our collective breath before the holiday hysteria begins.

Frankly, a little bit of time on my hands is always a mixed bag. It's nice to have a break, and I can certainly keep myself occupied with household and family projects. That's not usually how it goes down, though. Time on my hands now inevitably means semen on my hands later. But I digress. A little more on the anniversary party...

Let me start by thanking everyone for their support our entire anniversary weekend. I spoke with several folks who are members of the online community and received my wacky mailings. It was really cool to meet and talk with those of you who've taken a vested interest in our club. Some I've known for years, while others were new faces that took me by surprise. Everyone was extremely gracious. I'm thankful for this, considering I had to deliver the bad news to everyone entering: Barrett Long wasn't coming. I'm not entirely sure what happened. One co-worker said that he missed his flight. Another heard that he had a death in the family. Others were chattering that he's just irresponsible, and that caused a mishap. (More evidence that crack is whack. Will it ever stop, Whitney?) I honestly don't know the whole story. My manager John did request that Barrett write a letter for us to post on our website. Unfortunately, he has yet to oblige. Frequently, it's somewhere between a minor nuisance and a full-out disaster every time we schedule a celebrity guest to visit the club. One porn star refused to work out in our facilities and demanded that we take him to Gold's Gym. Another took so many chemicals to get hard that he couldn't get his erection down, and it sent my manager flying through the night looking for a box of Sudafed. Several years ago, we had a younger porn star that was obviously tweaking. He fluttered about the club, spattering nonsense, and he was physically unable to provide any sort of entertainment. We've had arrogant mishaps, unexpected cancellations and replacements, drama queen calamity...and the list goes on & on. Don't get me wrong: most of our celebrity guests have been an absolute pleasure. They're wonderful personalities, and they draw huge, fun crowds. Anytime we schedule a guest, though, we're taking a chance that all holy hell is going to break loose. We're extremely in debt to our co-worker Thomas (Pidge), who agreed to entertain the crowd with no prior notice. And nobody complained. Hallelujah! For most of the night, I had less than five lockers unsold. In a four our period, we gave away nearly 100 free lockers. (I'd received a few email complaints that we didn't discount rooms. Unfortunately, room revenue is how we pay for the party. Something's gotta give somewhere, ya know?) Overall, the weekend was stellar. Thanks to all – both members and employees – who made it possible.

You've often heard me mention my co-workers by a nickname. We've got Patches, Scooter, Punxy and Pidge, just to name a few. Perhaps you've wondered where these nicknames come from. It's actually quite simple: When someone new is hired, the bitches at the front desk give them an uncomfortable name. There's recently been a misconception among new hires that they somehow have a say in their nicknames. (Pidge.) This is absolutely ridiculous. The only person that came ''pre-named'' was Weezie, and frankly I'm just waiting for a more inspired nickname to come flying out of our mouths. When I think of nicknames past and present...Cessilita, Inferno, Cheboygan, Morty...not one person has had a vote in the hideous name the mean girls give them. One nickname that I've altered for the internet audience is our term of endearment for Richie. I've tried calling him “Little Ricky”, but that somehow is not befitting of the Queen of General Cleaning. And it confuses those who've heard me (and just about everyone else) call him by his true name. I'm sure most of you already know that the mean girls at the front desk dubbed Richie “Mamslee” years ago. It is so ingrained that sometimes he doesn't even turn his head when I yell “Richie”. I've avoiding calling him Mamslee online because, frankly, it sounds like a racial slur. I'm a little nervous screaming it over the P.A. system for that reason, too. There is actually no racial intent behind it. Here's where the nickname comes from: A few years ago, Patches got me a copy of Kirstie Alley's autobiography as a birthday gift. In the book, she jokes that (for reasons that baffle her) her two kids have taken to calling her “Mamslee”. In that context, obviously, it has nothing to do with an under-appreciated black woman in a bandanna and a house dress scrubbing floors. It actually refers to a morbidly obese rich white bitch trying to scarf down a Jenny Lee cheesecake and a two liter bottle of grape soda while looking for a parking space at the Scientology pot luck. We don't call Mamslee “Mamslee” because he tirelessly cleans and answers every request with “Yes Ma'am”. (Although that is certainly true.) Frankly, we just like the sound of the word. (And it sounds even better if you say his name like Katherine Hepburn in “On Golden Pond”.) But I digress. Now that he's ''come out'', I need to give a huge shout-out to our Mamslee for making the anniversary party so much easier on all of us. We passed hundreds of drunken revelers through that place during the course of eight grueling hours, and that place was so spotless in the morning that Alice Nelson (I bet you didn't know that was the Bradys' housekeeper's last name, did you? Google it.) would have wept. Mamslee was kind enough to let me retain him for an extra hour, and the housekeeping staff that followed was grateful for his efforts. Well done, Mamslee!

Here are some other nickname origins. Patches got his name from his penchant for prescriptions. I lieu of taking hundreds of pills, I suggested that he cover himself in medical patches, i.e. nicotine, morphine, estrogen, etc. Scooter's nickname comes from the scandal involving Dick Cheney's Chief of Staff, I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby. (Does anyone know what the fuck that “I” stands for? That drives me nuts.) Kik (sounds like “week”) gets his name from Lance Armstrong's ex-wife (Kristin Richard, whom he calls “Kik”). Punxy got his nickname from mixing the famous Pennsylvania town of Punxsutawney (Groundhog Day) with the word “transsexual”. It was originally “Punxatranny”, but got shortened to “Punxy” when he stopped wearing the fishnet stockings. We dubbed Walter “Bonnie Bigglesworth” because, frankly, he gives us very little to make fun of. Instead of laughing about straight-laced, dignified, model employee Walter, we've made up an entire bizarre life for Bonnie Bigglesworth that involves a penchant for game shows and a fascination with birds. (Particularly Jaybirds, and especially the crazy ones.) And the list goes on & on. If you visit the club at least once a week, those mean bitches standing at the window probably have a name for you. And remember: It may seem like we're laughing with you, but we're actually laughing at you.

The change of season is a great time to stop in and visit Mamslee, Kik, and the whole gang. The last quarter of the year is often our busiest and most festive time. My three favorite events the entire year are the Halloween Party, the Christmas Party, and our New Year's Eve bash. Each year we try to come up with some Halloween theme for our staff. The election excitement provides an obvious choice this year. If I can find some loose-fitting dentures, I've got Biden down. Bigglesworth is undoubtedly more Hillary than, well, Hillary. And what better way to spend a spooky Saturday night than to stop in and see Patches dressed like Sarah Palin. (Does anyone know where I can get up-swoop weave for less than twenty bucks? Oh hell – I'll just call her office and see where she got hers.) We're offering some great deals for voters, which I'll announce soon. Doing your civic duty will get you discounts on both lockers and rooms. I, myself, have spent much of the past week “transitioning”. I put my summer clothes in plastic containers and drug them to the basement. I moved the furniture to expose the heating vents, and I changed the filter in the furnace. I even dug out the electric radiator in case I need to be naked in this room between October and April. (Trust me, it is extremely difficult to entertain a gentleman caller when you can't feel your genitals.) Club Pittsburgh always makes the last part of the year the best. I hope you'll transition with us.

Oh – Tina reminded me to share a great tip with all of you. This is very important, so you may want to copy/paste. Do not ever, under any circumstances, put your bottle of ID Glide in the microwave. Is it just me, or does nuking your lube sound like a great idea? Remember a few years ago when the ''warming'' lubes were all the rage? Well, TowelBoy, always looking for a fiscally responsible way to be a conjugal pioneer, decided to skip a trip to the drugstore and just put his handy blue bottle of ID Glide in the microwave. This was not successful. First, as it turns out, the label on the bottle is actually made of foil. It sends sparks flying across your kitchen. And more importantly, lube that's been in the microwave for a mere fifteen seconds can severely burn your junk. So now you get a ''warming'' sensation for the next six weeks every time anything passes through your urethra. We started carrying “Wet Warming” at the club after this little experiment. Those bottles (at least the ones not covered in cobwebs) now make lovely paper weights. As it turns out, toasty lube is a completely straight phenomenon. But winter is coming, so if you're so inclined, unplug the microwave and come on down. I'll fix you up.

Falling into Autumn,
TowelBoy

Lockers Are FREE, But Smokes Will Cost You

2008-09-12T12:37:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is so revved up over the big anniversary weekend that he really could use a cigarette. However, Mr. Ed Rendell says that I'm going to have to get my nicotine fix on the roof. Apparently, the Commonwealth has gone (completely ape-shit, frankly) entirely smoke-free. Exhausted from my day off, I logged into my Club Pittsburgh email on Wednesday to find this ''urgent'' message from the obsessive compulsive, anal retentive, micro-managing, slave driving assistant manager:

Hello!

As many of you have already heard, the Pennsylvania legislature has passed a state-wide smoking ban. The ban goes into effect on Thursday, September 11. The new law was designed to protect employee health, and it covers many restaurants, bars, and social clubs that currently allow smoking. Under this new law, Club Pittsburgh can no longer offer indoor smoking areas. This includes both common areas and private changing rooms.

We have always made an effort to make all of our guests (both smokers and non-smokers) feel comfortable. For seven years, the club has strictly enforced designated smoking and non-smoking areas. These efforts have been extraordinarily successful. We've received minimal complaints about our smoking policy over the years. However, because we are a legal, licensed business that takes the laws that govern us very seriously, we have no choice but to comply with the smoking ban. Strict smoking laws have been in effect in neighboring states for years, and both clubs in nearby Cleveland restrict indoor smoking. Many other clubs have had to transition to smoke-free environments, too. The new law is beyond our control, and we hope it doesn't deter you from visiting Club Pittsburgh.

Smoking will still be permitted on our outdoor roof deck.

To read more about Pennsylvania's smoking ban, please check out:

http://kdka.com/local/smoking.ban.Pennsylvania.2.814333.html

Many Thanks,
Damian Campbell
Assistant Manager @ Club Pittsburgh

Apparently, the asshole hijacked my mailing list and sent this email to my entire online community. The response to the email has been devastating. Poor Miss Mary LaLa was so stunned by the message that she dropped her filterless Camel into her open bottle of Cuervo and accidentally set the Mexican War Streets ablaze. (It was actually Brighton Heights, but no use beating Mary while she's down.) I immediately called Governor Rendell's office to confirm this tragedy. Everyone was out getting tipsy at Hillary Clinton's 9/11 Pool Party, but I did get this recorded message from Catherine Baker Knoll's broach: “Beginning Thursday, September 11 @ midnight, public establishments in the Commonwealth will go smoke-free. Get a patch, Sally.” And my therapist/life partner Dr. Cheyenne Beaumann immediately drove to Rite-Aid and got a box of nicotine patches, a case of Nicorette gum, and the large bottle of Valium. (Perhaps it's not such a good idea to hang out on the roof after all.) Whether you see it as a blessing or a curse, Smoke-Free Pennsylvania has arrived, and Club Pittsburgh has no choice but to comply.

I'm sure there will be plenty of things to quench my oral fixation (sans cigarettes) during our anniversary weekend. As I babble, Barrett Long is on a plane to Pittsburgh, getting ready to entertain the masses. The cake has been ordered. The champagne is chilling. And our Queen is camped out in Room 314. (Umm, sorry about that smoking ban, your majesty.) If you're not a part of our online community (Why? Why!?! WHY!?!), then perhaps you haven't heard that we're offering free lockers from 10 PM to midnight on Saturday, September 13. And if you were a member of the online community, you would have received a ''late pass'' to sneak in up until 2 AM. So, if you haven't received the emails, lets all get with the program:

On Saturday, September 13, Club Pittsburgh is celebrating its 7th Anniversary. The festivities begin at 11 PM. There will be champagne, cake, great music, and endless fun. Barrett Long arrives at 2 AM to help us celebrate. Lockers are FREE to those entering between 10 PM and 12 AM. That's a full six-hour stay. If you're a member of the online community, you should have received a ''late pass'' to sneak in until 2. This promotion has been extremely successful in the past. By the time the bars close, we've had just a handful of lockers left over the previous six years.

FYI, yours truly is an original employee at Club Pittsburgh. My first day of work was September 11, 2001. (Sound familiar?) For me, that day is truly an example of how something wonderful can flood light over a dark and terrible moment. I was extremely saddened by the events of that morning, but I solemnly chose to go to work and start a new chapter in my life. I will never be able to erase the images of the planes destroying the towers from my mind. The events of that clear autumn morning have changed me in ways that I could never explain. But out of that day came a wonderful job, amazing friends and co-workers that I adore, and a unique quality of life that I'll forever cherish. Our friends and members over the years know that the Club Pittsburgh family has a very low turn-over. Of a little over a dozen employees, five originals still remain: Manager John (Fraulein), Walter (Bonnie), Joe (Kik), Tony (Leo), and Damian (Don't get me started.). John (Patches, Helen, “Hel”) and David (Lovely) joined us soon after. Richie (Mamslee) wasn't an original employee, but he came on board and showed us all how it's done. (And we're really grateful for that, considering the Heiress probably doesn't have to work at all.) Clark (C.C., “Babcock”) is another example of a really great guy and good spirit that blended right in. Scott (Scooter, “Sally”) and Patrick (Punxy) have been with us for about three years. Both have definitely made the joint a lot more interesting. We've recently welcomed Louis (Weezie), Jason (Lupe Smithers) and Thomas (Pigeon) into the crazy mix. And of course, our owners Steve & Pete (They don't have nicknames. Honestly.) have been there for all of us from the start. Thanks to all of you for making each day a wonderful adventure.

Now that I'm warm & fuzzy with nostalgia, I feel in the spirit of giving. So let me give you some advice. Please, PLEASE tell me before I answer the door naked that you have a boyfriend that you really, really love and you're way to nervous to have sex and you just want to chit-chat. Poor TowelBoy found himself fooled twice this week. If I remember correctly, all the internet whore sites ask your relationship status. Please check ''monogamously coupled”, Sally, and we could avoid the whole damn mess. You think you're coming over for stimulating conversation and a cup of Sanka, while I've turned on the porn and practiced pre-lubrication. My neighbors already think it's suspicious that attractive men come in an out of this place as if it were Heinz Field. If the police do bust in, I'd find it tremendously embarrassing if I were just having coffee. Oh, and to the guy from Monday: Those legs are delicious. Your ''monogamous life partner'' is a lucky man.

So I think that's it. Smoking, anniversary party, conjugal disasters, blah, blah, blah. Oh – I have some good news. After what seems like an eternity, the city has opened its “Transportation Center” (bus station) across Penn Avenue from Club Pittsburgh. The Grant Street Transportation Center offers five levels of parking, open to the general public. The parking structure operates 24/7. How much does it cost? I don't know. Google “Pittsburgh Parking Authority”. I may be a bitch, but I'm not YOUR bitch.

Happy Anniversary, Club Pittsburgh :)
TowelBoy

The Forest Is Closed

2008-09-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

Please forgive TowelBoy: He's been too lazy sleeping by the pool to tell the internet community what's happening at Club Pittsburgh.

It seems that school has opened, the pools have closed, and it's time to get my ashen ass back to work. Oh, how I've enjoyed basking in the glow of the computer monitor, watching countless hours of SoapNet, and sucking down bottle after bottle of the Rocky Mountains' finest. I have spent the last half of the summer doing diddly-squat. Screw my usual grueling 30 hour (okay 25-ish) workweek. To hell with housework, yard work, and stopping Camp Carrick from going the way of Quippy Manor. Isn't summer oh-so-much better with an iced latte and some soft-core porn on the Here! Channel? You call me a slacker, but I like to think of myself as a Conservationist. I have wasted no gasoline making that pesky commute to the office. (I've saved gas by not mowing the lawn either. Take that, Dick Cheney.) I've have not added to Pittsburgh's traffic congestion or alleged parking crisis. I did not fritter away our precious aquatic resources by doing laundry, washing dishes, or scrubbing anything, including my love bits. And I certainly didn't consume unconscionable amounts of electricity by running the oven or the vacuum cleaner. Oh, those lazy days of summer!

And then I get this call from my employers. Apparently, they're ambivalent about continuing my six-figure salary (plus bonuses and incentives!) and my executive title if I refuse to leave the womb-like atmosphere of Carrick for the rough-&-tumble world of Big Bid'ness. Evidently the company has some archaic policy about scheduling vacations in advance...blah, blah, blah...or calling if you're not going to show up to work for two weeks. It's become painfully obvious that my baby blue eyes (That sparkle like diamonds, according to 9 out of 10 attractive Latinos. The tenth, I later discovered, was only ''bi-curious''.) and an enormous endowment are no longer enough to satisfy the guidelines of employment at Club Pittsburgh Inc. I've been warned that I need to get dressed, drive to the office, attempt productivity, and exchange pleasantries with co-workers and customers. For a minimum of four hours. And at least three days a week! They obviously don't understand that I already work my fingers to the bone cruising the internet six hours (or 8 or 12-ish) a day. Now I love my employers like Sarah Palin loves a long, hard (oil) drilling, but these oppressive working conditions may finally push me over the edge. I would never have consented to this whole “back to work” ordeal if my cat Socks hadn't threatened to cease urination if I didn't return to some sort of productive vocation. Plus my life partner/therapist Dr. Cheyenne Beaumann explained that September is going to be a jam-packed, event-filled month at Club Pittsburgh, and our online community is depending on me to keep them updated. Who will tell them about the big anniversary party and a visit from Barrett Long? Who's going to talk about the “Soak” boat ride, the Autumn blackout party, or Walter's Halloween costume? (He plans to work a spooky Naked Lunch dressed as Michelle Obama at the Inaugural Ball, but you didn't hear it from me.) Okay. Okay! You people win. So my employers, my cat, my therapist and my fans will be happy to know that I've decided to buck up, dig down, and take it in every orifice, all for you. It won't be the first time, Sally.

But when Mother Earth goes to Hell in a Yugo, don't come crying to TowelBoy. I wanted to conserve.

There is so much to talk about that just thinking about it gives me a brain freeze. It's sort of like that pain when you drink a Slurpee too fast, ya know? Elisabeth Hasselbeck is absolutely right – rational thinking and thoughtful discourse is way overrated. But I digress. Hmm...let's see. We've had some recent staff changes, and a few of you have sent some emails. I suppose I should address that. We've temporarily made some changes to the website. Perhaps we could chat about what's different. Barrett Long is coming to help us celebrate our anniversary. I'm sure you want all the details. I could tell you the story of how a kinky gentleman caller once thought it would be an erotic gesture to nibble on my funky toe, sending electric bolts of pain up my spine and garnering him a prescription for Zithromax. Umm, perhaps I should save that one for a special occasion...

We've received a few emails from members and friends concerning some recent staff changes. Some have complimented our new faces, while others have noticed that a familiar face is missing. As many of you already know, our long-time employee and friend Shwami (Shawn) departed in July. We've received emails and messages offering kind words and expressing support for Shawn. Our parting was amicable, and he still visits Club Pittsburgh as a member. Shawn is now the assistant manager at a local book store. He can also be seen behind the bar at a favorite watering hole. We've thoroughly enjoyed the Adventures of Shwami over the years, and we wish him the best of luck in his new endeavors. I doubt anyone could replace Shwami, but we've added two new incredible guys to the mix. Stop in and meet Lupe Smithers and Pigeon on Sunday evenings. Smithers has been a friend of Club Pittsburgh for years, and we're thrilled to have him officially in the family. He's a computer genius with prior bathhouse experience. He also made quite a splash with our members when he...umm, welcomed...Jeremy Hall to Club Pittsburgh earlier this year. How do you recognize Smithers? He's the one behind the counter with Little Rickie, decked out in hoochie pants and a smile. (We're still negotiating with Little Rickie to get hoochie pants, too, but we've met some resistance.) Pigeon is a Pittsburgh native and an industrious student at a local college. He's our new ''go to guy'', covering vacations, sick days, etc. for other employees. I've admittedly limited my exposure to Pigeon because I hear he's blessed with a significantly larger endowment than me. There's no sense fanning the flames of competition, people. And he has an advantage because he's already on campus – he doesn't have to travel 20 minutes from Carrick. But I hear he's a nice guy. We get a lot of email inquiries about employment. We're fortunate to have a very low employee turn-over. If you're interested in employment, however, it never hurts to stop in and fill out an application.

You may have noticed some changes to the website. The ad is gone from the home page, the photo galleries have been removed, and the calendar has been cleared. These changes are temporary. I expect that our website will be upgraded/updated very soon. There are three ways to get information while the website is in transition: First, you can check right here. I am seriously back to work (Well, not ''seriously'', but I am here. At least part-time. Occasionally.), and I will make a diligent effort to keep the blog updated. Second, you can email me. The community/inquiry address is community@clubpittsburgh.com . I check the community email daily. Finally, you can join the Online Community and get on our mailing list. Just click the “COMMUNITY” button on the menu bar on the homepage. I do love mailing the list -- you'll truly be the first to know.

We're celebrating our 7th anniversary on Saturday, September 13. As the laziest bitch in Pittsburgh, TowelBoy usually dreads our anniversary parties. We're just way too busy for my slow-moving, ever-expanding ass. Our loyal customers and friends come from far & wide to help us celebrate. And who bears the burden? Me. I have to check them in. I have to get them towels. And poppers. And change for the soda machine. Me, me, me. Sometimes Patches, Little Rickie, and Punxy lend a hand when they're not too busy chain smoking, general cleaning, or power snacking. (Just kidding, guys. You could search the tubs from coast to coast and not find a better weekend team. I thank the Holy Boo every weekend for that one.) The point is that anniversaries are very, very, very busy. But this year I'm feeling a lot of excitement. I've apparently held a job for seven years. (Take that, Sister Mary Margaret.) I'm genuinely happy to celebrate with everyone, and because I'm feeling somewhat nostalgic, my usual bitchy edge is somewhat softened. If I get some “Happy Anniversary” fellatio, I'll be a goddamn Pollyanna. Barrett Long is joining us for this year's celebration. This is your chance if you've never had the pleasure of meeting Barrett. We all know his most famous attribute, but he's also sweet, devilishly handsome, and a real crowd pleaser. There's always champagne, fun, and a surprise or two. I'll keep you posted.

Okay, I've been at work for two hours. I have a rider in my contract that allows me a brief break to enjoy a free cup of Flavia and check my Adam4Adam email. I promise to keep my respite to less than an hour. 90 minutes, tops. Then back to the grind. Wash, fold, repeat.

Thanks a lot, slave drivers.

Like a Perky Republican “Vagina-American” Out of Alaska,
TowelBoy

Foamin' for Beaumann

2008-08-21T15:15:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy has been reading the Club Pittsburgh blog, and he's wondering who writes this shit. I mean honestly, this queen complains about members, visitors, employers, and employees with no regard for taste or discretion. Why hasn't someone taken this bitch out?!? (Please don't fire me. I still have 21 years left on my student loans. Did I mention Socks can't pee?) As I was flipping through the entries, I realized that I've been at this for one year. The first entry, dated 8/19/07, was a (rather inadequate) description of our first ever foam party. As I flip through each anemic entry, one theme emerges: the more things change, the more they stay the same. Winter, spring, summer, & fall, I'm still foaming, still bitching, still contemplating, and still cruising. My therapist/boyfriend, Dr. Cheyenne Beaumann, says its important to identify and eliminate unhealthy patterns & habits. “Perhaps you should use the change of season to move forward, instead of constantly moving in circles,” Beaumann muses. (And I seriously contemplated this while we searched for a third on Manhunt.) Yet somehow, it all goes right back to the beginning. I again find myself weaving poorly-constructed tales of foaming frolic on a hot summer evening. Have I learned any lessons since that first entry on 8/19/07? Hmmm. Probably not. (But if I learn my lesson, then I don't need Beaumann. And I've decided that since I can't trap a man with a baby, I'm going to have to trap one with CRAZY.) So – allow me to tell you about our fabulous foam party before I bitch about internet cruising and Angelina Jolie...

TowelBoy had been hyped for the second-annual fabulous roof deck foam frolic since he'd gotten laid during a trial run a month earlier. (Lupe Smithers – keep your hands off of my man.) I arrive contemplating where to park, because I don't want the foam concoction all over poor Pebbles. (She just got a turtle wax.) This time, there was no equipment packed in the lobby, and Richie wasn't carrying three times his weight in baby shampoo. Clark (sans Cupcake) had everything unloaded and ready before I arrived. The party was all set, and my boss and “that foam girl” had assumed their positions. In the office, poor Sally (sans a sun deck break) was up to her eyeballs in anxious guys waiting for foaming fun and fingerbang punch. Our Punxy was enjoying a last-minute medieval break before the roof started bubbling. Patches (sans prescriptions) and I double-checked to make sure Richie had his foaming bubble wand and roller skates, just in case the bubble machine didn't work. Then we took a deep breath and assumed our spots!

The manager checked each detail (the Kribitz) as the start approached. He prepared the delicious fingerbang punch, while new employee Lupe Smithers surprised our guests with a delightful party ball. Techie Tina put additional speakers on the roof, as well as a giant mixer in the office. (for the Kribitz, obviously) To eliminate poor TowelBoy's confusion, we skipped the wireless microphone that we used last year. At promptly 11pm, our manager clicked on the music (the Kribitz!) and set a fabulous mood. Foam cascaded down the steps and over the privacy fence. An anxious towel-clad army made its way to the roof. The foam party had begun!

It seems with any event, and particularly something like a foam party that is so dependent on the equipment and the weather cooperating, there are always small glitches. Porn stars get nervous, or worse, bitchy. A washing machine breaks. A “Code Fudgesicle” sends water from the hot tub pouring through the office. We run out of glow sticks, or punch...or big girl towels. Fred can't find just the right erectile enhancement apparatus, and Ethel is worried that the 1.5” metal ring isn't dishwasher safe. It's always something – you get the point. But yet again, the foam party was an instant hit. The club was filled with smile-clad hotties covered in bubbles. These guys stayed on the roof for three solid hours, enjoying the suds, the boys, the music, and the fingerbang punch. The party left everyone satisfied. We were much smarter about the laundry this year. Each stud in the suds produces approximately three baskets of soapy towels. Our washers are temperamental from several years of use and abuse. Each one is a bucket of suds away from Maytag heaven. But Patches had a plan! He managed to keep the boys in clean towels all night long. Any remaining towels were taken care of by Walter the Laundry Wizard on Sunday morning. Honestly, Walter is the best thing to happen to laundry since Tide w/Bleach.. 400 soapy towels? Oh honey – that's not a problem when Walter's at the helm.

The one change this year was that I didn't find a bubble boyfriend. There was no beautiful badonkadonk in a pair of black mesh trunks. I was so busy being a proper host-ess that I didn't notice one bubblicious booty. That's all the more reason to try again next year...

Honestly, the foam party was incredible fun. For me, it's come to mark the end of summer and the change of season. Sunday morning definitely smelled like Back to School. This year, the change of season will bring a change in who leads the free world. This is not a political blog. Club Pittsburgh does not endorse a specific political candidate or position. We encourage employees, members, and friends to participate in the process, regardless of their political preferences. I'm convinced it will take everyone's unique thoughts, opinions, beliefs, and convictions to secure a peaceful and prosperous future. I believe our individual beliefs create a strong adhesive for the gay community. There were a few items of gay interest in the political blogosphere this week that really grind my gears. And they cover my two favorite subjects: Manhunt and Angelina Jolie.

Earlier this week, our office was emailed several articles about Jonathan Crutchley. Crutchley is the co-founder of the incredibly popular Manhunt cruising website. Apparently, Crutchley created quite a kerfuffle when he donated the maximum amount allowed to the McCain campaign and the Grand Ole Party. Manhunt members and members of gay “outreach” organizations immediately expressed outrage. I received a handful of emails in my personal Manhunt account warning me that Crutchley was using my money to support “the enemy”. Crutchley eventually resigned from the company that he built (and made a multi-million dollar success) over the commotion. Now I am not a Republican. Gay rights is a key issue for me when I go to the polls. I do not intend to cast a vote for John McCain in November, and I am alarmed at the GOP's positions on many issues facing the gay community. However, I respect Mr. Crutchley's right to support whomever he choses. I believe that each individual has a right to chose his own priorities in the voting both. Just because Mr. Crutchley is a gay man doesn't automatically mean that gay rights is his first priority. I don't care if he used the $12 that I spent on his website this month to make a contribution to the candidate he believes in. That's democracy. That's America. I would not expect Mr. Crutchley to object if I donated my entire paycheck to Barack Obama, and I would find it outrageous if he chose to boycott Club Pittsburgh because I had done so. I work for (and with!) very politically active people. They have strong convictions and believe in the process. Over the years, we've run countless promotions to encourage/reward voting. My employers do not, however, expect their customers or employees to have the same political preferences. I've always felt that my personal views are respected by my employers and my co-workers. For the record, I did not support Senator Obama in the primary. While chatting politics with a customer before the Democratic nominee was decided, he was stunned to discover my affinity for Hillary Clinton. “But your boss is supporting Obama!” he cried. And that is the case – my boss (our manager) has been a staunch Obama supporter for months. John is an intelligent man who cares deeply about both the gay community and the direction of our country. But he respects my individuality. We've agreed to disagree. He would never tell me to support a specific candidate, and he certainly wouldn't make it a condition of doing business. Doesn't Jonathan Crutchley (and every member of our community!) deserve the same respect?

I'll get back to Manhunt in a minute.

The second political story revolves around some comments that comedienne (and TowelBoy's personal goddess) Roseanne Barr made on her website. Apparently, Roseanne attacked Angelina Jolie for her political ambiguity. Jolie recently made comments that she wasn't sure who she was supporting for president, and that she liked Senators McCain and Obama equally. Roseanne asserts that because Jolie is a parent to children of color, it would be beneficial to their esteem and development if she supported a black candidate. Roseanne accused her of being a publicity monger, and she even referred to her as the “demon spawn”. I love Roseanne. I have a huge distaste for the husband-stealing, baby buying Laura Croft. I am ambivalent of Jolie's motivations in the realms of public service and humanitarianism. So it is incredibly unfortunate that I've been put in the position of defending the demon spawn. Truthfully, finding a Republican in Hollywood is harder than finding an Olsen twin at Ponderosa. I'm somewhat impressed that “Angie” doesn't feel pressured to jump on the Hollywood bandwagon. It's refreshing that she's approaching the election (and all the issues surrounding it) with an open mind. Go figure -- Angelina and I differ politically. She's not the liberal queen I'd have expected. And I support her right to think differently.

But I don't support her right to steal hubands and make out with her brother at awards shows. Wear a condom, Brad.

Okay, now back to Manhunt. (If TowelBoy had a nickel for every time he said that...) I read an article in this month's national OUT magazine about the evils of Gay America's favorite cruising website. According to OUT contributor Michael Joseph Gross, Manhunt may signal the end of our happy gay world. Gross tries (in my opinion, unsuccessfully) to argue that Manhunt causes community isolation and low self esteem. Apparently, it force us to view ourselves as a caricature of age, body type, and cock size. Gross is offended that cruisers spend “an average of 40 minutes” trying to market themselves. (Try four hours, Mary.) The conclusion: if we don't find a trick, our esteem is shattered. We apparently should spend our time “socializing” in bars and parks. His denouncement of Manhunt is because it supposedly prioritizes sex over community. Obviously, I realize you can make the same argument about a bathhouse. When you visit Club Pittsburgh, don't you try to make a good impression? Are you marketing yourself? Don't you accentuate your best..ummm...''assets''? Are you worried about getting laid in the steam room, or being a proper gay citizen? I don't know about you, but I see the internet and the bathhouse as tools to fulfill my own fantasies and desires. If they didn't exist, I'd find other means. Neither the net or the tubs is setting my priorities or making my decisions. In addition to the obvious benefit of potential sex, Manhunt provides other rewards for me. TowelBoy is about to let you in on a huge secret: I am extremely cheap in the Suze Orman sense. And Manhunt is (practically) free entertainment. If I'm sitting on the internet, I'm not out buying myself expensive dinners or little blue coupes with blinging XM radio packages and PassLock theft deterrent systems. Hell, I just love logging on to see how old y'all claim to be today. (You haven't been 27 since the first George Bush was president, Sally.) When I log off, I don't feel horrible regret and shame. I am not emotionally devastated because HotCock77 thinks I'm too effeminate. I do not contemplate my own inadequacies. Usually, I just go to Burger King. Whether it's the bathhouse or the internet, what entertains and satisfies you is your personal choice. And personally, I think Michael Joseph Gross just needs to get laid.

I keep hearing that we're living in a defining moment in history. The world is rapidly changing, and the choices we make now will impact our fellow eathlings for generations to come. Respect what you've got. Stand up for your rights. Don't let a magazine contributor or some crazy blogger define you. Make sure your voice is heard; what you say is entirely up to you. You get one shot at this moment. Revel in it. The past seven years I've spent at Club Pittsburgh have been utterly amazing. I've come to know some incredible people on both sides of the counter. It is the defining experience of my adult life. I could do what I'm doing forever. I love my job, my friends, and my city. At the moment, I can picture myself nowhere else. It would be fine with me if I retired to a lovely condo on the vacant floor below Club Pittsburgh. I am well aware, however, that nothing lasts forever. Life has many seasons. The most important thing that my time at Club Pittsburgh has taught me is you never know what's right around the corner. Opportunities rise and fall. Some venture from the nest, while others discover there's no place like home. Five years ago, I never could have predicted my life now. Even my crazy imagination can't fathom where I'll be in five more. Seasons change. We never know how long they're going to last. Let's all celebrate our season while it's here.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a (totally imaginary) man waiting for me.

Beaming for Beaumann,
TowelBoy

Once Upon A Dream

2008-08-14T07:40:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy has more issues than a five-year subscription to the New York Times. Between (barely) working, cruising, and trying to mediate the madness in my crazy family, it is truly a wonder that I'm not in a padded room watching a continuous loop of Oprah while waiting for the Thorazine drip to make me socially acceptable. Did I mention that sometimes my cat Socks can't pee? Seriously, people. I'm obsessive-compulsive, anti-social, sexually insatiable, and I have an odd fixation with money guru Suze Orman. I'm also notoriously frugal, so paying a therapist $150 an hour to listen to me whine is not an option. In lieu of paying an actual therapist, I've decided to invent one: Dr. Beaumann. (Pronounced like notable Pittsburgh meteorologist “Bowman”, only without thirty years of donuts and regret.)

Dr. Beaumann, I must say, is the perfect specimen of ''man''. Beaumann sailed through Yale and Harvard. He graduated Summa Cum Laude. Twice. He was captain of both football teams. He played football, baseball, soccer, and chess, yet he still found time to volunteer as a Big Brother and make no-bake Christmas cookies for the homeless. He was voted the Ivy League's Most Eligible Bachelor. Twice. Now, he spends his weekends reading to orphans and finding homes for three-legged puppies with broken spirits. He laughs when strangers in restaurants mistake him for actor Paul Walker. He is an expert landscaper, carpenter, pastry chef, and mechanic. He makes seven figures but drives his grandfather's old Impala because he values family tradition and the integrity of the American worker. He refuses to live in Shadyside. He is a connoisseur of Walmart, Giant Eagle, and any store with “Dollar” in it's name. He can make a pair of thrift store jeans look like a Versace original. He likes to spend Sunday morning making love on the lanai as the sun rises over the horizon. Twice. And Beaumann is a pioneer in Fellatio Therapy.

During an intense session on a hot summer afternoon, Beaumann said he wanted me to share my dreams. I was nervous – I've always been plagued by strange dreams. But I can't say no to Beaumann, so I give in...

I have always been plagued by strange dreams. Some dreams are recurring, while others are one-time freak shows. I had a recurring dream as a child that bandits kidnapped my mother and sold her into white slavery. (Now I know better – they'd bring her right back.) As my parents were divorcing, I would constantly dream of their reunion. This wasn't the wishful thinking of a sad and lonely child; this, quite frankly, was the family's worst nightmare. Imagine the unholy union of Adolf Hilter and George W. Bush. (My mother is psychotic; my father is a neo-conservative Republican.) I frequently dream of being dehydrated or having an uncontrollable thirst, and I'll wake up at the bathroom sink. (Why isn't water from the bathroom sink as refreshing as water from the kitchen sink? Hmmm.) It's quite common for me to dream of celebrities. In high school I would dream that Keanu Reeves would offer to rescue me from my mundane little town and my freakish family. (Little Dude, these people are like...CRAZY.) I frequently dream of water skiing with Jennifer Aniston. (For some reason, I feel personally responsible that her attractive, respectable husband left her for Skankelina. May I suggest a condom, Brad?) I'm now having this recurring dream where I'm seduced by annoying “Will & Grace” star Eric McCormick. The dream is always exactly the same: He comes over to borrow my EasyBake Oven, and we end up having sex while his dessert is incinerated by a 60-watt bulb. I think my fixation with Eric McCormick is a manifestation of my obsession with BaDonkaDonk porn star prince Jeremy Hall. (Either my eyes are deceiving me or Jeremy is now a model for the Manhunt website. Why don't you call, Jeremy? Where's the love?) “There are two things you could take from that dream,” Beaumann says. “Either you're engrossed with making love to Jeremy Hall, or you desire a moist, delicious, cream-filled cupcake of your own.” The good doctor feels this one requires total commitment to self-exploration.

One dream in particular left the debonair doctor riveted. In the dream, I was a victim of a grad school performance review. University policy sodomizes Theatre Arts students with this hedonistic ritual at the end of each semester. (Since I haven't been a student since J-Lo was still Jenny from the Block, it's amazing this is still so vivid to me.) Eve Muson, then the director of performance, would lead these meetings between the student, his advisor, and various faculty. (“Eve Muson” is indeed her real name. I ain't changing anything to protect anyone. Sue me, bitch.) Essentially, the review is intended as an examination of work completed and a strategy session for the next semester's goals. Eve (Yep, that's her name alright. Imagine the mind of of a bipolar alcoholic minion of Satan in the body of a frumpy Janeane Garofalo. That's EVE MUSON. Go ahead – google her.) found me to be more repugnant than a twelve-step program, so my reviews were dominated by two themes: “The work you've done sucks,” and its less hopeful cousin, “You're not going to get any better.” Honestly, I was usually pretty embarrassed by the work I'd completed. I typically put more effort into getting to the bathhouses in Rhode Island than I did in Directing Workshop or Theater Literature III. And my future plan was to cruise down I-95 at an unlawful speed, blasting Alanis Morissette and giving Eve the finger until I hit the New Jersey turnpike. However, I did spend several years training as an actor, and I knew how my bread was buttered. So I would cry crocodile tears while declaring that I was a changed man, and the faculty would weep along with me and repeal their calls to kick my sorry ass back to Pittsburgh. During the hugs and handshakes, a disgruntled Eve would wander out of the room and presumably take the Orange Line to a seedy sailor bar in Jamaica Plain. (I'm not implying that Eve had a problem with men & booze. I'm telling you.) A pack of filterless Camels and a a whole lot of liquor later, she'd go back to hating me in silence. I endured no less than five of these New England Tragedies while I was a grad student. In my current dream it was if no time had passed at all. The whole gang was there. I aged, they didn't. Seven years had passed, but the theme remained the same: there's just no hope for a poor, delusional, talentless hack with a relentless sex drive and a striking resemblance to Calista Flockhart. Every faculty member in my dream accused me of throwing away the future. And chain-smoking Eve kept ranting, “Why do you insist on wasting opportunity?!?” Then something odd happened. My co-worker Punxy busts through the door. He starts caterwauling about how tired he is while he rummages his enormous Batman purse for an apple. “You SUCK,” he scowls. Then Eve hoists the apple out of his stunned hands and bludgeons the poor dear with his own snack. Just when I was about to crawl out of my skin, poor Socks let out a wail from the litter box and knocked me back to the conscious world.

Beaumann contemplated in silence for awhile, but as always, brilliance prevailed. “Well,” Bowman says, “Eve may be the bitch of American Theater for now, but you'll always be the Bitch of the Baths.” And those words of pure genius have given me the inspiration to continue down my own bitter path.

I then share something with Beaumann that is not a bad dream, unfortunately. Over the last several posts, I've been reaming you for your hook-up errors. Bad lighting, obnoxious noises, and little Sparky the Cockapoo growling at your gentleman caller. This past Monday, I made an error of my own, and I'd like to issue a dire warning. I woke up on Monday to discover the jet stream is in the wrong place. (Thanks a lot, Bowman!) Instead of pulling warm, humid air from the south, it's dragging dry Canadian air from the north. This has signaled the ragweed to pollinate a few weeks early. Poor TowelBoy was not prepared. I woke up with a killer case of hay fever. I took Claritin. I took Zyrtec. I took a couple shots of Jack Daniels. Nothing. I spent my convalescence cruising Manhunt, of course. And I meet this attractive gentleman who is visiting Pittsburgh from Dallas for one night only. Being a proper ambassador for the Steel City, I invited him to Carrick for a glass of raspberry iced tea and a rim job. But it is admittedly difficult to entertain a gentleman caller while in the throws of allergic rhinitis. I pondered my options, and I made a really, really bad choice: I took two Benadryl tablets before my Dallas dynamo arrived. Of course, he turns out to be incredibly handsome. He's a real cowboy with a nice smile and an amazing ass. But by the time I get to the bottom of my tea, I can swear that Miss Ellie is calling me for dinner. And before he even gets his pants off, I realize the only thing I'll be devouring is a nap. The opportunity to ride a real cowboy was completely lost. No Oil Barron's Ball for TowelBoy! The lesson here is that sedating antihistamines and conjugal companionship don't mix. It's better to sneeze through a fantastic blowjob than sleep through one. Now there's a certain Club Pittsburgh employee that gets a kick out of pushing Benadryl on unsuspecting members and co-workers with a nagging sneeze or an annoying tickle. (F.Y.I. -- booze just makes the sedating effects of Benadryl 100 times worse. And the aforementioned employee knows this first-hand.) Unless you want to mark your $33 visit to Club Pittsburgh with a six-hour bout of unconsciousness, I suggest you pass up his “kind” offer of the alluring pink pill.

So now is the part where I'm supposed to tell you about the #1 “911 Debauch”. For weeks, I've been talking about calling the police, the paramedics, and the Whoopie Squad. You've heard sordid tales of Fry With Pam, Tootie & Tootsie, and the Great Flood. After everything you've read, you're convinced that #1 is certainly incredible and legendary. Perhaps it involves a dead body. Maybe it was a spooky event that occurred on Friday the 13th. Possibly, it's a tale that intertwines the Allegheny County Medical Examiner, a bottle of premium poppers, and Walter on vacation.

But thanks to Beaumann, I've realized it was all probably just a dream.

More Trouble Than That Barnes Woman,
TowelBoy

The one thing that is definitely real is our Fabulous Foam Party. If you missed the party last month, you're getting another chance. Please join us on Saturday, August 16 for foam, frolic, and Fingerbang Punch. The fun starts @ 11pm on our roof deck. Even Beaumann would think you're crazy if you miss this one.

For the Love of Burton

2008-07-31T14:36:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is in a tizzy over overtime. I'm not talking about working overtime; it's hard enough to get me here 40 hours (Or 35ish hours. Cable television is just so damn good!) a week. I'm referring to members who stay beyond the six hour rental period. (The standard rental period is six hours. Promotional restrictions may apply. See your Big Girl Towel dealer for details.) This issue has caused a lot of confusion over the last seven years. Some clubs allow six hours, others allow eight, and one in the Buckeye State allows twelve. Each has a different approach to charging overtime. At Club Pittsburgh, additional time is not pro-rated. If a guest chooses to stay, he must purchase an additional six hour rental, regardless if he needs six more hours or six more minutes. The way each club reminds their customers of time is different, too. Some give no warning that rental time is expiring; they simply collect an additional fee when the guest checks out. I've also been to bathhouses that post check-out times on monitors in the common areas. Their guests are responsible for watching the monitors and keeping track of time accordingly. (I find this extremely problematic. Myopia is perhaps the largest problem facing the modern vein homosexual. I guess they figure the selection looks better without their glasses. If they can't see the numbers on the doors, they're sure as hell not going to see the time on the monitors. But I digress.) At Club Pittsburgh, we page the customer's rental number three times over our PA system. Most attendants record their calling times on the waivers. If an overtime customer questions when he was called, we'll gladly share those times. Some attendants are very terse with the announcements, while others give detailed ominous warnings of what may happen if you don't get your pants on and get to the front desk immediately. (“Room Three-Zero-Seven, front desk. Room Three-Zero-Seven this is your last call before being charged overtime. Room Three-Zero-Seven, last call, charging you overtime.” Rinse & Repeat.) Personally, I give three short warning calls, and if the customer never shows, I hang his waiver on the wall in front of me. The customer with his waiver on the wall is definitely paying. Some housekeepers and attendants knock on doors to find overtime customers; we've recently discovered this isn't such a good idea. (Sometimes, it's a huge and disrespectful disruption to the customer. Other times, it's traumatic for the staff. Poor Little Rickie is still in therapy over barging in on the Pink Pucker in all its glory.)

It's TowelBoy's mission to get everyone in sync on the overtime issue. Most rentals are for six hours. If you're visiting during a promotion/event with restricted times, our attendants can provide you with your exact check-out time. You can verify your remaining time at the front desk a bazillion times, if you wish. We will happily give you three courtesy calls when your rental time expires. Please respond as soon as you hear the call. (If Patches starts enunciating each digit of your room number, be prepared to get a little bit of Helen Finger and offer some visible contrition.) If you need a quick shower, to exchange phone numbers with a friend, etc, there's always a little room for negotiation. Just let the attendant know what's going on in advance. If you require more time than a quick wrap-up, be prepared to purchase an additional rental. I don't think there's going to be anymore door knocking. TowelBoy is not affiliated with the Dutch police, you look nothing like Natalee Holloway, and I am not employing the vast journalistic resources of Fox Noise...err, News...to find you. (Greta Van Susteren: I've looked everywhere, and she's not here. We've even checked the Candy Kitchen. It's been three years. Move on please. It's not like she's the Heiress Von Mamslee). And I guarantee there will be no ''strong arming'' to collect overtime. Our attendants will remain courteous, or they'll be replacing their CP Employee Handbook with a second-hand copy of “100 Ways to Grill Government Cheese”. (Mark, girl, we'll be needing that back.) The policy is simple: we can not permit guests to re-enter until all outstanding rental fees are paid. Nobody will be bitch-slapped, berated, or brutalized with Punxy's Bedazzler. No cash, no ass. End of story.

To our good customers who've ever felt roughed-up when they lost track of time, I apologize. Please feel free to steal & print the photo at the top of this entry as a gesture of my good will. (It's the Foam Pucker, the Pink Pucker's cousin from Albuquerque. Go ahead – touch it. This pucker doesn't bite.)

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I really should talk about The Flood. Really – Inquiring minds want to know. It's a great story that has it all: rushing water, drenched guys scurrying down Penn Avenue in towels, and poor Sally sound asleep in the middle of the Club Pittsburgh Love Canal. But first, I have to mention that the CP Pleasures product website is temporarily out of service. Our long-time credit card processor has chosen to discontinue its services. We're discovering that it's extremely difficult to find a processor willing to accommodate an adult website. Our management has filled out several processing applications and investigated dozens of potential processors. This effort has been relentless. The good news is that we've finally found a company willing to do business with our adult site. The bad news is that they require some changes to the site itself. We're currently working with our fabulous web designer to make these changes. Hopefully, CP Pleasures will be functioning very soon. In the meantime, you can always purchase douche balls, tit clamps, or a Barrett Long dildo from Walter at the front desk. (Some company just sent us samples of GLASS DILDOS to try to get us to put them on the site. Glass!?! I don't care if it's Pyrex, Mary. A perforated colon is a medical emergency. I'm all about recycling my numerous empty beer bottles, but I have no intention of shoving them up my ass.)

And now...drum roll please...

I'm still not ready to talk about the flood. For the love of Condi, it's just too soon to be making jokes about such a tragedy. It still hurts, ya know? I'm taking a moment, people. And I'm going to use that moment to bitch you queens out for another ridiculous bump you've placed on the road to proper companionship. Last time, we had a little discussion about lights and sound. (I hope you're using my suggestions. They come from a decade of research and lots of trial & error.) Brace yourself. This tidbit may cause a little shock & horror: Your trick should never, ever have to compete with your pets. Of course, I appreciate that your matching French poodles, Liza & Lorna, both won blue ribbons in the Turtle Creek Dog Show. Yes, they are precious. Obviously, I understand that you just can't bear to be away from your poor three-legged Peikinese, Burton. And I definitely understand that you've had your tabby cat, Mrs. Bigglesworth, since middle school, and she has separation issues. I will not, however, tolerate three-legged Burton trying to gnaw off one of mine while I'm giving a blowjob. Last week, I met a regular trick of mine for a little after-midnight tête à tête. I've enjoyed meeting up with this guy for years; he's young, cute, and I think his ass inspired that curvy “HOPE” emblem for the Obama campaign. He also makes Gumby look like he has Rheumatoid Arthritis. I have bent this boy in positions that a Point Park dance major spends 4 years and $140k to achieve. Wait – why am I mad? Oh...yeah. Because this last time Bendy Boy let his dog in the bedroom while we were exploring coital pleasures. And every time I tried to give it to him just the way he likes it, the dog would growl at me. I could count his teeth. I felt like Cliff Claven with t-bone tied around his kneck. Thrust, growl. Thrust, growl. Thrust, GROWL. And Bendy Boy refused to put the dog out. Instead, he kept getting pissed off at me because I couldn't stay ''focused''. It reminded me of a delightful arrangement that I once had with a similarly flexible drag queen that ended when he started letting his English Bulldog (Evita!) nibble on my ass. Look – I am very attached to my cat Socks. I worry when he's not around. Sometimes he can't pee. This requires immediate veterinary attention and my American Express card. But when I'm entertaining a gentleman caller, I make sure Socks is out of the room, and I crank up the stereo for good measure. I understand that my trick didn't come to see the cat, and he certainly doesn't want to hear obnoxious caterwauling, either. (Fortunately, Socks is easily distracted with a can of Science Diet Urinary SO and a tiny soccer ball.) I do not want him crawling all over the bed while someone's trying to give the best head of his conjugal career. It's just distracting and annoying. Enjoy your pets when your trick goes home. (And clean up the damn pet hair before he comes over, too.)

Now that we’ve gotten that important piece of sexual etiquette out of the way, perhaps you heard about the huge flood that closed Club Pittsburgh in January 2006. (Or perhaps you were caught in it.) The Great Flood is TowelBoy’s #2 “911 Memory”.

It was a cold Monday evening in January 2006, and I came back from the laundromat hungry and horny. (I think it’s all that tumbling.) I log onto the chat room and immediately get a gazillion messages. (I’d assumed it was because I’d just gotten my teeth cleaned, and I was looking particularly stunning.) “Did you hear what happened at Club Pittsburgh?!?” appeared in at least a dozen chat windows. These guys weren’t interested in me after all. I assumed there was some sort of fight at the club, or something broke down, or we were out of large towels. I decided to check my voice mail anyway. There’s one message, and it’s from Club Pittsburgh. I hear the voice say my name. There’s a pause, and then “I’m calling because we’ve had a CATASTR—“. The voice trails off. I try dialing Club Pittsburgh. The number is temporarily out service. I jump in the car and drive to the club. There are fire trucks, police cars, and a van for a restoration service in the parking lot. Apparently, the sprinkler system malfunctioned earlier in the evening and flooded the entire building. Little Rickie and Kik (rhymes with “week”) were working in the office when water started cascading down the walls. (If you ever have a catastrophe, you’d be lucky to have these two there. Kik quickly covered everything and saved thousands of dollars worth of expensive equipment, and Little Ricky evacuated everyone safely.) Nobody was sure what was happening at first, but it quickly became apparent that the water was coming from the sprinklers. No amount of effort could shut them off. Little Rickie tried getting everyone out as quickly as possible, but some guys kept refusing to leave. (Apparently St. Barnabas won’t let you give blowjobs for $8 in their spacious state-of-the-art movie theater.) When the fire company finally stopped the cascade, we came back in the building to find half of the club damaged by water. Always optimistic, our manager thought that we would be able to reopen in a few hours. Scooter and I both showed to man the overnight shift in the hopes that we’d be opening soon. Instead, we spent the night trapped in the Club Pittsburgh Love Canal. I spent the better part of the shift hacking up a lung. Scooter mopped & wiped & scrubbed & pitched. As we tried the best we could to help with the clean-up, the damp and toxic air became overwhelming. The hours dragged by slowly and painfully. Through the night, large fans and dehumidifiers worked to dissipate the soggy mire. Green sludge was oozing from every orifice of my body. (And I hadn’t entertained Chlamydia Calvin in months. I’d learned my lesson. Honestly.) I found poor Scooter sound asleep in the marshy lounge as the sun was rising over a drenched Club Pittsburgh. (I was just grateful that we were both still breathing.) The morning shift filed in, and it became obvious to all of us that we wouldn’t be opening anytime soon.

We were closed for four days. Essentially, a small leak in the roof caused a piece of drywall to fall from the ceiling, breaking a sprinkler head. The actual leak was never visible – it was above the dry sauna. The club incurred thousands of dollars in damage, as well as thousands of dollars in lost revenue. Our employers kept all of us working the entire time. None of us lost a dime in wages. Lots of folks called to wish us well and to check our progress. One notorious pain in the ass called repeatedly to see if he could get a refund for his $8 locker rental the night of the flood. We reopened Friday to an appreciative and enthusiastic crowd. Both the club and its patrons came out of the Great Flood better than ever.

And most importantly, Big Bertha got her fucking $8 back.

So all that’s left now is #1. Hmmm…what could possibly be #1 on my list of 911 Disasters? I want to clarify the events with Cyril Wecht for accuracy, and I’ll get back to you soon…

I’d love to stay & chat, but I’m a total bitch.
TowelBoy

Summer Lovin' & Toaster Leavin's

2008-07-23T19:12:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is the laziest bitch in Pittsburgh.

Well, not really. That title belongs to a special campus lady we'll call “Pickle”. He can make a coma patient look like Lance Armstrong. But I digress. I am definitely a close second. I take the title from one of my favorite television characters of all time: Peggy Bundy. Peggy is a lazy, self-absorbed, money-hungry, neurotic nymphomaniac with a penchant for Bon-Bons and Oprah. (Does any of this sound familiar, people? Substitute Mrs. Freshley's Brownies and the Guiding Light, and you've got Yours Truly.) In a brilliant episode of “Married...With Children” called 'Stepford Peg', Peggy Bundy gets amnesia and thinks she's the ultimate housewife. (Imagine Donna Reed with enormous drag queen hair and implants.) She cooks, she cleans, and she has absolutely no interest in sex. Of course, Al is lovin' it. He gets clean shirts, hot food, and he doesn't have to touch her. Marcy, the supreme feminist, is about to spill the beans until Al convinces Peg to wash & wax Marcy's car. Marcy holds back the truth just long enough for the Turtle Finish on her sparkling Mercedes to dry; then all hell breaks loose. Marcy tries to explain to the situation to Peg – she has amnesia. She doesn't like to cook, clean, or sew. She's a self-absorbed nymphomaniac. She's a terrible wife, a horrible mother, etc. But Peg is confused, so Marcy lays it on her:

Peggy Bundy, you're the laziest bitch in Chicago.

Peggy embraces this title and goes back to being Chicago's worst horror since...well...Oprah, actually. I, on the other hand, find my title mildly embarrassing. I have been so sex-obsessed and lazy that I haven't reached out to my online community in nearly two weeks. (If I've learned anything from Puff Daddy, it's never to forget my Peeps. Sorry, Peeps.) I've had countless opportunities to write, but between convincing attractive gentleman to sample the wonders of Carrick to breaking the world record for the number of half gallons of Breyer's Sara Lee Cheesecake ice cream devoured by one fat-assed queen, I just haven't had the gumption. It's July – shouldn't I be scantily clad and leading hoochie boys through the streets of Pittsburgh like the Horny-Freakin'-Piper? Shouldn't I be trying to convince age-appropriate gentleman to vacation with me in the pop-tent in my back yard? Shouldn't I be living on Mike's Hard Lemonade and toaster leavin's? I'm come to realize that abandoning your people is not a good way to get laid. I promised you arresting stories of Club Pittsburgh calamity, and gosh darn it, that's what you're gonna get. But first, a brief yet colorful description of how the lazy bitch is turning this whole ''Summer Lovin'' thing around...

My summer started to get a whole lot better during our fabulous Foam Party this past Sunday. (If you missed this fabulous fucker, WHY? I need you to do three things to repent: 1.- Go to the ''gallery'' section of our website and look at those fun photos. 2. - Mark your calendar for the next Foam Party on August 16. 3. - Force yourself to watch Mariah Carey in “Glitter” without drinking any cocktails. Penance is supposed to hurt, right?) Sunday is my official day off. I decided, however, to check in with Club Pittsburgh ''unofficially'' in case my comrades got overwhelmed. (By adding the ''unofficial'' disclaimer, I am fully within my rights to entertain a gentleman caller. Or four or ten.) It had stormed all day, but the skies cleared just in time for the foam. The set up went smoothly. The crowd started to role in. And once the roof started bubbling...I really didn't have a lot to do. While doing laundry in the back I noticed the most beautiful gentleman I'd seen in at least 32 hours checking in. Blond hair, incredible blue eyes, an age-appropriate 30something. He appeared to be traveling with a boyfriend, but I've never been afraid to wreck a happy home. I overheard him tell Little Ricky that he'd never been here before. Oooo...fresh off the big pink boat! I watched him undress at his locker and followed him upstairs. He would smile and chit chat; I couldn't get him to make a move beyond that. Rinse & repeat – this goes on for about an hour. Then I follow him to the video room and plop my bony ass right next to him. (When you're sitting at the dessert buffet, you're either gonna take a piece of pie or settle for a Tic-Tac. This was a clarifying moment.) He wasn't making eye contact, he wasn't jiggling his junk...but he wasn't escaping, either. He finally brushes my thigh and says that he's ''nervous''. I brush back and smile. After exactly three strokes, all that Bondonkadonk Punch he sucked down kicked in, and the National Guard couldn't have removed him from my little soldier. What was supposed to be a five minute distraction turned into an hour-long performance that attracted more attention than Brangelina and the Demon Spawns. (To the gentleman with the uncanny resemblance to Jack Nicholson who I politely let gawk three inches from my ass the entire hour: I hope you enjoyed it. Because you will not be getting a fruitcake from TowelBoy this Christmas.) Anyway – I had a great time, and if you're out there, call, write, and come back soon. Also, if you happen to know of an effective ointment to treat sexually-induced rug burn...

The Foam Party was a smashing success. It was supposed to end at 11 PM, but my boss kept the roof bubbling until three. The crowd was having such a good time that they forgot to bitch. The Badonkadonk Punch was smashing too – it was all gone in an hour. As I was leaving around midnight, the most beautiful man I'd seen since...well, the blond guy from the video room...was checking in. Thick black hair, incredible black eyes, but a not-so-age-appropriate college type. I stuck around just long enough to get a glimpse of his butt. (The higher power didn't just take a day of rest after baking those cakes; he went to Tahiti.) Then this tired queen drug his less-than-bubblicious booty back to the ghetto.

I was off on Monday, and I used it as a day of reflection; I reflected on Gay.com, Manhunt, and Adam4Adam. I started getting messages from this really cute guy that lives nearby. I'd seen him online for awhile, but I was too nervous to message him. I didn't think we were a match: he's 24, muscular/athletic, butch, with great skin and exotic tattoos; I'm 32, built like Kate Moss, make Beverly Leslie look like The Terminator, and I think I have excema. But he was persistent and he convinced me to meet. “Just to chit chat – nothing sexual,” he insisted. I needed to act fast, though. I had to walk to his place because I won't park the Flintstone Mobile in his neighborhood, and daylight was dwindling. Also, his girlfriend “Jane” was coming to spend the night in a few hours.
So I make the twenty minute walk into Hell's Waiting Room, look for the building that matches his description, and ring the buzzer. And the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen (Seriously people, I mean it this time.) opens the door. He's ten times better looking than his photos. His eyes are spectacular. His smile is breath-taking. And he has this hot tattoo on his arm that continues over his torso and down his leg...

Right down to his house detention ankle bracelet.

I played it cool. I tried not to stare at the bracelet. We exchanged pleasantries, and he offered me a soft pretzel. He told me all about his job. He explained his strange relationship with Jane. (Jane is not a “girlfriend” like someone a happy homo takes to Aunt Dottie's on Thanksgiving to get the family off his back. This cutie is obviously quite smitten with Jane's vajayjay.) He told me his computer, a hand-me-down from an eccentric drag queen, is too old to keep up with the vagaries of high-speed cruising. And then he asked if I could get him a job at Club Pittsburgh. I nervously say that we're not hiring. (Honestly, we've had some crazy employees over the years, but even my boss wouldn't hire a hot mess under house detention. Of course, I asked anyway.) He's telling me why he'd be a good employee, and I'm thinking of all the benefits of a House Arrest Husband. He's really, really hot. He has a lot of pent-up frustration that he needs to work out. He can't go to the bars, bathhouses, or bookstores. He can't go to Tina's birthday party. And I'd always know exactly where he is. There's just this small matter of a felony conviction. But as it turns out,there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. He's serving a sixteen month sentence for what he insists is just a big misunderstanding. His attorney was incompetent and the judge had it in for him. Honestly, it's a total failure of the justice system. Well, there you go! He has a hearing in a few weeks to clear the whole mess up. I've already picked out my sunglasses. And if I play my cards right, I could be weeping and wailing in that courtroom.

How 'bout them apples, Esta La Mierda?

This is the part where I'm supposed to tie the whole “arrested” theme to crazy things that happened at Club Pittsburgh. I believe I owe you three more.

Not so fast, Sally. Now that I'm actually having sex again, I've taken a few notes. I'm amazed at how many hot guys get the make-or-break details of a pleasant hookup all wrong. I have bitched about internet dishonesty and ''future plans'' hookups* repeatedly. I will come back to those in a future posting. Allow me to take this opportunity to make some suggestions for setting the proper mood for conjugal companionship. First, lighting is an enormous deal. Although I applaud the eco-friendly benefits of compact florescent bulbs, they are not appropriate for sexual relations. No 32 year old should ever be lit that intensely while he's naked. (Sadly, I've had this happen.) If I wanted to have sex under the game lights at Heinz Field, I'd mail my hoochie panties to Ben Roethlisberger. Anything that provides more than 10 watts of illumination is probably excessive. Total darkness is not appropriate either. If you have a birthmark on your ass in the shape of a butter churn, I want to see it. (That's how I'll remember you when you text me for a booty call three years from now.) Try lighting some candles. They give just the right amount of light, and they smell good, too. You can put together a Proper Companion Illumination Kit with scented candles and night lights from the dollar store for less than ten bucks. If he's still sleeping next to you when the candle burns out, consider calling The Governator for a marriage license. Second, create some sort of sex noise filter with music, ambient sounds, or ventilation. Musical tastes vary, but certain standards are safe: dance music, pop, some heavy alternative if you like it rough...even soft rock can be hot. Get yourself a nice Alanis CD from her “dumped and pissed off” phase. That always sets the mood for me! Some strange queens even find Kribitz erotic. Go figure. But the music should not dominate the atmosphere. Keep the volume ambient. You want to be able to hear him whispering sweet nothings in your ear, or screaming “fuck me harder, big boy”. And your neighbors should not call the police every time you enjoy fellatio. The point of music is to create mood and drown out distractions, like the sound of your unemployed roommate talking on the phone to his mother, or a psychotic cat screaming his fucking lungs out at the door because he's a tad possessive. An air conditioner or fan works brilliantly in the absence of a stereo. But please do not, under any circumstances, blast the score from “La Traviata”. (Sadly, I've had this happen.) And finally...NO TELEVISION. Of course, porn is acceptable if it turns both of you (or ALL of you) on, but that's the only thing that should be blaring from a 32'' plasma screen. No sitcoms, no soap operas, no CNN. Both the light and the noise can just ruin a proper companion's concentration. Please do your trick a favor and Tivo “Grey's Anatomy” to enjoy with a Double Whopper Value Meal AFTER he's gone home. It is really hard to give an earth-shattering rim job with Fred Sanford and Aunt Esther arguing in the background. (Sadly, I've had that happen.) Honestly, some of these guys should be arrested from their conjugal violations.

Arrested. They should be ARRESTED. Take notes people, 'cause that's how you write an interlude...

Well, perhaps the interlude isn't perfect. Nobody was actually arrested in “#3” of my 7 favorite Club Pittsburgh calamities. But it has everything you'd expect from “#3”: debauchery, intrigue, and fun nicknames. Of course, I'm changing the names to protect the blatantly guilty. Back in the day, the Club Pittsburgh staff was frequently treated to amusing episodes from the Tina Twins, Tootie & Tootsie. Tootie & Tootsie were always a perky pair. They'd check into Club Pittsburgh for days at a time, roaming the halls, snapping their fingers, and grinding their teeth. Oh, and how they enjoyed the music! Unfortunately, their freindly neighborhood crank kingpin forget to tell poor Tootie & Tootsie that their good friend Tina can cause all sorts of wacky maladies, like tooth decay, erectile dysfunction, insomnia, anorexia, unexplained barn raising, sensitivity to light and sound, and paranoia. (Sounds fun, doesn't it?) Tootie was the first to fall into peril. Initially, we were amused by Tootie's idiosyncrasies, like when he'd rearrange the furniture in the common areas or stretch a jelly-band cock ring over his head. But then he started unscrewing lightbulbs. First the bulbs in his room, then the bulbs on the whole floor, and then the bulbs in the entire club. We caught him red-handed (think about that one) several times. We requested nicely that he stop removing the light bulbs. We explained that a little bit of light made Club Pittsburgh a whole lot safe. But poor Tootie just wouldn't stop. He would not walk towards The Light. And the housekeepers had to keep screwing those pesky bulbs back in. Finally, La Musica De La Noche (one of our...umm, more colorful housekeepers) insisted that Tootie be banished. He gave us an ultimatum: either Tootie goes, or he goes. So Tootie ended up on our special list. (And ironically, so did La Musica De La Noche about a year later. Somewhere Alanis was smiling.) Tootsie was never quite the same after we tossed out Tootie, but he was still a weekend staple. One great thing about Tootsie was that you could check him in or out in approximately 34 seconds, because he talked faster than an auctioneer on Fen-Phen. Oh, and how he enjoyed the music! He would sing & dance & bob & gyrate until I was convinced he was having some sort of Kribitz seizure. (Somewhere Fraulein was smiling.) But then poor Tootsie went all “X-Files” on us. He kept insisting that we were putting notes on his car. He would tell us that someone was following him here, and that if something were to happen, we should discard his body in the dumpster. He swore that government helicopters were watching him on the roof deck. And then, one Sunday morning, La Musica De La Noche goes down to the basement for a couple nips of gin and finds crazy Tootsie hiding in the fetal position behind the water softener. Again, an ultimatum; this time it's Tootsie on the hit list. And with that, the Tina Twins went down faster than the Olsen Twins. I hear that Tootsie is now happily married with three dogs and an Asian baby, ala Jolie. Tootie, on the other hand, just vanished.

A special note to La Musica De La Noche: Stop in! Let's share a cocktail and a laugh. We're dying to know what Sally Boozniak is has been up to.

A special note to our readers: Tina, that nasty street drug that causes all these kerfuffles, has nothing to do with TINA, the Queen of the Bubblicious Badonkadonk. Tina didn't get her name from Crank – she got it from Joan Crawford. (For the record, Tina's “BFF” Campus Lady is the recording secretary of the Campus Drug Awareness Caucus. And she'd like me to mention that “drug abuse” DOES NOT include liquor.)

Up next @ #2: The Great Flood (Or how the cows got on the ark.)

Spreading conjugal etiquette like a staph infection at a Jolie christening,
TowelBoy

*Future Plans Hook-Up: an internet phenomenon where some dickhead cruises you only to say after a lengthy conversation...
“I'd love to hook up with you, but I'm attending my Aunt Margaret's funeral in the morning and I can't tonight. Are you available two weeks from Tuesday?”

I might be dead or married two weeks from Tuesday, Mary. That's why I was hoping you'd be on your knees tonight.

Arrested Development

2008-07-10T14:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Join the Crew

2008-06-30T11:58:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is still completely worn out from getting his PRIDE on. That's perhaps the reason that I haven't written in ten days or so. (Or perhaps TowelBoy is extremely lazy; I've never been one to JUDGE, people. Unless you're a co-worker, a customer, or a drunkard. But I digress.) Every CP savant knows that the craziest time of the year at the tubs is the ten days between the winter solstice and the new year. Thanks to Pittsburgh's revamped PRIDE celebrations, mid-June is getting dangerously close to eclipsing jolly old Santa Claus. The night of Pride in the Street, in spite of unpleasant weather, was indisputably Club Pittsburgh's busiest night since New Year's Eve. (A special note to meteorologist Jeff Verszyla: What the fuck is going on? I would like a refund for both May and June. We're mere hours away from July and I'm wearing a hoodie. Please do better.) We were packed to capacity with prideful revelers, and there was excitement (and drama, of course) around every corner. Undoubtedly, the most exciting thing to happen to me during the PRIDE pageantry was my close encounter with a Pack Attack-er.

But it is me we're talking about, so of course it ended badly.

I'm about to tell you that I almost had a biblical experience with one of my biggest porn crushes. And you're thinking, “Hmmm....who could that be?”. Admittedly, I'm easily smitten. I've gone through the list of porn stars that I've drooled over in the past year alone, and apparently I've already laid claim (pun intended) to more husbands than Elizabeth Taylor. And much like Liz, I can't even remember their names right now. (Jeremy Hall. I remember that I definitely love Jeremy Hall. Email me sometime. Please. PLEASE.) Any-who, we have this Chi Chi La Rue video at CP called “The Big Dick Club”. I'm assuming from the title that you get the idea. (Young, attractive, and enormously endowed.) One of the Big Dick-ers is this tattooed cutie-patootie named Jason Crew. What I love about Jason is that he shares TowelBoy's unusually lanky body. Admittedly, and perhaps with good reason, there aren't a lot of guys in mainstream porn built like I am. Jason is lanky and hung, with a curious grin and bedroom eyes. I was delighted when a new Pack Attack video arrived with Jason as a featured performer. Much to the delight of the entire Pack, Jason's endowment is so large that he can penetrate himself. Pretty nifty, huh? After Pride in the Street, Club Pittsburgh was overtaken with studs from RentBoy.com. There were so many of them that we ran out of lockers. They ended up leaving their clothes and belongings in all sorts of exotic areas, including the office where I was slaving away. That's when I catch what I first believed to be a mirage in our office: big dicked pack attacker Jason Crew dropping his drawers!

I ask my boss if it is indeed Jason Crew. It is indeed! I confess my crush to my boss, who tells Jason. It turns into that Heather Locklear shampoo commercial where she tells two friends, then she tells two, friends, and so on... (Welcome to Club Pittsburgh, people.) A flattered Jason Crew approaches me with a hug. As much as I enjoyed a naked porn star wrapped around me, this just flipped poor TowelBoy's switch. I had a bathhouse full of calamity and my cognitive functions came to a screeching halt. Crack may be whack, but for me testosterone is really a very dangerous concoction. I continued to ''work'', however, counting the minutes until I could be out of my clothes and into conjugal chaos with Mr. Big Dick. (At that point, three hours and thirty-seven minutes, unfortunately.) I'm aware that my mind is no longer tuned to serving the gay masses with a clean towel and a smile. A half hour later, Jason makes a new offer: let's have sex right here, right now. I have fantasized about this moment a million times, just not “this moment”. (Thanks a lot,Alanis. Now I'm really glad I pirated “Flavors of Entanglement” from the internet instead of buying it. Now I can spend that money on my quivering ironic ass.) Sadly, I have no choice but to declare my professional mantra (I have a mortgage to pay, Sally.) and turn Jason down. For now.

I am technically a free agent at 7 AM on Sunday mornings. It is not unusual for me to race out of the office and into a towel. An increasingly tipsy woo-woo Jason continues to make his offer every ten minutes for the rest of my shift. I, of course, am so incredibly turned on that I seriously fear my own spontaneous combustion. (Oddly, my brain confuses horny and hungry, and I frequently experience them in tandem. Seriously. In the moment, the only thing equally appetizing to Jason Crew was that fucking Jenny Lemon Cake. If I didn't have as much sex as I do, I honestly believe I'd look like Chris Farley in a do-rag.) Any-who, the clock ticks on and the party winds down. The porn stars leave. The Rent Boys disappear. My boss goes home, and Patches takes a powder. I change the music from Thump-Thump Kribitz to Marjorie in the Morning. (Alanis, Enrique, Rob Thomas – my Sunday Morning Happy Place.) The vending machine is now completely empty, and I have what appears to be blueberry filling on my shirt. The next shift of employees show up, almost the entire gaggle of hungover hooligans leave...

And sexy Jason Crew remains.

6:37 AM he's sitting in the TV lounge. 6:46 AM he comes to the window for a new towel, and he makes his offer again. 6:54 AM my hands are shaking and I can't get my fucking credit card receipts to balance. 7:06 AM I decide there will be plenty of time for balancing after fellatio. At 7:10 AM, I rush out the office door with a towel in hand...and discover Jason standing at the check-out window dressed and ready to make a hasty retreat. He says he's just making a quick run to the hotel for some smokes and a Viagra. He'll be back in fifteen minutes, he promises. Keep balancing, he says.

Obviously, he never returned. Happy-Fucking-PRIDE, TowelBoy.

You can check out what I missed at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOlGwMyZAkc&feature=related

Now that PRIDE is over, we've focused our attention on some other pressing issues. I'd like to mention our complete frustration with maintaining the facility and equipment. We've gotten tons of complaints about various problems ranging from the endless repairs in the 5th floor shower room to the broken sink in the 4th floor bathroom. As I've mentioned before, our facilities and equipment have been used & abused 24/7 for the last seven years. There's never a ''down period'', the equipment never gets any rest, and there's never a good time to close an area for upkeep and repairs. Sometimes, while we're attempting to solve one problem, five new ones unexpectedly creep up on us. Example: Approaching PRIDE week, our wonderful maintenance guy and our manager were working diligently to make sure everything was in tip-top shape for the celebrations. This included special attention to the shower area, the sink, the water fountains, etc. Two days before the festivities officially began, a housekeeper noticed a leak in a hot water heater. The club's hot water comes from two large commercial tanks. We had one rupture earlier this year at a replacement cost of over $7000. Once a hot water tank is leaking, there are no repairs; the only option is to replace it. At this point, we are forced to choose – do we give our time and energy to completing the shower project, or do we replace the water heater? Obviously, it's a BATHHOUSE, and hot water is paramount to just about everything. So we spent our resources replacing the water heater. We frequently have to make these ''priority'' choices. Unfortunately, the customers don't see what has been repaired, only what remains broken. Another issue is that a lot of the hardware (shower heads, hot tub equipment, etc.) was either designed especially for us, or its commercial availability is limited. That is the issue with the 5th floor showers. The shower heads are unique to us, and we're still waiting to receive them from the manufacturer. The situation with the bathroom sink is similar – we're waiting for a special washer to arrive. Speaking of washer, can you imagine how many loads of towels our washers and dryers launder each day? Those machines are the hardest working whores in Pittsburgh! Obviously, they require a lot of maintenance and repairs. I know it's frustrating to see something broken and nobody is repairing it. Frequently, though, we're using our resources to repair a more urgent problem that you can't see. (You like clean towels, don't ya?) We're working overtime on the showers and the sink, and hopefully they'll be ready for you to enjoy soon.

They do not let TowelBoy do maintenance. I would be more than willing, but after that table saw accident in college, our insurance company forbids it.

So I have turned my post-PRIDE efforts to recycling. I am turning Club Pittsburgh into the epitome of GREEN. Obviously, we produce a big gay mountain of trash every week. Plastic bottles from cleaning products, detergents, & bleach...tons of cardboard boxes from things ranging from Guide magazines to Jungle Juice...and lots of cans & bottles from the vending machine. Manufacturers put a nifty number on plastics to indicate if they can be recycled. The city of Pittsburgh recycles 1 through 5. I am very serious about this, and I've been scavenging around the club looking for things to recycle. Someone left one of those Rascal Douche kits in room 312, but I guess Mary douched the number right off, because I couldn't find a number on the douche or any of its attachments. I unfortunately had to put it in the trash. (If this was yours, Sally, could you please find greener method of cleaning your cavern?) I've including the GREEN theme in my personal life too. I traded my gas-guzzling Malibu for a fuel-efficient Cobalt, and I'm buying lube in the industrial size to reduce packaging. TowelBoy hopes to become the Queen of Green. (I had that title once, actually, but I'd like to give a shout-out to UPMC-Southside for...oh, well, this is TMI...) I hope you'll join us in our efforts by recycling your cans and bottles while your in the club.

Last time, I promised you some good stories about calling 911. (Fry-With-Pam, are you out there?) I'm still thinking of ways of titillating you with tales of debauchery without getting sued. My guess is I'll have it figured out by Thursday, unless All My Children is really good this week. Let's talk then...

Go Green!
TowelBoy

A Size SMART ASS

2008-06-19T16:35:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is very concerned about Valerie Bertinelli. You remember Valerie – she played perky Barbara Cooper on the 70's sitcom “One Day at a Time”. She also married Eddie Van Halen and spawned Mozart or Chopin or whatever in the hell that kid's name is. (Wolfgang “Wolfie” Van Halen. Forgive your mother, child. She was on drugs.) Anyway, poor Valerie has been sucked into the Jenny Craig cult just like Queen Latifa. While clipping the cat's toenails and watching Planet Green this morning, I sat frozen in horror as Valerie declared she's a “Size Satisfied” and raced some other Stepford Dieter to the top of the summit for a Jenny Craig lemon cake. I would perhaps race Shwami to the top of a summit for some Boy Butter BoyAgra, but who in the hell wants lemon cake? Especially diet lemon cake. I'd rather eat Courtney Love's discarded Today Sponge. (When TowelBoy makes a reference not in your lexicon, google it. You'll get a little chuckle.) Although I don't understand how entertainment royalty like Queen Latifa got sucked into the calorie cult, it makes a little more sense with Valerie. Valerie recently published her lurid memoirs, full of shocking surprises. Her book, “Losing It”, is several hundred pages and has no amusing illustrations, so I'll do a one-sentence summary as a public service: Valerie is a bit of loose cannon sexually and she enjoys a little nose candy every now and then. Obviously, that bitch Jenny Craig (who is she, anyway??) stole Valerie's soul while she was high and horny. I'm sure she'll be a ''Size Scientology” faster than we all can say “TomKat”. The bad news: I think we lost perky Barbara Cooper forever. The good news: maybe when her programming wears off she'll write another book. Perhaps she can help me pen my own memoirs. If I wrote a book about my experience at Club Pittsburgh, it would be divided into three sections:

Section One: I laughed so hard I just lost control of my...
Section Two: Hello. Allegheny County 911? It's (Not Derrick, bitch!) at Club Pittsburgh...
Section Three: Even though I work here, I swear you're the first person I've...

I often think of myself as Lindsay Lohan in the movie “Mean Girls”, only less drunk/stoned/syphilitic. I will admit that I'm not laughing with our customers...I'm laughing at them. Countless Queens in Calamity over the past seven years have left me with the tingle of sore ribs that comes from a good laugh. Also, my co-workers can weave a tale so hysterical that even Condi would feel a tickle in her funny bone. Let's take a look at when I've laughed so hard I lost control of my, well...

For some reason, funny things seem to happen in the elevator. Patches uses the elevator as a liquored-up litmus test. If a customer can't operate the elevator, they're just too tipsy woo-woo to enter. Thanks to Verizon connecting the world one idiot at a time, we'll occasionally get a drunkard who calls upstairs to tell us the elevator isn't working. Push the button, Mary. Sometimes, they make it in the elevator but don't hit the button to come to the 4th floor. I guess they're hoping the Holy Boo or their Betty Ford Gardian Angel will deliver them safely to the front desk. If this is you: We're watching in the camera. And we're laughing hysterically. Inevitably, some gets on the PA system to tell Miss Mary LaLa to hit the 4 button. If the elevator is going woo-woo, it will deliver some unsuspecting costumer to the basement. A confused Alanis never realizes that he's steps away from a lifetime supply of poppers, butt plugs, and Frito-Lay products. I've had countless customers drop keys, money, and driver's licenses down the small gap between the lobby floor and the elevator. This typically requires a 3 AM phone call to a disgruntled elevator repair man. We once had one of our more colorful customers lose continence on the ride up. The elevator door opens, and the poor dear is standing there drenched like Carol Channing during the “Hello Dolly” curtain call. (True story: during the last Broadway revival of “Hello Dolly”, the famous diva was having a huge problem with bladder control. During intermission, some poor stagehand would have to come out on stage and mop up the dribble. Someone needs to get back into life (or at least Act II) with Depend.) Anyway, as we were trying to appease the drenched customer in the elevator, he kept screaming, “But I only have one kidney!!”. Apparently, the poor dear soaks himself quite often. A bit of free advice from TowelBoy: if you have half the kidneys, don't drink twice as much liquor. We once threw some inebriate out only to discover him causing some disturbance in the elevator. We get the elevator back to the 4th floor, the door opens, and this man is squatting in the corner pleasuring himself with an enormous pink dildo. Obviously, this queen got Helen Finger. And finally, a quirky customer with a notorious case of mysophobia was trapped in the elevator for almost two hours after a power outage. If I thought Tom Bergeron were remotely amusing, I'd submit the security footage to that never-ending “Funniest Videos” show.

People often ask our housekeeping staff if they ever find anything amusing when they're cleaning private rooms. (People are just fixated wit prosthetic limbs. We haven't found one. Yet.) We have, however, found enough trashy lingerie to start a special Goodwill for hookers and trollops. Bras, teddies, lacy panties, garters, etc. Patches and I once found a pair of lacy panties inside the housekeeping supply bag. When we shook the underwear, a joint rolled out. Of course, I went through the history file to see who rented the room. I have forever dubbed this customer “Miss Lacy Stoner”. I also made up this fun limerick for jumping rope:

Lacy Stoner needs a donor...
Roll a doobie and you will own her...
How many puffs will she take?
1, 2, 3, 4, (Keep jumping, queen.)

Sometimes we find really expensive underwear left behind in rooms, lockers, and the laundry basket. (How does one forget to put his underwear back on?) I have an entire dresser drawer full of hoochie pants recovered from Club Pittsburgh. Boxers, tighty-whities, boxer-briefs, mesh – you name it, I've pilfered it. I can wear anything stain-free between sizes 28 & 32. I tend to save nicer big-boy gutchies for a co-worker with more...umm...junk in the trunk. For years, my favorite pair of underwear was a pair of black Calvin trunks I retrieved from the laundry basket. The pouch of these suckers was so stretched from the previous owner's enormous member that I had to wash them at least a dozen times before they'd even make contact with my genitals. I would wear them to entertain extra-special gentleman callers. I loved my sexy panties. A washer malfunction a few weeks ago tore them to shreds, unfortunately. My new favorite is a pair of mesh briefs the same color as my car that we recovered when when we bounced a sexy drunkard from room 313. I think they're from Wal-Mart, but they're “package enhancing” nonetheless. We find tons & tons of sex toys. Our trash man has been treated to numerous dildos, butt plugs, nipple clamps, and douching devices over the years. (I do throw those away, people. Except this one time, we left a gently-used douche ball sitting on the desk, and Tony accidentally used it as a cooling device. But I digress.) Almost every day, the housekeeper finds the same person's socks in the 4th floor bathroom trash can. What's my favorite left-behind item? Dentures. It is amazing how many teeth we find lingering in rooms. Poor Richie once stepped on a pair lying on the floor next to the sling in the dark room. (I've heard of getting your brains fucked out, but your TEETH...?) Inspired by the Pet Rock, I once kept a pair of discarded dentures in a bowl full of water and named them Mister Clackers. That lasted all of two days until my boss saw Mister Clackers sitting on his desk and promptly put him in the dumpster. Oh well, at least I still have my cat.

As amusing as some of our more colorful customers are, they don't even come close to some of the strange birds on Club Pittsburgh's payroll. (For the record, I totally include myself in this.) I spend the first hour or so of work each day drinking coffee and listening to some of the shocking/hysterical/asinine stories and rumors floating around about my co-workers. The Club Pittsburgh Employee Rule: the more we talk about you, the more we love you. We're all up in each other's “Biz'ness”. (It's when we stop talking about a co-worker that he should really be concerned. At that point, he's dead to us.) After nearly seven years, our wacky personalities have caught on with our customers. There are certain things that most people that pass through our doors know to be facts: Dave is the pretty one, Walter is the wise one, Shawn is the hateful one, Damian is a psychotic bitch who torments everyone, etc. But how well do you know CP employees? See if you can match the employee to the appropriate factoid, all of which is 100% true...

-Which CP'er left his job for the fast-paced world of load procurement?
-Which CP'er used to sell hair pieces and is a true demon with a sewing machine?
-Which CP'er calls his bedroom the ''aluminum fortress'' because he's covered all the windows with aluminum foil?
-Which CP'er have we dubbed “Forever Lovely”?
-Which CP'er takes a week off each summer to traipse around Pittsburgh dressed like a wolf?
-Which CP'er has a weakness for $20 hillbilly hustler boys?
-Which CP'er claims that his sphincter muscle is strong enough to rip a condom off of an erect penis and sling it across the room?
-Which CP'er travels in tandem with the Campus Lady?
-Which CP'er is a “versatile power top”?
-Which CP'er had a tumultuous relationship with the Lying Bastard from Hunker? And our Miss Tina? And that crazy Meth Head who keeps calling here? And Squeakers? And...well, you get the point.
-Which CP'er left his shaggin' wagon parked in Mulberry Way until Mayor Tutweiler towed it away?
-Which CP'er is idolized by the rest of the pack?
And finally...
-Which CP'er may be the first person ever to die from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?

See – this group is a riot! Is it any wonder that it burns when I pee? (That IS from laughing so hard, right?) Right now we're all aflutter over the big PRIDE celebrations. Tonight is the SPLASH event in Mt. Washington. Our queen drove in from Baltimore for the party. Saturday night will most likely be the biggest night of the year for us. THE party after Pride in the Street is at Club Pittsburgh. Last year, we sold out and had to turn guys away. We're making special accommodations this year – we're letting everyone in. The more the Mary-er! Diesel Washington will perform @ 2 AM. We've also found out that TowelBoy-OBSESSION Damien Crosse will be coming with him. (See the photo above.) Be polite, be patient, and you won't be disappointed. This is definitely the place to be if you want to have a great story on Sunday morning. Oh, and don't drive yourself crazy wondering if we're laughing at you.

Of course we are.

Next time: Chapter 2 – The 911 Diaries!
TowelBoy

PRIDE Is Really Movin' Now!

2008-06-05T14:42:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy does enjoy a nice Pack Attack. My heroes at Hot House have concocted this wonderful porn series where one of their big-named stars entertains a whole pack of hung & handsome gentleman callers. We feature Pack Attack 1, 2 & 3 on our exclusive Hot House channel. So here's the description on the back cover of Pack Attack 1, starring the recently departed (crack is seriously whack, people) Kent North:

“Pack Attack 1 stars Hot House exclusive Kent North, the greediest pig bottom on the planet. He demanded we find the five biggest cocks in the business to try and tame his hungry hole. Do they succeed...?”

Hmmm. I'm not exactly an expert on hungry holes, but I was anything but tamed by the Pack Attacks. They actually unleash a hormonal tidal wave that makes me care even less that Miss Mary LaLa got his damn car towed for parking on Penn Avenue during restricted hours. (Read the sign on the meter, Mary.) I just want a pack attack of my own. Honestly, if I go completely ape-shit and they haul my bony ass off to the Western Psychiatric Institute (conveniently located within walking distance of the Pitt men's dorms), please do not send flowers. I'm not interested in a Whitman's Sampler or a pharmacy cocktail. Bring me a nice pack attack. Round up Jeremy Hall, Jason Ridge, Jackson Wild*, and those two cute boys from that soap opera and send them to my room. I'll already be wearing a straight jacket, which could be kinky. This evening, while enjoying Pack Attack #1 for the ba-zillionth time, I noticed one of the attackers was porn-stud-turned-popstar Fredrick Ford. Seeing the dashing Mr. Ford in that movie fills me with a certain hope rarely experienced by middle-management, “workin' for the man” mortals. You see, Fredrick Ford is one of this year's musical entertainers at Pride in the Street. (More on that later.) I will have access to him. Or I will know people that will have access to him. If this man can get himself in a Pack Attack, surely he can do it for me. With a little help from my boss, American Idol contestant Kimberly Locke, and the all-powerful Sparkerella, I could be getting pack attacked by the 4th of July. Please keep your fingers crossed, and I'll keep my legs crossed.

If you believe that, I have some beautiful beach-front property in Carrick that you may be interested in...

One of my porn husbands that I've never seen in a Pack Attack is the dashing Jackson Wild. I discovered Jackson on the cover of Just Us Boys magazine in January. Inside, he was hawking this thing called the Flesh Jack. The Flesh Jack sort of looks like a flashlight with a synthetic orifice in place of the light bulb. You squirt some ID Glide down the latex va-jay-jay, insert your turgid member, move the Flesh Light up and down, and wait for orgasmic bliss. Or so Jackson says. (Actually, I entertained a gentleman caller several years ago who had one of these. It felt cool, but the poor dear mistakenly thought the Flesh Jack would be a suitable substitute for his mouth. Afterwards, I had this overwhelming urge to put it in the dishwasher.) Obviously, I went completely woo-woo for the cute cover boy with the funky masturbation flashlight. TowelBoy does enjoy meticulous dental hygiene combined with cosmetic orthodontics, and Jackson Wild has the most delectable set of choppers I've ever seen. And his eyes aren't too shabby either. After months of obsessing and google-ing, I found this clip of Mr. Wild demonstrating the masturbator. He has this really alluring voice that is sexually hypnotic. He totally had me at ''hello''. And as I'm watching this clip, literally stuck to my desk chair, I'm cursing the gods of Hot House for never having this man pack attacked. This became even more baffling when I recently discovered that Jackson is a Hot House ''exclusive''. (Please keep Alanis in your cell phone for these ironic emergencies.)

Jackson: this is your formal invitation to be in MY pack attack. Just go to Mapquest, type in “Western Psychiatric Institute”, and follow the caterwauling until you find my room.

When I'm not obsessing over Jackson Wild, Fredrick Ford, or getting Pack Attacked, I'm fretting over an obviously troubled Queen. (And this time it's not Esta La Mierda!) I'm talking, of course, about Queen Latifah. I have enjoyed this Queen for many years. I felt the pain of a single sister making her way in the big city through all six seasons of “Living Single”. I'm all about U-N-I-T-Y, and I don't like being called a bitch either. We even share a birthday! (3/18, if you're sending presents) But what the hell is up with the Queen in these Jenny Craig commercials? Jenny Craig is a weight loss program, right? The whole point is to lose your big ba-donka-donk and regain your dignity. Yet in a half dozen commercials, the Queen never even suggests that she lost any weight. She yammers about the health benefits of reducing body mass without ever revealing the magic number. She's a “Size ACTIVE”. For the love of Corky, what does that mean? I once had birthday-gal Esta La Mierda locked in the Club Pittsburgh bathroom because she was a Size DRUNK. Perhaps I should have alerted Nutri-System. (And I suspect our Queen lost more weight in that bathroom than Queen Latifah has on Jenny Craig. But I digress.) I would be happy if the Queen would at least tell America that she lost five pounds. (Which is going to be a tough sell in that orange polyester jumpsuit.) I may not believe it, but at least I can process it. The last straw for me was her walking on that treadmill so slowly that I thought she was going to fall off. And as the camera moves in on her, she says “I'm really moving now!” Umm, yeah – and the other Queen is really sober now. Frankly, I'm just not buying it from either Queen.

Queen Latifah may not be moving much at all, but Club Pittsburgh is hurling towards a very busy PRIDE week. 2007 was the first year for Splash and Pride in the Street, and nobody knew what to expect. Splash, the pool party/fundraiser at the Manse on the Mountain, was a smashing success. My brush with Splash occurred when I received an emergency request to deliver poppers, big girl condoms, and the portable sling to the Mountain. The weather was great, the house breath-taking, and everyone looked like they were having a lot of fun . The party offered revelers great music, delicious food, hot boys, and of course…plenty of free cocktails. Later in the evening, when everyone was really tipsy-woo, some saggy-titted gal (a real woman!) stripped of f her blouse and scared all the gays boys in the hot tub. Does it get more fun than that? (And my condom caddy came back empty. Draw your own conclusions.) I hear this year’s Splash will blow last year’s shindig out of the water. Three days after Splash ‘07, the Pride in the Street dance party was an extraordinary event that none of us ever could have imagined. 5000 revelers crowded Liberty Avenue to show Pittsburgh the meaning of PRIDE. That night was also the only time in nearly seven years of business that I’ve had to turn people away from Club Pittsburgh. Every room and locker in the joint was occupied. For nearly three hours, I watched in the security monitor as scantily-clad, inebriated homosexuals stormed around my car like a pack of angry banshees because I wouldn’t let them in. (A note to one particular mouthy queen that refused to exit and kept calling me “Derrick”: TowelBoy does not forget. When all hell is breaking loose after PITS this year, I’ll be ready for you, bitch.) In the middle of all this excitement, porn star EXTRAORDINAIRE Barrett Long was performing in the gym, and the club was overtaken by cute Rent Boys (RentBoys.com) in hoochie pants. The Rent Boys will be back for Splash this year, and Kimberly Locke, Fredrick Ford, and Frank DeCaro will entertain the masses as Pride in the Street. After PITS, Titan exclusive Diesel Washington will be working something massive in a late-night performance at the club. If you want to attend the festivities, Club Pittsburgh is vending tickets for five great events:

Splash! Pool Party -- $60
Pride in the Street (general admission) -- $15
PrideFest Beer Garden -- $15
Bar Crawl -- $15
Soak! River Cruise -- $20

For information on these events, please visit:
www.PittsburghPrideSpace.com

Even if you don’t get a change to attend the events, at least stop down at the club to see Diesel Washington. We will undoubtedly be packed for his performance. And you can watch TowelBoy show the aforementioned queen the door for a second year in a row. Derrick loves you, girl.

Our price changes took effect on Monday. Thanks for taking it in stride. Almost everyone has been extremely supportive of these changes – we’ve only had a few complaints. (from the usual suspects, of course) You can check out all of the new prices in the BREAKING NEWS section of the website. Don’t forget about FUNCH, our reward for your loyal support: We’re discounting lockers to $10 between 2 PM and 6 PM on weekdays. It’s a full six-hour rental! So far, FUNCH response has been great.

Hopefully, we’ll see YOU during PRIDE…

Definitely not DERRICK,
TowelBoy

Jeremy Hall and the Ba-Donka-Donk

2008-05-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

My name is TowelBoy, and I'm a ba-donk-aholic.

That one simple fact ruined my reign as the Queen of the American Stage. After seven years of intense conservatory training, I realized the temptation of cute theater boys with some junk in the trunk was just too much for me to handle. I became painfully aware that the mundane realities of the business did not appeal to me. I am not particularly fond of producers, directors, choreographers, actors, and designers who want my soul for pocket change and a nice “Actor's Theatre of Blah Blah” coffee mug. I don't consider Sally's missing handkerchief in Act II a valid reason to call the UN Security Council. And if I'm going to sit at a computer for six hours, why would I want to waste time distributing rehearsal notes or scheduling Retard Ronny's costume fitting when I could be cruising for booty?

Why did I do this for seven years? And why do I get sucked back in just after I swear that I've managed my last pageant? That's simple: artsy boys with ba-donka-donk.

Every time I manage a show (or as my co-workers call it, a pageant), I find one actor, designer, props boy, or technician that is, beyond reasonable doubt, my soul mate. While production is in progress, I'm madly in love with him. He becomes the focus of all my energies. I can't live without him. I love his smile, I'm entranced by his eyes, and I can't take mine off of his booty-licious back end. He's my handsome groom, and I'm a bride more beautiful than Portia De Rossi in a field of daisies. Six months after the show closes? I can't remember his name. Then of course, the cycle starts all over again. Rinse and repeat.

The last show I did proved that time away changes nothing. This time, I was confronted with two weaknesses on a collision course from hell: cute artsy-types with junk in the trunk and performing arts majors at Point Park University. The show's director happened to be a faculty member at PPU, and she built the entire cast from her pool of students. At the first rehearsal, I was convinced that I was trapped in some Maximum-Impact-induced wet dream. Each actor that walked through the door was sexier than the one prior. I thought perhaps the producer was staging some sort of joke, or I was being secretly taped by some Logo reality show. As each actor introduced himself, the name changed, but the story was the same: “My name is Paul, and I'm a dance major at Point Park.” And then, “I'm Jeremy, and I'm in the BFA acting program at Point Park.” And on & on, until “My name is Rick, and I'm a Point Park senior majoring in acting, music, and dance.” (Any true queen out there knows this is called a TRIPLE THREAT. Or in my case, the Axis of Arousal.) I immediately started an intense deep-breathing technique and crossed my legs to stop my increasing bulge from becoming an erectile billboard. I kept reminding myself of the countless pageant pin-ups from productions past that are now just a scratch on my hard drive.

But as we actually start rehearsing, I make a life-altering observation as Rick is prancing about the rehearsal hall: this boy has the most incredible ass I have ever seen.

I'm immediately convinced that Rick's ass has supernatural powers. It can find an exit strategy from Iraq and bring an end to world hunger. This ass is a magic lamp – one rub and all my problems would be solved. Every time he walks past the production table, I hear angels playing a sweet melody on harpsicords. (ba-donka-donk; ba-donka-donk; ba-donka-donk...) Granted, it takes me awhile to get to his butt. He has a beautiful face and a nice body. He's always smiling, and his eyes are always undressing the room. He has a lean, toned body befitting of a dancer from Point Park University. He shoots me that toothy smile, and I melt. Then he turns around, and something incredible happens: his shirt gets hung up on the waist of his pants because it can't clear the bubble of his butt. As days turned into weeks, I watched t-shirts, wife beaters, sweat shirts and cardigans get stuck on his butt. Abercrobie and Fitch does not make a top that can cascade over those cakes. I begin to picture Rick dancing in the middle of urban decay for some J-Lo video. When they both have their backs to the cameras you can't tell them apart. They're surrounded by thug-boys with knives about to attack...until they get hypnotized by that heavenly bottom. Forget junk in the trunk; it's a U-Haul through the ghetto. And that's why I named him Ghetto Booty.

The producers of the pageant should thank Judy Garland in the Sky for sending them the Ghetto Booty, or TowelBoy would have been out of those rehearsals faster than Clay Aiken at a wet t-shirt contest. First, I missed Club Pittsburgh. I longed for Patches' prescription woes, Scooter choking on baby batter in the 4th floor shower, and Schwami's lectures on the effects of BoyAgra and portion control. I was no longer the queen of the stage – I was the bitch of the baths. Second, working with these actors from an acting conservatory was driving me insane! My experience in grad school taught me the conservatory mantra: you are more important than everyone else. There is no sense of company; it's not an ensemble effort. This particular group of actors was filled with warmed-hearted guys with lots of talent. Unfortunately, they were pretty clueless about the contributions that other theater artists make to bring the show to the stage. (Here's your costume, your pistol for Act II freshly repaired, and your detailed schedule for next week. Perhaps I can wash your car while I'm at it.) The director, who was their teacher and mentor, didn't exactly help matters. Through this thankless experience, I discovered that I only enjoy being someone's bitch when it ends in copious amounts of semen.

And at one point, Rick was almost an hour late for the third consecutive time, and I wanted to strangle him. I was more pissed off than that time Chuckles drank too much Pink Pucker Punch and pissed all over the carpeting in the video lounge. But I digress. Just as I was about to choke him, though, I caught a glimpse of that beautiful smile and that ghetto booty. The sweet melody of “ba-donka-donk” washed away any terroristic thoughts. I was in my happy place. And for the rest of the production, I just sat back and enjoyed the view.

I never did get the chance to put my junk in that trunk, but I'm just about due for another call from the theater.

Rick's butt may be nice, but Jeremy Hall's ass is a national treasure. He was, in my opinion, the sexiest performer we've ever had at Club Pittsburgh. The entire package is simply incredible: nice eyes and a beautiful smile, a lean/in shape/attractive body, a 9'' piece between his legs, and a cute little ass that would make Sir Mix-A-Lot weep. (He has a very nice butt indeed, but Jeremy only plays on top. Ahhh, sweet irony. I tried to find Alanis on AIM, but I'm afraid she's put me on IGNORE.) I kept staring at his commendable shoulder-to-waist ratio; Jeremy has these broad manly shoulders, and his trunk angles down to a waist a third of the size. And of course, the ba-donka-donk sits perfectly at the bottom of the triangle. If you missed seeing this man perform live, you're one crazy queen. (Fortunately, I don't think many of you missed out – we were bombarded with Club Pittsburgh revelers and Jeremy's admirers. Thanks to all of you for one of the busiest, hottest nights I've seen in ages.) I keep finding excuses to email Jeremy, and by golly, I WILL get him to return.

Some odds & ends. Club Pittsburgh has tickets for all five upcoming Pride events: Splash, Pride in the Street, PrideFest Beer Garden, the Bar Crawl, and the July River Cruise. Those tickets will be available at the front desk on Monday, May 26. Don't forget that our rates and product prices will adjust on Tuesday, June 3. Most of the increases are between 10% to 15%; a surprising number of prices will stay exactly the same. It's worth 10% more to keep getting some of the best booty in Pittsburgh, right? We last raised rates on January 1, 2004. Gas prices have doubled since then. And Exxon-Mobile may fill your tank, but you won't get any junk in the trunk. You can check out the new rates on the BREAKING NEWS section of the website. And if you join our online community, I'll send them directly to you. We're about to hit a milestone in enrollment, and I'd love for you to be a part of it. I'm starting to sound like Tammy Faye Baker here, (One more payment due, partners!!), but membership definitely has it's privilages. Go to the COMMUNITY section of the website to get on the mailing list.

Check out Jeremy Hall:
ClubJeremyHall.com

Check out all of this summer's great pride events:
www.PittsburghPrideSpace.com

Check out Alanis Morissette's new video, “Underneath”:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIy5Cv0un9U

Checking Out,
TowelBoy

Royal Stimulus

2008-05-15T17:14:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is suffering another insufferable bout of schizophrenia. I’m changing thoughts faster than Angelina Jolie changes Third World babies. This has been a busy week at Club Pittsburgh. The computer with all the membership information went completely ape-shit, we’re working on adjusting our prices and adding a new special, our Queen is perhaps running from the law, and everyone is agog over a weekend visit from porn star Jeremy Hall. Our back office bulletin board is full of clippings from queens in the news. Oh – and some bitter queen called the health department and we had to take the piss tub off of the roof. And in the midst of all of this, my involuntary bout of chastity gave way to summer conjugal madness.

A few weeks ago, I blogged about some silly questions and inquiries that we get from confused out-of-towners and heterosexually-challenged drunkards. I gave you my professional answer along with my bitchiest retort. Well, the one I forgot: “I lost my membership card.” 4 out of 5 dentists recommend Crest, and 4 out of 5 homosexuals can not keep track of a membership card. And some are blatant in declaring that they’ve thrown the card away, which quite frankly gives me hemorrhoids. Thanks be to Madonna that these people don’t have small children! (Frankly, I don’t think Madonna should have small children either. Who’s going to feed the chickens?) I have a regular customer (one of many) who never remembers his membership card, forcing this bitter bitch to search through Excel like I give a damn. I went into the bank about six months ago, and said customer was waiting in line (incognito with Jackie O sunglasses) in front of me. And of course, he doesn’t have a fucking deposit slip and the poor teller had to look up the account. And I’m thinking “You’re a mess, Mary”, but I digress. Seven years at the front window has taught me that you just can’t trust a homosexual with a little gold card. He’s gonna lose it, he’s gonna forget it, or his wife is gonna take it. Fortunately, one of our more “colorful” employees created a membership spreadsheet so we can reference memberships on our administration computer. (Shortly after, unfortunately, the poor dear partied a little too hearty with his peppy pal Tina and got his ass fired. But we appreciate the spreadsheet, Peanut!) TowelBoy is fanatic about keeping the spreadsheet current, but not so motivated about backing it up. That’s why I nearly lost my bowels when I got to Club Pittsburgh this morning and discovered that the administration computer (and my spreadsheet with 6000 members) has retired to Microsoft Pines. That is not a good way to start the morning. Four stores, three construction detours, two trips to the Best Buy restroom in an attempt to lure a handsome employee, and a charge on the corporate Amex card later, I had a new computer in the front seat of Millie Malibu. I’m still waiting on our tech guy to transfer the data from the old computer to the new one. And of course, as I’m disconnecting the old girl from her ethernet cables, the first customer to come to the window says…”I lost my card.”

Part of the information waiting to transfer hard drives is the suggestions for new prices. As I mentioned in a previous post, changing economic circumstances have forced us to adjust our prices. There is some good news in all of this. First, the increases are minimal; across the board, everything from memberships to butt plugs will increase about 10-15%. I don’t think that anyone will be shocked. And as a “thank you” for your continuing support, we’re adding another locker special. Our PR guy came up with a brilliant idea for something called FUNCH. He’s a man of the word, and claims that the term is easily-recognized code in more crime-conscious neighborhoods for “fucking after lunch”. Translation: We’re going to discount lockers to $10 from 2 PM to 6 PM on weekdays. I will post information about the price changes, as well as more information about FUNCH, in the Breaking News section of our website next week. Members of our online community will get an email. (Hint, Hint) I do know that the FUNCH special runs Monday through Friday and will begin on Monday June 2. The price increase goes into effect on Tuesday, June 3 @ 7 AM.

If you ever find yourself in the ghettos of Detroit looking for a mid-afternoon anal delight, tell them Tony sent you.

If you been to Club Pittsburgh over the past few weekends, you’ve noticed that Esta La Mierda, Miss Club Pittsburgh herself, has made a triumphant return from the swamps of Florida. One surprise visit is obviously a gal who’s homesick. Two surprise visits is a fugitive queen who’s obviously hiding from the authorities. We do love our Queen, but the evidence is compounding. First, there are no immigrant sidekicks or a Sugar Daddy Hubby in sight. She claims the husband is “working”, but we think he’s just working on a plan to get the Queen to “the islands” as quickly as possible. Then the Queen goes out and buys a new car with nondescript tags and no flashy drag items stacked in the back seat. And finally, rumors abound that the Queen is sporting a new weave. I’m sorry, but NEW WEAVE = INCOGNITO FUGITIVE. We’re your friends Queen, and we want to help. Is it the IRS, or perhaps the INS? (Nobody ever believed those immigrants were your cousins from Poughkeepsi.) You shouldn’t piss with the feds. (Just ask disgraced councilwoman Twanda Carlisle!) What are you hiding, Queen?

If your enquiring mind would like to know, Esta La Mierda will be here to help us welcome porn star Jeremy Hall on Saturday. I’m very pleased that she’s making another weekend trip to Pittsburgh to help us with this huge event. Nobody gives our performers the Royal Treatment like the Queen. Pittsburgh may not remember Jeremy Hall, but if Esta is here, Jeremy Hall will definitely remember Pittsburgh. This is the perfect opportunity for you to catch up with Esta and her entourage. Please come down and socialize, chit-chat, and contribute generously to her legal defense fund. We’ve got your back, Queen. (Please note the photograph of the Queen at the top of this post. I chose a picture of her in her natural position to jog your memory.)

TowelBoy is obviously very excited about Jeremy Hall’s Pittsburgh excursion. He looks just like that cute Eric McCormick from “Will & Grace”, only less gay. I have been salivating over his photos for nearly a month. (Unfortunately, I vividly remember “New Coke”, and perhaps I’m a little geriatric for Club Jeremy Hall. But I can still watch.) Jeremy is performing just before midnight on Saturday night. I’ve seen the clip on his website, and he gives a hot performance. I expect that he’s going to make a lot of new fans. You keep asking when we’re busy. When will the cute guys be here? Do I recommend a good time to visit? Well – I’ve got a secret, and I’m about to squeal like Paula Abdul after she gets to the bottom of that red cup. George W. Bush, that wackadoodle, is putting mad sums of money in your checking. And how does the trendy gay man define economic stimulus? Hmmm. Thanks to the stimulus from the IRS, we’ve been busier than we are during our crazy holiday rush. Just about every employee has commented (okay, whined and complained) about the huge bump in business. (I don’t think the sling room and a bottle of Jungle Juice is what W meant by “stimulus”, but to each his own.) Based on my experience since the stimulus payments started two weeks ago, I decided to go to Giant Eagle last night and buy two boxes of Grape Nuts and a tube of Anusol. It’s gonna be a long weekend. Perhaps you should stimulate yourself with Mr. Jeremy Hall, too. If you’d like a preview, check out his website:

ClubJeremyHall.com

What else? Oh – Miss Mary La La called the health department, and we had to remove the piss tub from the roof. (May I suggest to Miss La La that a nice piss party might improve her attitude.) It was our intention to keep the tub on the roof the entire season. Unfortunately, it’s now in the basement, working overtime as a make-shift storage space for butt plugs and douche balls. There’s no longer a watersports bathtub, yet poor Towelboy is pissed. (Alanis, are you home?) That was the sad news, but there has been some exciting news, too. Patches keeps his co-workers informed by keeping an eye out for “Queens in the News”. We have a bulletin board in the office with newspaper clippings and printouts from local (sometimes national) news websites filled with tidbits about some of our most colorful compatriots. Fun articles about divorces, DUI’s , and the occasion queen who tries to rob a bank in a Britney Spears weave and a mini-skirt. Two articles of interest popped up in this week’s Post-Gazette. First, one of our more infamous rebel-rousers has been sent to the klink for ten years for inappropriate internet behavior. (But he has found Jesus, so the situation does have a benefit.) Because TowelBoy is all about forgiveness, I’m removing him from the Do Not Admit list. Another favorite of ours was in the business section of the paper yesterday recommending that you rip Granny’s gold teeth out of her mouth before you bury her. Thirty years of gold caps and fillings can apparently bail Junior out of a mortgage crisis. She may have to gum her way through the afterlife, but you can trade that dental bling for a vacation to Aruba or a nice Chrysler Sebring. Don’t feel guilty about stealing those bedazzled choppers – there are no pork chops in the afterlife anyway.

I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but my hormones are through the roof and my logical mind is out of town. In the past hour, I’ve gotten three text messages from some sexually-confused yet sexually-aggressive Pitt junior with an avid interest in pharmacology. He’s got a cute furry ass, and he knows the appropriate dosage for Zithromax. He’s part of the Future Prescription Fillers of America. And he’s apparently insatiable. For the love of Patches, I feel the need to entertain this boy. Stop in this weekend and I’ll give you an update.

Kisses,
TowelBoy

These Hard Times

2008-05-01T15:02:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is anxiously waiting for Dubya to give him some stimulus.

Get your minds out of the gutter. I have no desire for any sort of sexual stimulus (manual, oral, or anal) from the Commander in Chief. (Mary Cheney – call me and we’ll talk. I have a turkey baster with your name on it.) I am talking about my tax rebate. My cat Socks had a blocked urethra that took three days and $1300 to unclog. (If I had a cork in my penis, I sure hope the queens in the community would throw a benefit pageant to get it out.) The people at American Express were there during Socksee’s time of need, and now they really need me to make a payment. (And if I don’t pay, will karma re-plug his penis?) Although I have not entertained a gentleman caller since my pussy got clogged, Duquesne Light, Columbia Gas, Comcast, and the Pittsburgh Water & Sewage Authority have continued to sodomize me without ID Glide. Every utility and service at Camp Carrick has increased in the last six months. Poor TowelBoy may have to turn down his thermostat five more degrees or sell his hoochie pants on E-Bay just to pay these bastards. The price of everything from gasoline to Trojan Magnums keeps nudging toward unaffordable. (I’ve officially changed my internet profile from “prefers to travel” to “prefers company”. Even Ashton Kutcher’s ass isn’t Exxon-Worthy.) Although just about every vegetable, animal, and mineral is currently in season, each trip to Giant Eagle pushes me a little further to the Nicole Richie diet. (Mmm…a glass of sparkling water and a Cool Mint Tic-Tac.) My car is no longer just unfashionable, it’s unaffordable. I have no plans to attend any Circuit Parties this summer; right now, I’m saving to buy a Mr. Coffee from Circuit City.

Why is a single, thirtysomething guy with a comfortable salary and a high FICO score having such a hard time? Call it a recession, a slow-down, or just a fucking mess, we’ve hit some hard economic times. I increasingly appreciate and admire our customers that continue to support us in spite of their own tightening budgets. We acknowledge that these hard times have put a tremendous strain on you, your families, and your friends. However, this economic climate has posed huge challenges for small businesses as well. Club Pittsburgh is no exception.

These challenges are the reason that we will be increasing rates within the next few weeks. The increases will be minimal, and they will affect all areas of our business: memberships, rentals, and counter goods. We are still determining the new prices, and we expect to implement them soon.

The owners and managers of Club Pittsburgh have been resistant to a rate increase for quite awhile. We haven’t raised membership and rental prices in over four years. (The last rate increase took effect January 1, 2004.) And we’ve actually lowered the price of a lot of counter items, particularly the lubes, over the past few years. Changing circumstances in recent months have made a price increase impossible to avoid.

Let me squelch the rumors before they even begin: We have not seen a decline in business. In fact, attendance has steadily increased. We are not experiencing any sort of unusual financial difficulties. All of our financial challenges stem from a changing economy. And we’re absolutely not closing. Please help us squelch any negative rumors you may hear in the bars or the chat rooms. Don’t believe any of these things if you read them on Manhunt or on Craig’s List. Any information that has an impact on our members will appear here first. If you sign up for the online community, I’ll email you breaking news directly. Get accurate information from TowelBoy – Not ShadySideSoccerBoi23 online or Miss Mary LaLa enjoying an afternoon delight at Shenley Park.

Essentially, we have seen our operating cost skyrocket over the past few years. As I mentioned, my utility bills at the house have become nearly unmanageable. All of those increases have occurred at the club on a much larger scale. We use natural gas, electric, and especially water in astronomical volumes. (The first time I saw a Club Pittsburgh water bill, I assumed it was a mistake and they accidentally added zeros. As it turns out, that’s how much we use. Shut the shower off when you're done, Sally.) The club is in need of capital improvements as well. Obviously, as the facilities age, maintenance issues accrue. We’ve all shared the inconvenience of a broken whirlpool or closed steam room. Rehabilitating or replacing this equipment, most of which has been custom-made, is unbelievably expensive. Last month, we had to replace an industrial hot water tank at a cost of a small Chevy sedan. We can no longer find picture-tube televisions for our facilities. As each television breaks, we have to swap out that set with an LCD television at a significantly higher cost. We’re replacing the carpeting in certain areas of the club with a recycled foam material that is water-resistant and significantly more hygienic. It makes a lot more sense for our facility than carpeting, but it’s a lot more expensive, too. Instead of housekeeping taking care of the whirlpool, it is now maintained by a certified pool operator. Obviously, this increases our labor costs. (This is totally worth it. We take your safety very seriously. We’re very proud to have two certified pool operators currently on staff.) All of the cleaning and maintenance products that we purchase seem to rise with each trip to Sam’s Club or Costco. Employee health coverage has doubled in the past year, and the liability insurance for the club itself is more than my salary.

For these reasons, a price increase is unavoidable. We’re grateful for your continued support.

On a lighter note…

The piss party was a hoot. We’d like to thank Bill for donating the fabulous bathtub. The staff was very impressed at the number of guys that jumped in the tub. (In spite of some chilly weather, too!) If you haven’t seen it, you should go to the GALLERY section of the website and check it out. My manager says that the tub is a permanent fixture on the roof – you’ll have all summer to enjoy it. Perhaps you can try it out when porn hottie Jeremy Hall performs on Saturday, May 17…

What am I forgetting? (I may have had a few too many Sominex before bed, and I’ve been feeling tipsy woo-woo most of the day.) Oh – we have tickets available for SPIKE at the front desk. You can check out www.PittsburghPrideSpace.com for more information on the picnic. Also, if you join the Club Pittsburgh online community, I can send you the new rates when they’re determined.

Earning Cash By Spreading Love,
TowelBoy

The Bitch of the Baths

2008-04-24T15:30:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is basically a bitch at heart. A neurotic, self-conscious, sardonic, smart-mouthed, lippy, incredibly horny bitch. Oh, sure – you come to Club Pittsburgh and he’s Miss Mary Sunshine. A combination of dyphenhydromine hydrochloride, caffeine, Manhunt, and Soapnet leaves my mood generally auspicious. At my best, I can drag my derriere out of bed and find child-like jubilee in the simplest of things. Local news at 4:00 – Awesome! Giant Eagle has Value Time douches buy-one get-one. Fantastic! Doing laundry is productive and FUN! It’s 70 degrees, the sun is shining, and I’m off all day – I can cut the grass AND wash the car! (I have actually said all of these things with sugary enthusiasm before.) At my worst, the Coalition of the Willing could not drag my lazy, bony ass out of bed. I hate my house, I hate myself, and I really hate homosexuals. (Especially perky blond-haired, blue-eyed twinks who drive Daddy’s Saab and have some hideous label plastered on their chests & asses.) If the Sominex, coffee, and fellatio blend are just right, I tend to fall somewhere in the middle. I can stay very pleasant and professional with customers by directing the bitch gene at my co-workers, neighbors, and the hoagie maker at Get-Go. I will admit that I’m sort of like Lindsay Lohan in that movie “Mean Girls”.

I constantly see these loony queens in the internet chat rooms that are looking for guys that are “real”. (Don’t message them unless you’re “real”. My response: if I’m not “real”, why do they they keep billing my credit card?) These same guys are sick of “players and liars”, and they want someone to be honest and…well…real. Newsflash for you, oh Real One: I’ve seen your photo ID, and Helen Keller wouldn’t buy that you’re 26 at a Club Pittsburgh blackout party. But I digress. (Into bitch mode, apparently.) Allow TowelBoy to get REAL with you. I love you like Aretha Franklin loves Beyonce fried in butter & onions, but sometimes I really have to bite my tongue. My second grade teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, said that there’s no such thing as a stupid question. Well, Sister Mary, I invite you to spend a Saturday night at Club Pittsburgh’s front window after the bars close. Now I realize that every question (even really stupid ones) merit a professional answer. And that’s what I always give. (Well, usually.) But that’s not what’s usually going through my slightly-damaged brain. So, just for shits and giggles, I thought I would share. Here are some of my favorite QUESTIONS/DECLARATIONS, the PROFESSIONAL RESPONSE, and TowelBoy’s INNER BITCH RESPONSE…

Q/D: It’s my first time!

PR: Welcome to Club Pittsburgh! How can I help you?

IBR: Whooptee-fuckin’-do. I’ve been sitting here for seven years when I could have been a porn star. I would get you a balloon, but I’m out of Mylar and I don’t feel like blowing.

Q/D: I’m from out of town!

PR: Welcome to Club Pittsburgh. (toothy Appalachain smile) How can I help you?

IBR: Oh, thank goodness. I thought that inebriate Ed Rendell went completely ape-shit and started issuing New Mexico ID cards. Thanks for clarifying your situation and exonerating a drunkard. (Sometimes they use “but I’m from out of town” to justify an entire monologue of stupidity. Apparently, Pittsburgh is far more sophisticated than other cities, like Los Angeles and Rimmyass, Kentucky. When that happens, this is TowelBoy’s alternate response.) Do you not have Hooked on Phonics in your neck of the woods?

Q/D: Where do I park?

PR: Unfortunately, we do not offer customer parking. There is, however, plenty of street parking available in our neighborhood. There are also city lots and garages nearby.

IBR: Like a give a fuck. Do you call Giant Eagle and ask them where to park? My fat ass Chevy is parked right next to the front door. How ‘bout them apples, Sally?

Q/D: I’m obviously over 18! Why do you need my ID? I’m a very important official in the Bush Administration and…

PR: Obtaining photo ID is not an issue of age – it’s an issue of liability. Unfortunately, the law says that we can’t admit anyone without valid photo ID. I guarantee that any information we record is strictly confidential.

IBR: Who are you again? I’ve never heard of you. Yet now I’m intrigued. A Bush official? Wow. Now I want to google you. And call your wife. She’s probably seen me in Eat ‘n Park in my Club Pittsburgh t-shirt, and she’s none the wiser. Now she’ll think I’m a big gay whore. Oh dear beaver…look what you’ve started.

(I have actually had guys stand at the window and tell me that they couldn’t possibly give me photo ID because of their very important role in a public administration. Condi really needs to do something about all these queens running the State Department.)

Q/D: How much is a locker/room/membership?

PR: [I politely talk them through the cost of membership and rentals. Sometimes several times a week, but I digress. If you’re looking for a refresher, please check out the RATES section of our website.]

IBR: Let me tell you a secret. You have to promise to keep it to yourself. (They agree, intrigued.) Last night, my boss got liquored up and did something absolutely shocking: He posted all of the rates right here in front of you. Then he put them on the website and in the lobby! He’s INSANE, I know. Please don’t tell your friends. (Here’s the kicker: 99% of the time, Miss Mary LaLa forgot to bring glasses, and can’t read the rate schedule anyway. And he’s probably not going to bring them next time, either.)

Q/D: Do you accept credit cards?

PR: Yes! We accept Visa, MasterCard, Discover, and American Express. However, the name on the card must match the name on your ID.

IBR: Nope, not a one. We just put these fucking credit card stickers in the window to add a little color to all this clear glass.

Q/D: I’m a student! Do I get any discount for my student ID? (or) I’m a student and you charged me full-price!

PR: We do offer locker discounts for those with valid student ID! Please present your student ID to the attendant each time you visit so he knows to give you the discount.

IBR: Pardon me for not realizing that you had student ID. I assumed the only sorority you’d be rushing this year is AARP. Have you ever seen that cable TV show “Campus Ladies”? It’s a hoot. I really think you’d relate! (and/or) After seven years of giving you the student locker rate, I’ve decided that higher education is not working for you. Perhaps it’s time to throw in the towel. And may I suggest that you call West Virginia Governor Joe Manchin and request a full tuition refund. You’ve obviously been ripped off. Enjoy this free bottle of Wet, on the house! Consider it a “no graduation” gift…

Q/D: When will it be busy?

PR: Business is completely unpredictable. I’ve worked here for seven years, and there is no clear pattern to business. It depends on circumstances beyond our control, including weather, road construction, downtown events, economic circumstances, etc.

IBR: It really doesn’t matter how busy it is. It just takes one queen desperate enough to sleep with you. I have no fucking clue when he’ll be here. (or) You spend more time here than I do – you tell me.

Q/D: Is it busy at the Eagle/Pegasus/Lucky’s/Etc?

PR: Just like Club Pittsburgh, the bar business is unpredictable. I’ve been here all evening, so I don’t know what business is like there. You may want to stop in or give them a call.

IBR: Just because I wear the turban doesn’t mean I’m Miss Cleo, Mary.

And finally…

Q/D: Are there any young, hot guys here?

PR: Unfortunately, I can not comment on the clientele. We do have guys here.

IBR: Including you? Absolutely none.

Really, gentleman, it’s exactly like Meredith Brooks said in that popular 90’s song: I’m a bitch, I’m a tease, I’m a goddess on my knees. There is a way to avoid my estrogen wrath, people. Just take a good look at the website. All of these questions that amuse and amaze me are answered simply and directly on the website. A quick visit to the website will save you the embarrassment of a stupid question and me the exhaustion of making fun of you when you walk away. You study the website before visiting Club Pittsburgh, I’ll continue on my intense regimen of Risperdal and Thorazine, and we’ll have a pleasant transaction.

Do my bitchy answers to your legitimate questions piss you off? Well, instead of being pissed off, why not get pissed on? Come to our Golden Shower Party this Saturday night. We’ve found ourselves a giant old bathtub that we’re dragging to the roof for your enjoyment. Jeff Verszyla predicts that golden showers will hit Club Pittsburgh promptly at 11 PM. We’re serving Lily Dew Punch to increase the chances of precipitation. I’ve done my best to piss you off – Saturday is your chance to return the favor.

[TowelBoy’s editorial note on watersports]
To those who’ve responded to our golden shower party with “umm…ewww”, I suggest you get over it. I will admit to occasionally being entertained by a gentleman caller who enjoys a nice six-pack (or twelve, possibly) before he visits. He’s usually doing the Shwami pain dance in urinary discomfort by the time I open the door. He suggested it once, and I had a good time. There’s something very masculine and erotic about the whole deal. And the best part about the piss party at Club Pittsburgh is that you won’t have to have Sears steam clean your carpets afterwards.

The Bitch of the Baths,
TowelBoy

It's Not Easy Bein' Weezie

2008-04-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy would like his online flock to know that working at Club Pittsburgh is not a perpetual orgy. Everytime I mention my job to some internet chatter or potential gentleman caller, he automatically assumes that I spend 60 hours a week with my feet behind my ears. First, I'm a middle-aged couch potato that does not have the stamina or flexibility to spend that much time in a coital position. Second, my job is not that different from any other (somewhat) clerical position. I spend my days at work washing towels, checking emails, updating the mailing list, stocking, filing, etc. (I find it incredibly ironic that it is extremely difficult for me to explain what it is that I actually do. I show up, I spend approximately eight [or six or four, who's counting] hours there, and I'm exhausted when I get home. I must be doing something.) Unfortunately, I rarely get an opportunity to wrap a towel around my bony ass and spread good will among the gay community. My job is different from your average working stiff, however, because of my incredible group of co-workers and friends. I've spent nearly seven years surrounded by the most creative, warm, and humorous group of guys that you could find in both the working world and the gay community. (Considering I've worked a decade in professional theater, that's no easy feat.) Each Club Pittsburgh compatriot has unique qualities that make our working environment amazing. I'm grateful to work with people that let me give them nicknames, make fun of them, and air all of their dirty laundry on the internet. We've truly become the First Family of Pittsburgh's gay community. Like any family, there are spats, arguments, disagreements, and loads of gossip. Those punching in are ready and waiting to roast the hell out of those punching out. (Sorry Wanda -- I love you like a fat girl loves cake, but you're forever stuck with our incessant chatter.) But when times get tough, we always pull together. (I'm humming the theme to “Family Ties” with one solitary tear rolling down my cheek.) We're just like those Brady kids, only we don't have sex with each other. But I digress.

The newest member of the First Family is Weezie. He has, without a doubt, Club Pittsburgh's largest personality. Always a proper companion, Weezie works hard to keep us smiling. Recently, our Weezie lost his home and all of his possessions in an apartment fire. Thanks to the generosity of friends, co-workers, and the amazing patrons at Club Pittsburgh, Weezie is back on his feet. He's written this delightful letter that I'd like to share with you:

Just like an explosion: that was how you came to my rescue. It was quick, fast, and with loving support. I hope that I find the right words to express the joy in my heart. The Club Pittsburgh members, both those I know and those I don't, have been unbelievable with their generosity. It's been overwhelming. And my co-workers! (my family) Their loving donations brought tears to my eyes. What I'm trying to say is thank you for seeing me through one of the darkest chapters in my life. Things have not been easy for me, but you help me to keep it together. Thanks for showing me that there are still good people out in this world. Here at Club Pittsburgh, everyone showed me that we're one big family, and we help each other in times of need. That's what you all did. I appreciate everything – from furniture to taking me to appointments, clothing to monetary donations. Thank you for being there for me.

From the bottom of my heart, with tearful thanks,
Weezie

Thank you, Weezie, for showing us how a proper companion faces a crisis with humor and dignity.

A note to our online community:
When our new website first went live in February, we were having problems managing the mailing list. It is possible that some of you may have subscribed and we did not get your request. I have been emailing those on the list for three weeks. If you've subscribed but haven't received any mailings, you're probably not on the list. Please go to the ''community'' section of the website and subscribe again. When you subscribe, I will send you an email welcoming you to the community. I typically update the list and send out welcome emails on Tuesdays. And for those on the list – the perks I promised are coming soon. I'm working on it...

A note to CBS:
TowelBoy was stunned this morning when he rolled out of bed early to watch the Emmy award-winning “Guiding Light” only to find George W. Bush greeting the Pope on the White House lawn. In Tuesday's installment, there were lots of awkward hook-ups happening all over Springfield, and I was hoping to learn a thing or two from the fallout. I even got a notepad and a #2 pencil. Imagine my horror when I turned on the television to find a scantily clad Laura Bush instead of scantily clad Kim Zimmer. (Okay, so perhaps Laura Bush was dressed “appropriately”. That made it no less horrific.) In the future, please send me a text message when you plan to interrupt your regularly scheduled award-winning daytime programming with a special report from Katie Couric. I'll just stay in bed.

And Les Moonves – don't be expecting a $5 locker on election day. I can hold a grudge with the best of them. I will not get over the Pontiff with the Crawford Cootie Queen anytime soon. I wanted to be Butter Queen, but unfortunately ended up a bitter queen. Find your cheap election day dick somewhere else.

The Pontiff of Penis,
TowelBoy

Malibu Barbie

2008-04-12T16:00:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy unexpectedly spent the last week rummaging the cabinets at Camp Carrick looking for anything that ends in “quil”. I'm talking about those delightful products from our good friends at Vicks, like Nyquil, Dayquil, stop-hacking-up-a-fucking-lung-quil, etc. Apparently someone gave me the respiratory virus of death, and just like everything else that comes up in my $125 an hour therapy session, I fully blame my mother. (I absolutely refuse to believe it was one of those four delightful gentleman callers I entertained last week. He was sneezing because of the cat, damn it.) For an entire week, I sounded like Bea Arthur on filterless Camels and looked like Charlie Sheen the Monday after his birthday weekend. And unfortunately, NyQuil no longer contains pseudoephedrine (thanks a lot, Tina queens), so you don't even get high. And even worse, I missed Weezie's fabulous fundraiser at P-Town. I did, however, use the time between bouts of self medicating and Susan Lucci marathons on the soap channel to do some thinking. I've come to some important conclusions. First, the respiratory virus of death is far worse than any of my self-induced ailments and conditions. I should stop complaining and start cruising. Second, my problem with turning gentleman callers into potential life partners is exactly the same foible that screws up everything else: perpetually paranoia. And finally, I may approach most of life's problems like Britney on a bender, but I have become the master at dealing with those insurgent queens. (See the last post.) The phlegmy cough and throat tickle have become minor nuisances, and once the “quils” wear off, I'm sure I'll be back to my old self. Did I really learn any sort of lesson...

PROBLEM #1: IMAGINED ILLNESS AND CALAMITY
I am a huge fan of Sheryl Crow. Anyone who's visited Club Pittsburgh on a Saturday night has probably heard “All I Wanna Do” so many times that all they want to do is take the CD off of me. Every Sheryl Crow CD surpasses the last. (Note to Ms. Crow: Making love maybe free, but if you're going to do it at Club Pittsburgh, you'll have to cough up $15 for a locker. No exceptions, Mary.) And I think we can all agree with Sheryl that “Everyday is a Winding Road”. My favorite part of the song is when she screeches, “I've been swimming in a sea of anarchy! I've been livin' on coffee and nicotine! I've been wondering if all the things I see are ever real...are ever really happening.” (When you have to throw out a tranny that's passed out in the sauna with her nylons around her ankles, reality seriously becomes subjective. But I digress.) Instead of singing about coffee and nicotine, I change it to coffee and Nexium. You see, TowelBoy has a cranky stomach. I guess I always have, and it's far more related to psychotic disorders than digestive ones. Fortunately, the geniuses at AstraZeneca came up with Nexium for these types dyspeptic/dysphoric episodes. Nexium makes it impossible for your stomach to produce acid, so you don't feel the urge to empty the contents of your solar plexis on some liquored-up Miss Mary LaLa with misplaced identification. At first, I was cynical: Doesn't one need stomach acid? Doesn't it serve some essential purpose? What's going to happen to all those cheesecakes and Snickers bars I inhale from the Dixie Narco? But I tried the Nexium anyway, and in a few days I went from the queasy doorstep of hell to feeling like my old horny self again. I know that my digestive calamity has nothing to do with diet or genetics or Helicobacter Pylori. It's all in my head. But at the moment, the Nexium is keeping me blissfully void of gastric acid. I am free to concentrate on anal cleansing and manscaping.

But if I ever decide to make it big in drag, “Diane Dyspepsia” sounds like a fierce alter-ego, doesn't it?

PROBLEM #2: PARANOIA AND BOREDOM
From sport coupes to gentelman callers that bear a striking resemblance to a Romanesque “O.C.” actor, paranoia and boredom eventually threaten just about every good thing that happens to poor TowelBoy. A few years ago, I bought the studliest car I've ever owned: an electric blue Olds Alero coupe. My old sedan had been pumping blue smoke into the clear skies of Pittsburgh for three months, and I took this as a sign from a higher gay power to buy something a little more trendy & fun. My Alero was a certified used vehicle, complete with a flawless finish, tons of toys and gadgets, and the security of a “limited warranty”. This car was a STUD – I was in a pure state of automotive bliss! For about two weeks. Once the newness wore off, my sex-mobile entered the realm of TowelBoy's Paranoid Reality. I began to hear disturbing noises every time I drove the car. Were they coming from the engine or transmission? And then the smells started. Perhaps it was the smell of burning oil, or leaking brake fluid, or some other toxic liquid that would give Al Gore acid reflux. (Nexium, Al.) After a few months, I was driving to work and the “CHECK ENGINE” light flashed. Fuck!?! Surely that means the car needs a new catalytic converter or the intake valves are corroded. I don't even know what that means, but I'm reasonably sure I can't afford it. I began losing sleep over this death trap that I was driving. What if I couldn't get to work? What if it wouldn't start when I desperately needed medical attention? What if it broke down on my way to pick up HotDancerBoi87 at Point Park College? After two years of increasing alarm (and absolutely zero legitimate problems with the car), I traded my love machine for a sensible Chevy Malibu. It's about as sexy as Liza Minelli in withdrawal, but it's covered bumper-to-bumper for the next three years. I do the exact same thing with gentleman callers, too. I had this cool “friends who fuck” arrangement with this great guy who is a dead wringer for Adam Brody. (Google “Adam Brody” and click on “images”. It's worth it.) He's cute, he's sweet, and we're a match sexually. But of course, I start finding “deal breakers” the second time we get together. He drinks too much. His apartment is messy. He falls asleep with semen in his hair. After three months, his list of alleged flaws has become unavoidable. So now I'm not returning his calls.

I wonder what the fuck-buddy equivalent to Chevy Malibu is? That'll fix my ass real good.

PROBLEM 3: INSURGENT QUEENS
TowelBoy does enjoy getting to know the members at Club Pittsburgh. Over the past seven years, I have met hundreds of amazing people and forged dozens of cherished friendships. My boss always jokes that the Club Pittsburgh is like a country club with sex & nudity. The staff, members, and visitors share a unique sense of friendliness and comradery that you wouldn't usually find in a bathhouse. But there's one in every crowd, right? Over the past seven years, I've seen some amusing bouts of bad behavior that middle America just wouldn't believe. A few years ago, some insurgent queen brought her special brand of liquor-induced calamity to the tubs. On this dreary Friday, I'd been working as both a front desk attendant and a housekeeper. A guest approached me while I was cleaning with concerns that another patron had fallen ill in the dark room. I turned up the lights to discover that one of our more colorful regulars had passed out in a puddle of the chunky regurgitated remnants of liquor and regret. More pointedly, he'd finally discovered his alcohol threshold. Admittedly, he'd been more liquored up than usual when he checked in a few hours earlier. He'd never caused a serious problem, so we let him in for his usual detox ritual. He was, however, ranting to the customers in line with him, and he kept spelling every other word. He was particularly perturbed about s-e-r-v-i-c-e, and how the bartenders in Pittsburgh had no idea how to give it. (Our guess is that someone cut him off. Last call, closing time, you've had enough, etc.) Anyway, now he's passed out in the dark room, and I can't rouse him. Panicked, I realized that I was left with no choice: I had to enlist Patches. While I watched the front desk, Patches succeeded in giving Mr. Service a wake-up call. I could hear someone spelling profanity from the other end of the building. While I cowered (TowelBoy is a bit of a COWARD), Patches removed him from the club. When the customer returned a few days later, I grew some balls and denied him entry. He claimed the whole deal was caused by an unfortunate diabetic episode. (No offense to Wilford Brimley, but diabetes had nothing to do with it. This poor queen had an unfortunate episode with the many flavors of Stolichnaya.) He sent a delightful hand-written note the following week. Apparently, in addition to reduced pancreatic function, this poor dear suffers from reverse peristalsis. (Translation: he tends to throw up what he drinks.) Moved by his argument, I welcomed him back.

I am very impressed that letter-writing is making a comeback. It really is a lost art, isn't it?

Speaking of letters, Weezie has written a great “thank you” letter that I hope to share with you shortly. For every insurgent queen there are a dozen wonderful guys out there that make this a great community. You did a great job helping our friend get back on his feet, and the entire Club Pittsburgh family appreciates it. I hope you enjoy the pictures from the Weezie Benefit at the top of the post. I'm curious to see if the photos still look the same when all the ''quil'' wears off.

What I've discovered is that my attempts to solve imagined problems or eliminate overblown dangers just gives me acid reflux. The world will always have the occasional insurgent queen, and all great things come with a little uncertainty. Ask less questions and enjoy more of your life. The grass is rarely greener on the other side of the fence. Honestly, I miss my sexy car. Chevy Malibu is seriously lacking in excitement. The Olds was alluring and sexy. But thanks to paranoia, my wheels are so lacking in stud factor that my 85 year old grandfather bought one just like it. (In his defense, the fabric in the interior looks eerily like one of my late grandmother's house dresses. I sum up the attraction to sentiment.) And for the record, I smell the same smells, hear the same noises, and panic over the same warning lights in this car. Go figure.

Growing up, I always wanted to be Malibu Barbie. This isn't what I had in mind.

Queasily Yours,
TowelBoy

Instigating the Insurgency

2008-04-03T15:04:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is trying to win the battle against insurgent queens and their incessant rumor mill. I have spent nearly seven years heralding the community virtues of our fair establishment. Over the years, I’ve heard every ridiculous rumor imaginable. I’ve posted (and argued against) several of those rumors since I started the blog last August. We are a legal, licensed business that pays taxes and respects the laws and standards of our community. Many of our membership rules and policies exist to keep us safe and legal. That is why members must present valid photo ID with each visit, why we ask that you sign a liability waiver, and why drugs, alcohol, and contraband are not permitted in the club. Not only do the authorities know that we exist, they’ve aided us several times over the years. We follow strict public health and sanitation guidelines to appease the Allegheny County Health Department, and we are subject to frequent (an often surprise) inspections. Our spa is licensed and monitored by both the county and the commonwealth. We’ve also partnered with the health department for many years to provide free and anonymous HIV testing the community. Of all the stories, rumors, and innuendos that find their way into the bars, clubs, and internet chat rooms, these truths are rarely a part of the dialogue. And once in awhile, some crazy queen goes completely ape shit and decides to stir up some trouble.

I got a phone call last week from one of our neighbors in the Strip. She works for a local non-profit, and her office is close to the club. Apparently, someone is anonymously emailing our neighboring businesses with an ominous warning about Club Pittsburgh. Our neighbors know that we are here, and we have tried to be a valued member of the Strip District community over the years. Our owners, managers, and employees have friendly relationships with many of our business counterparts in the area. The concerned neighbor on the telephone was surprised that somebody had such overt animosity for Club Pittsburgh. She was kind enough to forward the letter to me. Telephone, telegraph, tell TowelBoy. Now I’m forwarding the letter to you…

(Please pardon the bad grammar and awkward syntax. TowelBoy didn’t write it, he’s just sharing it.)

Hello,

I really did not realize that I was being propositioned as two men invited me to join them into this CLUB PITTSBURGH for a good time. I declined and went home and searched the place on the internet, www.clubpittsburgh.com.

How can a place like this even be called a business!

I was so shocked to see a place like this exists in downtown Pittsburgh. I contacted every city official and asked a simple question, is it legal to have a facility where men (as young as 18) can go and have anonymous sex in downtown Pittsburgh?

Guess what? Only 1 out of over 100 officials I contacted bothered to even reply.

Shouldn’t the city investigate such improper conduct?
I was propositioned in downtown Pittsburgh – invited into Club Pittsburgh, which is located right on one of the main streets in downtown Pittsburgh.

Thank You
JK

(Okay, TowelBoy confesses to fixing up the grammar a bit. And perhaps I ran a spell check. This is a respectable blog, Mary.)

JK’s letter leaves me with several things to ponder. If JK is reading this, perhaps we can start a little dialogue. TowelBoy loves nothing more than some internet banter. So…

Which celebrity would you say you most resemble? I have always had a thing for Ryan Phillippe and Keanu Reeves. (Sidebar: Does anyone else need to bathe in ice cubes after watching one of those previews for “Stop/Loss”? The thought of Lyin’ Ryan and Channing Tatum getting a backdoor draft makes me as hot as a tick on a griddle. But I digress.) The reason I ask which celebrity you most resemble is because I am in awe of your ability to attract two gentleman callers at the same time. I went nearly three weeks cruising messages boards, chat rooms, and bathhouses, and I couldn’t get one man to piss on me if I were on fire, let alone two. (Praise be to the Holy Boo, that chastity streak ended with a bang on Monday.) Since you’re intrigued by men as young as 18, I’ll assume that you look like one of the Jonas Brothers. That would explain it.

Next item of business, Mr. JK. Thank you for checking out our brand new website! We spent several thousand dollars and nearly six months in an attempt to be on the cutting edge of internet technology. There are so many people that would love to learn about Club Pittsburgh but can’t seem to get to the website. (Alanis, are you writing this one down?) I just wish that more of the gay community were as adept at using GOOGLE. (News flash, gang – the internet is useful for more than cruising for potential sex partners. And if you have enough memory and a Pentium processor, you can search for pertinent information and sexual relations at the same time. As a wise Patches once said, “Google, google, girl.”) JK, you get my “Search Engine Superstar” award of the week.

JK, you’re curious to know, “How can a place like that even be called a business?” Well, that’s simple: permits, licenses, a gaggle of lawyers, and enough taxes to make Leona Helmsley weep. It definitely isn’t easy. We’re constantly working to keep the city, the county, and the commonwealth satisfied. Geez – did you know that you need a permit to put cigarettes in the vending machine? (It’s true – the front desk attendant will gladly show you ours.) It takes a lot of effort to run a clean, safe, and legal business, but our inspector from the health department seems to think we’ve met the challenge. As a wise small businessman once said, “It took a whole lot a tryin’ just to get up that hill.” But now that we’re up here, we’re planting the “business” flag firmly in the ground. (It’s rainbow, sewn by our very own Richie!)

I was not surprised to read that JK is caught in a debate that has plagued Club Pittsburgh staff and patrons for nearly seven years: Is the club downtown, or in the Strip District? This conundrum puts my coworkers in an uncomfortable position each time an out-of-town caller asks what part of town we’re in. Some say we’re located downtown, others say we’re located in the Strip. TowelBoy covers his ass and tells callers we’re located “between downtown and the Strip near the convention center”. I see this confuses you, too. On the one hand, you mention several times that Club Pittsburgh is downtown. On the other, you sent your email to a Strip District community organization. Can somebody please get Luke Ravenstahl on the line and settle this once and for all?!?

And finally, JK, I applaud your ability to reach 100 city officials. TowelBoy can’t even get through to the mayor’s 411 line. (I tried for nearly six weeks to get public works to come out to Carrick to remove some disgruntled lesbian’s trash heap from my block. No dice.) I’m sorry to hear that you didn’t get an earnest response from our elected officials. There are several possibilities. Perhaps since Club Pittsburgh is a licensed, legal, tax-paying business and a responsible community institution, Maurita Bryant didn’t want to waste the resources of the Zone 3 police force. Honestly, I would have expected them to storm the club like a pack of rogue banshees. Go figure! Or maybe it was visiting day at the penitentiary, and they were all packed in the Homeland Security SUV on a trip to deliver a cake to Twanda Carlisle. The possibilities are endless. My advice: try pleading your case during the next election cycle. Until then, we’ll keep the light on.

And Condi thinks that she has problems with the insurgency! Perhaps she should spend the day responding to some of these emails.

On a lighter note, I ended a three week dry spell with a delightful tryst with a surfer-boy-artist from one of those trendy East End neighborhoods. This experience re-affirmed the randomness of hook-ups, sex, and meeting someone that really does turns me on. I spent nearly three weeks glued to computer chat rooms and message boards. I would lurk the halls of Club Pittsburgh after work in search of any decent possibility. I even cruised the cute produce guy at Giant Eagle. I primped, I prepped, I manscaped. Nothing, nada, zip. I was beginning to get concerned. Actually, I was turning into Blanch Deveraux in the midst of a meltdown. Then on Monday, I’m home cleaning the litter box and I decided to log onto instant messenger. I was wearing a torn “Another World” t-shirt (circa 1994), bleach stained sweat pants, my Wal-Mart vision center glasses that give the Hubble telescope a run for its money, I hadn’t showered since Saturday, I had enough facial hair to successfully camouflage a liquor store robbery, and I was literally up to my elbows in cat shit. I’m so startled by the IM chime and accidentally smack a curious Socks in the face with the scooper. The IM is from this really cute surfer type that I’d been cruising for a year. We exchange pleasantries, and he tells me he wants to fuck him in his hour break between classes. I freshen up, stuff condoms and Wet Platinum into my pocket, and make it to the trendy East End neighborhood in a record 18 minutes.

I had been working on this for an entire year. It was definitely worth the wait.

There’s a lesson in this, people. Don’t call poor TowelBoy and ask him when it’s going to be busy at Club Pittsburgh. I’ve been telling you guys for seven years that it doesn’t matter. I’ve been bored out of my mind when there’s a hundred people here on a busy weekend night, and I’ve had a delightful time with one other person here on a blustery Tuesday morning. There’s something about sex and attraction that’s completely random. Sure, there are some things you can do to increase the odds, like cruise a particularly busy bathhouse, sit in front of the computer screen twenty-six hours a day, or shower. But in the end, whether or not you meet Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now is a completely random gift from the universe.

Fighting the insurgency with FABULOUS,
TowelBoy

Putting Over Spring with Heart & Sol

2008-03-27T15:25:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is cleaning out his closet. (Not THAT closet, silly. It’s been empty since I dressed as Boy George for the second grade talent pageant at St. Mary’s of the Divine Redeemer.) I’ve decided to give Spring a little push by talking all of the winter garb to the basement and unpacking all my shorts, trunks, and hoochie pants. It seems like eons since I’ve been able to tan my derriere on the roof deck or cruise the internet in my Family Guy boxers. I can’t wait to bust open the door to the roof deck, feng shui the patio furniture, and hoist the big gay flag high above the Strip District. The scene is heating up at Club Pittsburgh, too. And from what I hear, it’s going to be one hell of a summer…

My co-workers and I have jumped right into the season. I plan to spend the entire weekend making my yard gayer than Richard Simmons at a wrestling match. I’m planting a sea of pansies in an attempt to finally surpass my lesbian neighbors at landscaping excellence. Who would have thought two dykes from the ‘hood would have such a green thumb? (Ladies, I bow to you. The yard is always a floral delight.) Richie and Honey are on a romantic cruise in Hawaii. Don’t expect any general cleanings this weekend – Richie’s sitting on the beach sipping a fruity little drink with a miniature hula dancer on top. We’re all just praying that Honey doesn’t mix up the tanning lotion and the Crisco like he did in 2006. (In his defense, they’re both on the night stand.) Our Schwami was so caught up in Spring Fever that he hosted his very first orgy in the Club Pittsburgh shower on Tuesday night. Right on schedule, his erection appeared exactly 23 minutes after it was over. His goal for Summer 2008 is to figure out the mechanics for easy triple penetration. (And fingers don’t count.) I’m currently trying to arbitrate a settlement between Shwami and the handsome Eyal Feldman at Boy Butter Lubes. Studly entrepreneur Eyal is marketing his new Boy Butter Extreme with the slogan “You can park a car up your ass and never feel a thing!”. Obviously, Shwami feels the he should receive some sort of royalty. (In his defense, he can take the car without the desensitizing lubricant. Everyone knows desensitizing makes him hateful.) You can test that theory for yourself by picking up some Boy Butter Extreme (in the EZ Pump!) during your next visit. Patches started the Spring by getting put over. How does one get put over, you ask? Well, shortly after the Vernal Equinox, the Baroness of Bratislav and the Archduke of Stolichnaya return from their travels abroad and rent a room and a locker after a rousing homecoming soiree at Jitters. After some drunken rambling, waiver signing, and the exchange of four quarters, Patches surpasses his sales goal (putting him over!) and Spring begins. Dave marked the change of season by throwing away his gray workout shorts. These suckers have hugged his sweaty ‘nads for approximately 937 Club Pittsburgh workouts. After an equal amount of washings, they’d worn shearer than Barbara Bush’s edible Slenderalls. TowelBoy always enjoyed walking through the door on Tuesday morning to see Dave traipsing around in his sporty shorts. I was half tempted to retrieve them out of the trash and put them on Craig’s List. Unfortunately, I suspect that Walter grabbed them first. He’s very skeptical about vernal equinoxes and increasing solar radiation, and I think he needed something to keep him warm until the Dyke March in June.

Our good friends at the Delta Foundation of Pittsburgh spent the long, cold winter coming up with ways to satisfy your summer cravings. To kick off the summer, they’re bringing you SPIKE, a new twist on an old tradition. SPIKE is the new name for the big gay Memorial Day picnic. This year’s picnic is Sunday, May 25th from 12 PM to 6 PM. The celebration is making a triumphant return to the North Park Lodge. (A little editorial note: Don’t go having sex in the woods and getting your drunken asses thrown out again. Enjoy the picnic and its libations, and then bring your gentleman friend to Club Pittsburgh. We’ll leave the light on.) As always, they’ll be food, games, fun, and enough liquor to quench Liza Minelli after forty days in divorce court. (Shazam!) This year’s entertainment includes performances by musicians Cory Lee and Eric Himan.

SPIKE is just the kick off of Delta’s kick ass summer. They’ve concocted Pittsburgh’s biggest Pride celebration ever. Surpassing the excitement of last year’s Splash! and Pride in the Street is going to take an entire week of events. On Thursday, June 19th, the Boys on the Mountain will host another year of Splash!. Dry out on Friday night by joining the community for a bar crawl through Pittsburgh’s gay taverns and clubs. Don’t over indulge – Saturday is huge. The ladies will show their Pride during the Dyke March on Saturday afternoon, and Liberty Avenue will never be the same after Kimberly Locke performs at Pride in the Street on Saturday night. Pride week wraps up on Sunday afternoon with the Pride Fest and the Pride March, both making their debuts in new venues. Club Pittsburgh has some great summer plans in the works, too. In addition to events that compliment the Pride celebrations, TowelBoy is hearing rumors of porn stars and foam parties. I promise to keep you posted! For more information on the Delta Foundation of Pittsburgh, SPIKE, and the Pride events, please visit these great websites:

PittsburghPrideSpace.com
Myspace.com/deltafoundationpgh

Before I continue with my Spring cleaning, I have a few schizophrenic fancies floating through my head. I’ve rambled ad nauseam about hook up qualifiers in my last few posts. I’ve been annoyed by something lately that isn’t exactly a qualifier but fits with the discussion. It’s the “future plans hook up”. This drives me absolutely insane. I’m sure you’ve all seen the queens online who are coming to Pittsburgh three weeks from Tuesday and would like a blow job and some cuddling. That’s great, but I’m sitting at the computer hoping for gratification before the ten o’clock news. When you have blue balls now, it’s really hard to focus on your sexual itinerary for the distant future. Then there are the guys who chat you up, get you all hot & bothered, and then boo hoo that it’s too late to meet. Of course, he’s totally interested and would love to meet in the future. Is it just me, or does that make you want to sue Manhunt for mental anguish? That’s the nice thing about Club Pittsburgh – instant gratification is the nature of the business.

There is one man that I would gladly clear my calendar to meet three weeks from Tuesday: Hot House stud muffin Dominic Sol. Admittedly, I have a long list of imaginary porn star husbands whose affections have disappeared in the crevices of my mind. Jason Hawke, Jason Ridge, the porn monkey, Colby Taylor, Mike Roberts, etc., etc. But I have never felt as strongly as I do about Dominic Sol. I would give up an opportunity to be the naked tour guide at Point Park University freshman orientation for one encounter with this Hot House hunk. For now, I’ll have to settle for his soulful glances in the “Verboten” videos, now playing at Club Pittsburgh.

And last but not least, I’ve figured out how to work the mailing list. All of you who joined the online community should be receiving emails from me. If you haven’t joined, what the hell is your problem? Joining the Club Pittsburgh online community is a great way to get cool deals and inside information. Be the first to know which hot porn star is coming to visit, what awesome new product we’re stocking in the gift shop, and when your favorite amenity is closed for repairs. If you were on the list, you’d already know that the showers will be closed on Friday morning while we install brand new hot water heaters. And you’ll be the first to know when we have tickets for those great events, too. Just go to the “Community” section of the website and follow the instructions.

Okay, I’m done. I shall return to ironing my hoochie pants. Don’t forget to join our online community, and definitely check out the Delta Foundation of Pittsburgh websites!

Your warm weather warrior,
TowelBoy

Light Sabres, Cash Machines, and Queenly Correspondence

2008-03-19T15:49:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy is still recovering from a very exciting weekend at Club Pittsburgh. After rough weather brought several quiet weekends in February and early March, warmer temperatures and the red hot Lex Sabre made the tubs Pittsburgh’s hot spot over the weekend. I was glad to see a lot of friendly faces out of hibernation and back in towels. And I saw a lot of new hotties, too! It was hard to notice Pittsburgh’s finest running around in the buff with Lex traipsing past my window in his little green skivvies. TowelBoy is easily distracted by a handsome Latino gentleman with bedroom eyes. (I once got myself in a whole lot of trouble over a handsome lad that was a dead ringer for Mr. Enrique Iglesias. Apparently you can run, you can hide, but you can’t escape the bottomless hole of zero stimulation. But I digress.) I thought Lex was cute in the posters, but as with most of the porn stars that have performed at the club over the years, he was much more spectacular in person. His short stature (I’m guessing 5’3” or so) doubles his “adorable”. The fact that he’s so short makes his member seem even more monstrous. (No offense, Michael Brandon.) I am not a size queen, but even Helen Keller would get whiplash when that wondrous whopper passed by. Admittedly, we’d make an odd couple: He’s about 5’3”, and I’m about 6’4”. Don’t worry, Lex – I don’t discriminate.

If you missed Lex Sabre, you can check out some photos on the gallery page of the website. And may I ask – why the hell did you miss Lex Sabre? A hot stud missing a porn performance at Club Pittsburgh is like the paparazzi missing Britney on a bender. It just shouldn’t happen.

Now that I’ve cyber-slobbered all over Lex Sabre, I’m going to do some jumping around. I have a dozens of very important messages and no mental organization. Plus I get paid by the word, and it’s time to refill my Risperidone. (Mental health is not cheap, my friends.) So hold on to your Abercrombie chapeau…

My boss and I are extremely impressed that so many of you have joined Club Pittsburgh’s online community. So far, the response has far exceeded our expectations. We’re enthused that you’re enthused, and we’re hoping to send a special “thank you” your way soon. Unfortunately, TowelBoy threw that application for ITT Tech in the trash can way back in the live-it-up 90s, and he’s having some technical problems managing the mailing list. My degree in Theater is absolutely useless when it comes to high level glitches and Microsoft Vista. (I am, however, a fucking genius at improvisational pantomime. Stick that in your zip drive, Bill Gates.) I did have a breakthrough yesterday when I was able to upload the Lex Sabre photos to the website without texting Tech Guy. I’m sure mastery of the mailing list is imminent. If you have not already joined, now’s a great time: You’ll get to laugh with me (honestly, at me) when I finally figure it out. Just go to the online community page for more information. Or you can email me directly:

community@clubpittsburgh.com

Okay, next topic. I was speaking with Leo, Club Pittsburgh’s sprightly PR guy, and he reminded me of a great qualifier. (What’s a “qualifier”? See the last blog entry.) Awkwardly, there is no way to be politically correct about this: it’s the “rape me” fantasy. A lot of guys won’t agree to meet unless you promise you’ll play rough. Although this is an abhorrent thought to Meredith Baxter and the Lifetime TV network, there are tons of gay men out there that fantasize about someone ravaging them carnally (seemingly) against their will. Countless times, potential gentleman callers have asked TowelBoy to sneak in their windows (no shit!) and “force” his love upon them. Recently, a trick asked Leo to let himself in through an unlocked door and storm into his bedroom like Rummy into Baghdad. (Only Leo and his Manhunt Online Spiritual Adviser know if he actually agreed to this. Always a proper companion, he doesn’t kiss & tell.) I will admit that I have conceded to this particular qualifier in the past. Let me offer a few bits of advice: First, don’t cry to me when you’re explaining this whacky fantasy to Commander Maurita Byant and the entire Zone 3 police force. (Or your trick’s 92 year old incontinent neighbor, Dementia Helen.) Second, it’s good to have a code word to break the scene if it gets too intense. Remember, you’re not actually assaulting anyone – it’s just a game. With all the “oh, no’s” floating around, it’s hard to tell when his fantasy is becoming a nightmare. Choose a word or phrase that isn’t “no”, or sexually related, that is a signal to stop. A lot of folks into S&M and other rough fetishes call this the “safe word”. My safe word is “Laura Bush”. You can steal mine or choose your own – just make sure the two of you work it out in advance.

Ready for another totally unrelated, rambling thought? (Now I know what it’s like to be Mel Gibson. I will stop making fun of anti-Semitic fundamentalist nutbag substance abusers immediately.) Club Pittsburgh now has an ATM machine at the front desk. You can no longer give me the excuse that you don’t have enough money to rent a locker. Use the machine to pay your rental fees, get cash to buy poppers or a douche ball from the gift shop, or grab a few bucks for Mickey D’s on the way home. Please be aware that there is a $2 surcharge to withdraw cash from the machine. (No word on where the surcharge is going, but I’m hoping that it’s sending a tranny to summer camp.) The machine has a bright fluorescent light that says “ATM” – you can’t miss it! For an additional $2, you can enter the pool to guess what date the bright fluorescent light will give Patches a seizure. The winner gets to come and take pictures.

Onto the next (and perhaps final) incoherent piece of wit. Whether you called him Scott, Esta, or just plain QUEEN, many of you enjoyed the wit, charm, and big heart of our friend and co-worker over the years. There has been a serious lack of entertainment since the queen high-tailed it to Tampa at the end of January. Oh, how I long for the days of benefit pageants, immigrant sidekicks, and that Lying Bastard from Hunker. Scott has been kind enough to keep us posted on his Florida adventures. I’m pleased to report that both Esta La Mierda and the Sunshine State have survived the Royal Invasion. But don’t take my word for it – check out this update from Esta:

Well, it’s been 8 weeks since we arrived here in beautiful, sunny Tampa, Florida. Wow! How the time flies! Walt and I are still trying to settle into our new apartment and get it “gayified” to my liking. But since we’re both working full-time now, it seems like there aren’t enough hours in one day to do everything. But a wise man once said Rome wasn’t built in a day, so I’m trying to be patient. I’ve been back working dialysis for 7 weeks now, and on my fourth day of work I got a promotion to lab coordinator. Basically, it’s just 5 more computer password security codes, lots more work, and a few greenbacks. But you can’t give a queen too much money, because then she goes and buys a new car. From Drag Wagon, to the Pimp Mobile, to a candy-apple red Chrysler Sebring 5-speed. It’s sooooooooo me!!

The past week has been particularly busy considering that Walt and I have been nursing the neighbor’s 8 week old Pitt Bull/Beagle puppy back to health. He wasn’t eating, had chronic diarrhea, and was spitting up blood. Since the neighbor lady could not afford to take the dog to the hospital, my motherly instincts kicked in and I began calling all the vets and clinics in Tampa to see if we could get him some help before it was too late. Fortunately, we did find a place very close to us and took him to see the vet again. $142 later, he’s on medication and back to his old self.

To say I’m not homesick would be a blatant lie. I miss each and every one of you and think about you all the time. My heart aches at times to be with my Club Pittsburgh family again. And I miss each and every patron that I know by name. I think of you guys too, especially on Sundays when my mind goes back to all the fun times I had working the 3-11 shift. Sometimes it’s hard to think about all the fun with all the friends and family I miss and not shed tears.

I must say I love living in Florida. It’s so much better with nice weather all the time…I couldn’t have imagined when I was putting on a hat and gloves to head out to work! Now sometimes even scrubs are hot at 5 in the morning. LOL. I’m not complaining!

I kinda miss fraternizing at the local “watering holes” as well as the local “glory holes”. LOL. But since we’ve moved down here, we’ve only gone out to the clubs a few times. I guess moving here was a big change for all involved. We are spending much more quality time together and working on our relationship. And even though he may get upset about telling his business, Walt is doing wonderfully!

It bears repeating that I miss each and every staff member and patron from the Pittsburgh tubs. I can’t wait to come back home and visit all of you. Now before I go from Weaverella to Weeperella, I just want to say that I love you all and can’t wait to reunite with my “family” in Pittsburgh. No matter where we end up, Pittsburgh will always be home.

Luv you much,
Esta

Now TowelBoy is weepier than Elliot Spitzer at a chastity pledge. Perhaps this is a good place to end. We miss you too, Queen! Visit us soon – we’ll keep the kettle on.

Don’t be touching my weave,
TowelBoy

The Qualifier

2008-03-11T13:20:00.000-07:00

TowelBoy finds hook-up qualifiers more annoying than a ‘Suzanne Somers Salutes Our Troops’ television special. What is a qualifier, you may ask? A qualifier is my word for some ridiculous requirement or condition that obliterates a potential hook-up. I’m sure this has happened to you before. You’re talking to a hot guy at the bar, online, or even at Club Pittsburgh. There’s definitely some chemistry happening. You’re fascinated with his eyes; he can’t take his eyes off of your package. You both enjoy stuffed-crust pizza, the Oxygen network, and analingus. But just when you’re about to seal the deal, you get pummeled by the qualifier: He’s only interested in guys under 30. (You’re 32) He’ll only go home with a guy that’s “straight-acting”. (Your bedroom shelves are littered with crowns and titles.) Unfortunately, he’s only into smooth guys. (You have three hairs growing around each nipple, and you’ve never had a bikini wax.) He can only have sex if his friend Tina comes along. (And you believe Whitney – crack is whack.) Or the most common and disturbing of the qualifiers, he only likes it bare. (And you, on the other hand, enjoy not having a chronic illness.) TowelBoy has had many fantasies annihilated by an unexpected qualifier. Much like social diseases, new qualifiers keep popping up all the time. Let’s look at some of my frustrating favorites…

AGE. This one never ceases to amaze me. I’ll get an instant message from HngTwink22, or a cute blonde with amazing brown eyes starts cruising me at the tubs. He compliments my smile and my eyes. He lives just a few blocks away. Then he asks how old I am, and I’m stubbornly honest. And then the conversation ends. “You’re hot, but I’m only interested in guys under 30.” My face may say 27, but my driver’s license says 32. Apparently, it’s just me and my hand tonight. Now call Alanis, because this is ironic: I could have said that I’m 27, he would have bought it, and we would have shared a delightful tryst. I get no points for honesty. Working as an attendant at the front desk at Club Pittsburgh, I have held the driver’s license of just about every homo in the tri-state area in my hand. I am like Rain Man when it comes to remembering insignificant information, like the birthdates of 5000 CP patrons. So somebody turns me down because I tell them I’m 32 and runs off with HotButt28, who claims to be 28. Only I’ve seen Mr. HotButt’s ID, and I know that he hasn’t been 28 since the first George Bush was in the White House. Go figure.

MASCULINE/FEMININE. As a teenager, two of my closest friends were Brandi and Alicia. The two girls were cousins, and they were extremely competitive. Both girls are black. Many delightful afternoons turned dismal when the girls would start sparring over which had darker skin. Apparently, lighter skin is more socially acceptable than dark skin. Both girls are extremely beautiful. And both are ethnically black, regardless of their skin tone. I never understood why it was relevant that one girl was “blacker” than the other. I always thought they should celebrate their human link instead of trying to manufacture a divisive difference. I think of their argument each time some internet queen makes an issue over masculine/feminine. For me, it’s an argument about who is “gayer”. Does it really matter? TowelBoy says that if you enjoy having a penis in your mouth, you’re playing for the gay team. It doesn’t matter if you played high school football or have a voice like a James Earl Jones. I tend to fall somewhere in the middle. If someone is coming after me with a baseball bat, or a handsome gentleman is tied to my Lazy Boy, I can be as butch as Rosie O’Donnell at a softball tournament. On the other hand, I’ve been known to be a little light in the loafers when I’m imitating Patty Duke’s riveting performance in “Valley of the Dolls”. You have to love the queen who is Nair’d from head to toe underneath his Abercrombie warm-up suit, yet claims he’s only interested in masculine men. What does it matter what my voice sounds like? If your dick is in my mouth, you’re not going to have to listen to me anyway.

HAIR. This one overlaps with the masculine/feminine debate. Why is it that gay guys that identify themselves as “masculine” insist on removing every hair follicle below the neck? But I digress. Countless times, I’ve had a guy totally hot for me until I get my shirt off and he sees a patch of hair around my navel. Apparently, this is completely unacceptable, and perhaps the Allegheny County Health Department should be notified. TowelBoy needs to shuffle over to Rite Aid and get himself a can of Nair before the animal control people come to capture him. And I’m not exactly a “bear” – you could probably count the hairs on my chest. How many of you have had a perfectly delightful blowjob ruined by some dizzy Mary flailing in an exaggerated choking fit over a pubic hair? I can think of one trick in particular who deserved an Emmy for his dramatized asphyxiation. He’s probably still picking hair out of his teeth. I have been harboring this dreadful secret that I can’t contain any longer: I like pubic hair. I think it looks sexy. I don’t mind negotiating around it. I waited 12 years to get it, and I have absolutely no intention of shaving it off. Every male past puberty should have hair on his genitals. And don’t even get me started on the hair on my ass. That’s just the law of nature, Mary. Put your Lady Bic down and get over it.

PARTY & PLAY. For the longest time, I thought when someone asked if I “party”, they planned on serving hors d’oeuvres and doing the chicken dance before we had sex. Apparently, there is no Cheese Whiz at this particular soiree. Someone looking to “party and play” expects you to provide a delicious chemical cocktail with intercourse. Apparently, methamphetamines are the trendy queen’s party favor of choice. TowelBoy has never even smoked a cigarette. And as far as pot, coke, smack, and Tina are concerned, I’ve seen far too many episodes of “Celebrity Rehab” to even consider it. Since you already have Alanis on the line, run this one by her: Most of these “party favors” make it impossible for your brave little soldier to march into battle. And nothing pisses off TowelBoy more than driving through rush hour traffic for a man that can’t get an erection. I’ve encountered countless guys who aren’t willing to meet unless I’m willing to get high. No deal! One would hope that my stout member would be a gentleman caller’s drug of choice. And one additional consideration here: How can you make responsible choices about sex if you’re higher than Lindsay Lohan on the Santa Monica Freeway? Which is the perfect segue for the most shocking qualifier…

BAREBACKING. This entire issue has made me almost give up on sex entirely. As I’ve mentioned in other posts, I do not consider barebacking a fetish. It’s reckless and irresponsible. I would not risk my health and safety for a fantastic fuck from Justin Timberlake. Sex may cloud my judgment on a butt load of issues, but this is never one of them. Yet this is a frightening trend: if I sit and cruise the internet for two hours, I will lose at least three potential hook-ups over barebacking. We exchange pictures, and he likes what he sees. We’re both turned on by a good kisser. His roommate is gone for the evening, and I happen to have a full tank of gas. We’re compatible in every way…except he only likes it bare. I insist on condoms, and he insists on ending the discussion. This is, by far, the most prevalent qualifier in the gay sex arena. Sadly, there are a lot of hot guys out there that won’t even consider meeting you unless you’re willing to declare in advance that you’ll fuck them without a condom. All you have to do is tell him you’re “clean” – he doesn’t even need to know your name. TowelBoy is pleased to inform these guys that the internet is useful for more than finding a hot lay. Just google “safe sex” and see what turns up.

What “qualifiers” have ruined a hot experience for you? I’d love to commiserate. Perhaps we can formulate a plan to quell the qualifier in the name of great sex for all.

Although qualifiers for sex are frustrating nuisances beyond our control, we have total control over deciding who’s qualified to sit in the White House for the next four years. Pennsylvania will play a key role in determining who wins the Democratic nomination. Our next president will face huge challenges in the realms of equality, gay rights, and HIV education, prevention, and treatment. Whether you’re a Democrat, Republican, progressive, liberal, conservative, or in an independent groove, I encourage you to get involved. You must be registered 30 days in advance to participate in Pennsylvania’s primary election, scheduled for April 22. For more information, please visit:

www.RockTheVote.com

After you rock the vote, stop into Club Pittsburgh on Saturday, March 15 to rock the house with porn star Lex Sabre. Showtime is at midnight, and there are absolutely no qualifiers for having a great time. I look forward to seeing you there!

Qualifying for the Gay Sex Special Olympics,
TowelBoy

A Public Service Announcement from Patches

2008-02-29T08:48:00.000-08:00

HICCUPS: THE COMMON NEAR CATASTROPHE

Hiccups. We've all had them. Did you know that, if left untreated, hiccups can lead to a cracked rib? A snapped vertebrae? The rack and ruin of any social event? You better believe it!

An attack recently felled Patches and has prompted him to issue an alert. Stop hiccups before they stop you! You certainly don't want to end up on the TODAY SHOW like that poor girl, do you?

Patches, you ask, how can I stop hiccups? Goons and Crackpots throughout the centuries have offered bogus cures. How is it possible?? Luckily, Shwami's team of Medical Mystery Experts (highly skilled Quippy Scientists) has developed a sure-fire way to eradicate the dreaded hiccup. Just follow these simple instructions and you will never have to endure the physical pain or emotional trauma again!

1.Lie down on the floor flat on your back. (Just pretend you're Shwami. It'll be hateful!)
2.Extend your arms straight above your head. (Hallelujah! Praise Oprah!)
3.Inhale slowly while counting to ten. (Just pretend you're huffing Maximum Impact.)
4.Exhale slowly while counting to ten. (This same technique is effective for taking the Barrett Long dildo all the way to the base.)
5.Repeat. (You know, like a bar crawl.)

It's as easy as churning butter! All you've got to lose are those pesky hiccups! You're welcome :)

This has been a PSA from Patches.

TowelBoy's Editorial Response:

Our friends at dictionary.com define DRUNKARD as “a person who is frequently or habitually drunk”. TowelBoy would like to add “as indicated by slurred speech, difficulty maintaining balance, and 80 proof hiccups” to that definition. Call them what you will: drunkard, boozer, inebriate, lush, or dipsomaniac. No matter what the name, they almost always have hiccups. It is a common myth that Sally Cirrhosis ended up in traction from dancing the Electric Slide a little too hard at Debbie's Holiday Nosh. It was actually an intemperate attack of the hiccups that landed Sally in the Shadyside Hospital emergency room. You could follow these ridiculous steps and look like a doddering fool, or you could simply heed the advice of Sally's physical therapist:

Put down the Jose Cuervo, girl.

Club Pittsburgh's very own Ado Annie,
TowelBoy

Disco Inferno

2008-02-27T10:53:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is perpetually amused that there's never a dull moment at the Country Club. For those of you that have never been to Club Pittsburgh, our bathhouse has been dubbed the “Country Club” by the CP faithful. My boss asserts that a visit to CP is unlike any other bathhouse experience. We were recently trying to explain these differences to the designer who created our fabulous new site. (Nice, huh?) Basically, Club Pittsburgh is far more social than most other sex clubs. The first apparent difference is the music. While we do enjoy the hard house sounds occasionally, you'll find the musical selections sprinkled with the individual tastes of our staff members. This varies from Top 40 hits to acid jazz. Frequent guests of the Country Club can guess who's working by the music they're hearing. This is a great segue to another unique element – our staff. Club Pittsburgh employees tend to stick around. Most of our employees have been here for a handful of years, and they've developed a great rapport with our members. They know our members on a first-name basis, as well as what time of day they prefer to visit, what they're going to rent, and the type of products they like to purchase. In some respects, the attendants are often like bartenders, listening to people's troubles and offering candid advice. The Country Club also has events that encourage our members and guests to socialize. We've had ho-downs, foam parties, holiday celebrations, theme nights, and most recently, a house music dance party. The Winter House Party Dance gave revelers a perfect example of the Country Club rule: Expect the unexpected.

I could fill volumes with stories of hot & steamy episodes at the baths. And although those tales are titillating, my inside prospective keeps me privy to gossip and mishaps. Just about every queen I know enjoys nothing more than a dirty little secret. If you were at the dance party on Saturday, I'm sure you know that the fire alarm kept going crazy. What you missed is a comedy of errors behind the scenes.

The bells and whistles started around 3 AM. Literally. While members, guests, and staff were dancing their winter blues away, something odd was happening on the alarm control panel. I first heard the alarm during the “Liquor Miracle”, that special time when the bartenders close shop, the attendants pray to the Holy Boo, and the crowd migrates to the bathhouse. With a gaggle of handsome horny men pouring out of the elevator, the blaring siren of the fire alarm filled the building. What strikes me as odd is that the randy guys outside and the Winter House revelers inside were absolutely oblivious to what could have been a raging inferno. But I digress. I recognize the problem as a false alarm (it's a recurring problem, actually), and I call the alarm company to kill the alarm and stop two dozen beefy firemen from showing up in the lobby. The overly-cheerful operator informs me that the problem is in “Zone 2”, which is on our roof. I know the drill. In the past year alone, Zone 2 has gone completely ape-shit no less than three times. This time, the fog machine for the dance party is what finally pushed the sensor over the edge. No worries. We shut off the fog machine, open the windows, reset the alarm panel, and we're back in business.

For about thirty seconds.

Of course, the alarm goes off again. I call the alarm company, reset the alarm, assure everyone that we're not going to erupt into a ball of fire, and try to press forward with the party. And this cycle repeats itself every forty-five seconds. I actually think I may have carpal tunnel syndrome from resetting the keypad. The guys keep streaming in, unconcerned about the continuous warning of a smoky holocaust. The operator for the alarm company blatantly refuses to disarm Zone 2. Each time, she questions my conclusion that it's a false alarm. “Please check the area to make sure there's no fire.” Get real, Mary. This has been going on for an hour. We would have burned to the ground by now. I miss a call to the alarm company while dealing with our customers, and the fire department shows up in the lobby. Nobody with authority is dressed, so I'm having a hard time finding someone to go down and talk to the firemen. And of course, there's a bigger problem: the fire alarm disables the elevator. There are guys at the front door that can't get up to the club, and those checking out can't leave. Poor Richie got stuck escorting guests up and down the stairwell. After three hours of ringing bells, flashing lights, and more drama than sweeps month on Y&R, we solved the alarm problem. And as always, the party went on.

The problem is actually lint. Obviously, we wash & dry a lot of towels. After nearly seven years, the lint has managed to take over. There is lint covering our electronic equipment, climbing its way up the walls, getting stuck in the computers, and garnishing the duct work. We keep cleaning it, and it keeps multiplying. There are even times when my car gets covered with lint. (The dryer vents are above my parking space.) Poor Patches goes crazy perpetually cleaning the lint traps in the dryers. (Patches once made a butt plug out of the dryer lint. Seriously.) But even Patches' efforts at lint removal are futile; lint rules Club Pittsburgh. And apparently it gets into the alarm sensor in Zone 2. The lint in the sensor traps the remnants of the fog machine as they try to escape through the ventilation. Bells, whistles, disabled elevators, and rugged firemen ensue. And that ads a whole new level of excitement to the Winter House Party Dance.

Even though there wasn't an actual fire, our friends at Hot House kept the video lounge burning in February. The MGM of porn sent us a brand new batch of DVDs for our exclusive Hot House channel. (Channel 69, of course.) Some of the new movies include both titles in the VERBOTEN series, as well as the latest in TRUNKS. (#4 if you're counting.) There are also several PACK videos, in which one Hot House hunk is entertained by a pack of hotties. Brilliant director Steven Scarborough shot these movies as one continuous scene. There are a lot more hardcore titles, like MISTER FISTER, and a lot more of my Hot House husband, Mike Roberts. Be sure to stop in soon and check out Mike in his JOCKSTRAP.

I pilfered the photos above from the Hot House website. It's extremely cool and interactive. You can even join the Backroom, with exclusive video feeds not available on DVD. Check it out:

www.hothouse.com

Keeping the fire burning all winter long,
TowelBoy

Very Important Messages

2008-02-15T17:35:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy has decided that it's time to introduce today's liberated gay stud to Miss Manners. I must start by saying that I really appreciate that you've chosen to make Club Pittsburgh the place where you can PLAY in every sense of the word. Everyone needs a place where they can release the worries of the world, and I'm glad the club is that place for you. I have thoroughly enjoyed being you shining beacon in an alcohol haze for the past six years. But I see no reason why we can't relax, push our inhibitions aside, and explore our fantasies and desires while still maintaining some social grace and dignity. I would like to add a little something to the dictionary definition of “stud”: A stud is a gentleman who is the epitome of class and style. And he is always courteous to everyone, setting an example even if someone is a rude asshole in return. Allow TowelBoy to dawn his most colorful headgear and channel Miss Manners to enlighten the masses. In other words, (in Peter Griffin's words, actually), here's what really grinds my gears...

Let's start with the telephone. It used to be that the trendiest logos to have on your pocket were CK or D&G. That has somehow been replaced by Verizon and T-Mobile. (That one's too easy, so I'm not going there.) I have never understood the gay fascination with the telephone. I'm sure that Alexander Graham Bell would be hononed to know that he's an iconoclast with the likes of Madonna and Cher, but I think even Mr. Bell would be amazed with homo telephone obsession. I once had a roommate declare war because of missed telephone calls. This was back in the days of dial-up internet, and he couldn't burn up the phone line while I was cruising for gentleman callers. He would start biting his nails when I even got close to the computer. Once, while I was checking my email at 2 AM, he blurted out that he was missing “very important messages” because I was tying up the phone line. Now, although I'll never know what these messages were, I'm positive they weren't issues of national security. By 2 AM, Condi is at least four hours into her beauty sleep regamine. And quite frankly, so is his mother. Who else could possibly be calling in the middle of the night? But I digress. Several years later, I am baffled that so many people need to make a call while checking into the bathhouse at 2 AM. You're supposed to be coming to the tubs to escape the world. I can't imagine any circumstance when talking to your best girlfriend from Wilmerding while buying poppers and lube is necessary, especially in the middle of the night. It is perfectly acceptable to make yourself unavailable – this bitch does it all the time. I do concede that the time of day and establishment are irrelevant. The bottom line: It is extremely rude and disrespectful to talk on the telephone when a salesperson or clerk is trying to provide you with service. This is equally true at the bathhouse, Wal-Mart, or Denny's. Not only is it insulting to the salesperson or clerk, it often makes the transaction impossible. The people in line behind Chatty Cathy get really pissed off, too. I can not tell you how often a long line on a busy night falls to a screeching halt because a telephone-clad customer can't complete his transaction. Our attendants have the right to refuse service until you hang up the phone. And for the record, texting is worse. Get our your ID, sign the waiver, pay the fee, lock your valuables, get your key...and then make your call. I promise that Condi will understand.

The next little bit of advice is one of the first things that we learn in Kindergarten. Frankly, I can't remember what happened on Y&R yesterday, let alone a lesson from a Catholic school nun 25 years ago. So here it is, drum roll please: Take Your Turn. Now, when I'm in pursuit of a gentelman caller, I tend to completely lose my wits. To describe my mindset as urgent is usually an understatement. But please remember that you're not the only guest at Club Pittsburgh. (That would suck, wouldn't it?) Everyone is equally anxious, and they deserve equal consideration. This means that sometimes you need to wait in line to check in and out, get access to your lock box, or get a clean towel. Jumping in front of another person won't get you faster service; it will just make TowelBoy bug-eyed. This happens all the time: Somebody jumps in front of a customer who's checking out to get a clean towel. Somebody pushes another guest out of the way to set his key on the counter. Or somebody pummels the check-in line because he really can't hold his bladder another second. (And I won't even mention what happens when Miss Mary LaLa gets cigarettes stuck in the vending machine.) Hmmm. My Grammy Millie always used to say that patience is a virtue. You're not going to chafe by keeping that towel for a spit second while Milton from “out of town” retrieves his items from the lock box. The key isn't so heavy that you can't keep it on your wrist until it's your turn at the window. And if you really can't refrain from urinating until the two minute check-in process is complete, I suggest you Google “June Allyson”. She got back into life, and you can, too!

Another issue is learning to move on when a gentleman who catches your eye doesn't share your interest. This even happens to yours truly more often than I care to admit. Several factors become an issue here, including hormones and ego. Usually, by the time I work up the courage to express my interest in someone, I'm so drunk on my own testosterone that I can't remember my middle name. It's hard for me to focus on what I'll do if he's not interested; the countless other options aren't exactly obvious in that moment. And then there's ego. In spite of myself, I feel somewhat offended when I get turned down. (Especially if he was rude about it.) Essentially, cruising in a bathhouse comes down to a simple chemical reaction. Either it happens or it doesn't. I have to remind myself that if someone isn't interested, if the chemical reaction doesn't happen...it's not a value judgment. He knows nothing about me beyond immediate physical attraction. He doesn't know that I'm funny, or witty, or responsible. He doesn't know that I'm kind-hearted and generous. He doesn't know that I got a perfect score on my SAT's. (I didn't – but he doesn't know that.) It's moments like these that I have to conjure the voice of Meredith Baxter in my head. Anybody who has seen Meredith Baxter in the Lifetime men-suck-tragedy of the week knows that NO MEANS NO. Sometimes Treat Williams has to accept ''NO'', and we do, too. In the same respect, Meredith is always a lady. (Albeit a drunken, raped, beaten, manic-depressive, paraplegic, cancer-stricken, bulimic, heroin-addicted lady in the way that only Lifetime can make her.) She always turns down a gentleman with class and style. The first time, anyway. If you're not interested, be polite about it. And if someone isn't interested in you, be a gentleman and move on. We're studs, after all – something better will come along.

Okay. I've got three biggies out of the way. I shall quit complaining and focus on the positive. How about that new website, huh? After almost seven months of planning, our new site went live on February 9. Please check out the updated tour, photo gallery, FAQ, events calendar, and parking section. You can now get customized directions to Club Pittsburgh courtesy of Google Maps. Just go to the Pittsburgh map in the DIRECTIONS section and click on the green marker above Club Pittsburgh. If you choose to join our online community, you will be emailed the latest updates, special offers and coupons...and breaking news. Notice BREAKING NEWS in the menu bar. Here's where you can find information on any closures, maintenance, or last-minute specials before visiting the club. This dynamic site can be updated instantly by our managers with having to be re-designed or republished. I promise the updates will be frequent. Have more questions? Check out our contact information and drop us a note.

I'm hearing rumors of a porn star performance coming soon. Perhaps this is a good time to check out BREAKING NEWS...

Bringing YOU Very Important Messages,
TowelBoy

Get NUKED

2008-02-07T14:48:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy finds that old habits die harder than a drag queen at a farewell pageant. I have spent the past two decades obsessed with daytime soap operas. I find them almost as appealing as a horny businessman stud stuck in Pittsburgh on a lay-over to the Great State. I can easily rattle off major plot lines of all eight daytime dramas. Catch me after a few cups of Flavia, and I can name all of Erica Kane’s husbands in order. I can not walk past the television in the lounge at Club Pittsburgh between noon and Oprah, or there’s no chance that I’ll do any work. Having a bad day? It could be worse. Poor Victoria Newman (Y&R) was in a coma for four months because her father accidentally blew up a building over her head. Find yourself missing a long-lost significant other? Take solace is the tribulations of poor Angie Hubbard (AMC). While she has spent the last twenty years mourning the death of her beloved husband, Jesse, he’s been kept hidden by the government as a top-secret witness in a high-profile case. Feeling a little disoriented? Well, Mary, consider this: The long-suffering Vicki Davidson (OLTL) has been battling no less than six personalities for the last thirty years! Now the genius producers of As the World Turns have found a way to mix sultry drama with handsome, lovelorn, heterosexually-challenged teenagers. Are you ready to get Nuked?

Cutie Van Hansis has played teenage rebel Luke Snyder on the iconic sudser for the past three years. Hansis received tons of attention from the entertainment media when his 16 year-old character came out of the closet in 2006. Hansis is the epitome of attractive, with a nice build, floppy blonde hair, pouty lips, and soft brown eyes. Although in his mid-twenties, he’s very credible as a high school student daunted by his sexuality. Both CBS, the show’s media outlet for the past half century, and Proctor & Gamble, the company that owns the show, were extremely tentative when this story began two years ago. Both network and production company were afraid of a negative response from middle America. Pissed-off Kansans usually lead to pissed-off sponsers. Apparently the moral majority watches a lot of television and buys a lot of Tide. As it turns out, both CBS and P&G underestimated the discourse over gay issues in this country and the appeal of Van Hansis. Their trepidation was over-blown and unnecessary; Luke’s coming out was a huge hit with the show’s fans and beyond. America was so captivated by Luke’s story that the producers decided to give him a boyfriend. Last year, Jake Silbermann created the role of Noah Mayer. Noah first appeared as the boyfriend of Noah’s (female) best friend. It is a soap opera, however, and slowly Luke and Noah fell in love. The sweet story of two young men discovering themselves has been absolutely riveting. Hansis and Silvermann have become media darlings. (The photo above is from their appearance at the GLAAD Awards.) And the fans have gone wild! The show is gaining fans at a time when viewers are leaving daytime television faster than Chastity Bono can get from one end of the Ponderosa buffet to the other. Enthusiasts of this dynamic duo have affectionately dubbed them “Nuke”. (It’s a soap thing. Take two parts of a couple, like John and Marlena, combine their names, and you get “Jolena”. We soap queens do it all the time. Think “TomKat”, only not repulsive.) There are now Nuke fan events all over the county, and Nuke even has their own MySpace page.

I really appreciate that the show has been extremely realistic yet responsible about sexual issues. The ongoing dialogue about sex that these two characters are sharing has been both factual and blunt. (And unbelievably erotic for two o’clock in the afternoon.) Luke Snyder has completely skipped his slut phase and gone straight to STUD. TowelBoy is working really hard on reinventing himself as a stud. And even in my slut phase, I knew that sex comes with responsibility. The difference: I think a stud gets just as much satisfaction from being responsible to himself and his partners as he does from the sex itself.

I am continually amazed by discussions in the internet chat rooms about the correlation between Club Pittsburgh and STD’s. There is a huge misconception that bathhouses and sex clubs somehow cause diseases. This particular myth is both disturbing and dangerous. It is ridiculous to believe that a building or a business can somehow cause a disease. It’s all about personal choices. It’s possible to make bad choices with guy that you meet in a bar or online, and it’s equally possible to make good choices in a bathhouse. Allow me to be blunt: Just because he buys you dinner doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to let him cum in your ass. And meeting someone anonymously in the dark room of a bathhouse doesn’t mean that you can’t get off safely. Another chatter has perhaps my favorite profile headline: The only difference between STUD and STD is YOU. A stud has great sex because it brings him pleasure, not because it fills some empty void. A stud doesn’t pander to someone’s demands just to get laid. A stud respects himself and his partner. And a stud always makes good sexual choices, even if it means (temporarily) losing out on sex.

The most important thing to remember, whether you meet him in a bar, a bathhouse, or your cousin Ernie’s Bah Mitzvah, is that condoms are not negotiable. I’m willing to discuss time, place, activity and proclivity, but condoms are always required for fucking. This policy is equally applied to a tryst with that cute guy that lives on my block and a hot back-stage encounter with Justin Timberlake. Even if Justin says, “Baby, I’m clean.” (He stuck it in Britney. Please.) I can not tell you the number of arguments I’ve heard from potential gentleman callers when it comes to condoms. “I’m clean, I promise.” I get this one all the time. It’s possible for someone to be drop-dead gorgeous and a pathological liar, too. He wants sex, and sex tends to skew honesty. Ask Bill Clinton. “It’s not dangerous if I pull out before I cum.” That’s like saying pizza is healthy without the pepperoni. His little tool is producing its magic potion from the moment he’s aroused. In this case, the overture is just as dangerous as the big finale. “It’s not as dangerous for the top.” Be careful of the semantics (pun intended) on this one. Although it is more dangerous for the receptive partner, it’s still risky for the big stallion on top, too. Honestly, I have lost opportunities with many really hot guys because I will not fuck without a condom. I’m usually all hormonal when it happens, and it’s like ripping the crack right out of Whitney’s hands. Thankfully, though, I’ve never given in. And you know what? Something better always comes along. And he travels with condoms and lube. I spend a great deal of time unpacking condoms at Club Pittsburgh. Be a stud and use them.

While I’m on my soapbox, let me offer a little advice on internet hookups. Follow these tips if he’s coming to your house: Stash your valuables. Don’t leave your wallet, keys, credit cards, mail, or cash lying around your bedroom. Lock them somewhere safe in a room other than the one you plan to use to entertain. Don’t let your trick wander into any other room. (It is acceptable, of course, to let him use your bathroom. Just find a reason to linger in that general area.) If you have a friend or roommate in the house, make sure they can hear you if you get into trouble. If possible, convince your trick to talk to you on the telephone before he comes over. That way, the phone company has a record of your connection. (Ask recently convicted killer Donna Moonda why this is important. Actually, ask her how she got convicted.) Trust your instinct – break it off it you get a strange vibe. I know you’re horny, but you’ll get another chance. I promise. Here are some tips if you’re doing the traveling: Tell a friend or roommate where you are going. Give them the trick’s first name or screen name, as well as his neighborhood. Have him call you in advance. The phone trick works if you’re traveling, too. When you arrive, leave the slip of paper with his address and phone number on your car seat. Lock your wallet and any jewelry in the car. Take your phone inside in case of an emergency, and of course, take those condoms. Again, any bad vibe is a legitimate reason to back out. Signs of drugs or violence are great indicators of trouble. Don’t worry, you’re a stud – you’ll find someone else. And whether you’re inviting him over or traveling to his place, it’s always a good idea to agree in advance that either party can back out at any time. That means you need to respect him if he’s the one backing out. Don’t take it as a value judgment – it’s just hormones.

You do realize you could avoid that entire mess just by coming to Club Pittsburgh? No traveling, no inviting strangers in your house, and no ambiguity. If you connect with someone you like, awesome. If not, someone else is just down the hall. And we have plenty of condoms, too.

Perhaps someday CBS will have the balls to let Nuke discuss the perils of internet hookups and bareback fucking. That would be riveting daytime television. Until then, we’ll just have to enjoy the eye candy. One other cool thing about Van Hansis, the enchanting young actor that brings Luke to life: He’s a graduate of Carnegie-Mellon. Van spent four years studying his craft right here in Pittsburgh. Small world, huh?

Keeping your gay world turning,
TowelBoy

The Year of the STUD

2008-01-31T14:30:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy recently took a break from working his fingers to the bone to get you laid to try and get a little booty for himself. I am hell-bent on proving that I can have better sex (and a lot more of it) in my thirties than I ever did in my twenties. I haven’t done too badly so far: As I approach 32, I am relatively satisfied with the thirtysomething experience. I recently saw a comic on that gay cable channel joking about the difference between guys under thirty and those considered “middle aged”. His conclusion: guys in their twenties are only good at looking pretty. They should keep their clothes off and their mouths shut. Middle-aged guys are blessed with life experience and wisdom, albeit at the expense of their hairlines and midsections. The sex is better, but you should keep the lights dimmer. If you want pretty, find a guy in his twenties. If you want a little sophistication, then cruise the over-thirty crowd. Well, I know a lot of guys in their twenties that amaze me with their sophistication and intelligence. And although I agree that my evolving experience with life and sex makes me a good lay, I would like to think that I can still conjure the occasional palpitation in a handsome gentleman just by batting my eyelashes. I had this amazing sexual awaking ten years ago when I was a horny graduate student living in Boston. Back in the day, I was actually a “twink”. Unfortunately, I was dumb as a bag of hammers. I spent a lot of time not getting laid only because I was oblivious to the opportunity. It never dawned on me that guys would think I’m sexy just because I was 23. I always contemplate how I’d behave if I could live that part of my life over again. At heart, I’m a realist. Not even Cher’s surgeon could make me 23. (He could, however, make it impossible for me to smile and blink simultaneously.) But I do believe that my thirtysomething body looks better than my twinkie body did then. Or, at the very least, I’m more comfortable with it. And I’m smarter now, right? I’ve been writing “new slut phase” on my to-do list for months. Well – now it’s January, there’s nothing on television, and I’m bored, so I’ve decided it’s time for another sexual awaking. Perhaps this time I can rub two brain cells together and appreciate what’s happening.

For starters, I’ve decided to keep a journal. It’s nothing too sophisticated. I just write down some basic information: the guy’s “stats”, how we met, what we did and where we did it, and what about this guy really turned me on (or didn’t). I’ve already found the journal useful for a couple of reasons. First, I can flip through the pages to spark my memory when someone I don’t recognize insists that we have spent time naked together. (TowelBoy can not tell you how embarrassing this is.) The journal is also great when I’m bummed because I convince myself that I “do without”. I now have a five-subject notebook in my backpack that has evidence to the contrary. I’ve also discovered that the journal has helped me to appreciate the really interesting, sexy, and diverse group of guys that I meet. (And it’s amazing how many pretty 20somethings appreciate the sophisticated experience of a middle-aged gentleman.) A typical entry in my Journal O’ Love might look a little something like this:

Wednesday, January 30. Teddy, 32. (Teddy is obviously not his real name. I do have some class.) Teddy is strikingly handsome guy with beautiful brown eyes and reddish brown hair that came into the club on Wednesday. He’s in Pittsburgh from the Midwest on business. He has a nice smile and a really hot body. (Athletic). After my shift ended, I threw on a towel and found him in the sauna. He immediately smiled and led me quietly to the darkroom. We played/touched/explored for two hours. He’s an awesome kisser. (There are other details I’m leaving out here. I do not need Google on my ass about explicit content.) Afterwards, I drove him back to his hotel. Hot guy, great experience.

My journal experience has inspired me to take my new sexual revolution a bit further. I took a trip to the library to get me in the revolutionary spirit. I found this great book called “How to Get Laid: The Gay Man’s Essential Guide to Hot Sex”. (Rather racy for the Carnegie Library, huh?) The book was written by internet columnist Jonathan Bass. Jonathan is a gay thirtysomething who currently lives in Los Angeles. He has also written numerous articles for “Freshman” and “Men” magazines. He’s a regular columnist for “Unzipped”. The book is intended as humor, but the author gives some legitimately great tips for finding exciting, fulfilling sexual experiences. I’m going to work through the book over the next few weeks, and I hope to combine my experience with his to offer some decent advice. With a little effort and the right tools, all of us can be having amazing sex at Club Pittsburgh and beyond.

Bass asserts that the most important ingredient for sexual ecstasy is self confidence. Be someone that you are attracted to, and that attraction will become contagious. Who wants to hop into bed with a steaming pile of neurosis and self-doubt? I’ve discovered that I make an incredible effort to convince guys that they don’t want to have sex with me. I make jokes about my appearance. (And these young men today don’t even know who Calista Flockhart is. Nick-at-Night, please help.) I say that I’m a blabber-mouth, and I belittle my own comments and thoughts. I rarely ever see myself as attractive as my potential partner. And I never believe that someone I find attractive could actually be interested in having sex with me, even after the fact. Obviously, this makes sex difficult. Yet I find it anyway. And it’s always with guys that I find really attractive. So…I must have something to work with, right? I’ve marketed Club Pittsburgh, I’ve promoted a website, and now I’m making myself a winning product. From now on, when an attractive guy is giving me the vibe, here’s the pitch: I have soulful eyes and a nice smile. I’m in great shape. I can be witty and funny and thoughtful and insightful. I know what I want, yet I take great care in pleasing others. And I’m hung like a freaking bull. See – that was easy! No comments about my rambling mouth or my striking resemblance to Ally McBeal. I’m focused and confident. And the change in attitude is already working. Just ask businessman Teddy with the beautiful brown eyes. That was a great exercise in mutual satisfaction. If I have sex with someone because I need validation, I’m a slut. But if I have sex with someone because I’m confident about myself and my sexuality, I’m a stud. So there you have it: When I was 23, I had a great slut phase. Now it’s time for a Stud Phase. If I can do it, you can to. Let’s make 2008 “The Year of the Stud”.

And of course, Club Pittsburgh is going to help you.

I was writing a memo for our employees about the February events, and I was amazed at how many great things we have going on. To get things started, we have a blackout party on Saturday, February 2. Punxatawney Phil may see his shadow, but I can guarantee you won’t. Stop back on Sunday to enjoy the Super Bowl in our lounge. The Pats and the Giants will provide the game, we’ll provide the snacks – you provide the fun. We’re offering $8 lockers on Valentine’s Day for everyone. Bring your sweetheart, or meet a new one. (Or two, or three…) On Saturday, February 23, we’re turning our gym into Pittsburgh’s hottest dance club for the Winter House Dance Party. If you’ve never been to a Club Pittsburgh dance party before, here’s what they’re famous for: cool music and hot guys. That sounds better than Uncle Buford’s pinocle night, doesn’t it? And of course, our Go-Go boys will be warming up Wednesdays. Check out our monthly flyer and our website for more information & updates.

Before I sign off, I’d like to thank Scott Spears and Duke Rivers for an awesome “Sextacular”. Our staff, our members, and our guests all had a great time. I appreciate that Scott always does Pittsburgh with style. And Weezie did a great job as our new Entertainment Coordinator. Enjoy Tampa, fair Queen. We may be freezing, but Weezie’s keeping us laughing. Thanks to all of you who came to see the show, too. You gave us a hot July weekend in the middle of January.

I’ll read a little more, experiment a little more, and let you know how it works out…

From slut to STUD in 12 easy steps,
TowelBoy

Duke Rivers, Mama. Duke Rivers!

2008-01-23T16:37:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is a sucker for eclectic humor and sappy nostalgia. Club Pittsburgh employees and members have created some wonderful traditions and rituals over the past six years. The Holy Boo started a tradition among employees over six years ago that we still enjoy. Each morning before his shift started, the Holy Boo would drink a cup of coffee and watch “Mama’s Family” reruns in the TV lounge. Who could possibly amuse a great entertainer like the Holy Boo? Mama, Vinton, Naomi, and Eunice. Mama and the gang always signaled the end for the night shift and the impending day for the morning crew. Many employees and customers have shared in this 6 A.M. ritual over the years. I’ve enjoyed a cup of Flavia and a hearty laugh with Jeff, Walter, Esta, Scooter, and Patches, just to name a few. One of my favorite episodes centers around a surprise birthday party for Eunice. Mama, Vinton, and Ed throw a party at the Bigger Jigger for Eunice, who’d rather be at a fancy restaurant. Awkward chit chat turns into an uproarious brawl when the conversation switches to Duke Reeves, Eunice’s high school crush. Eunice erupts when Vinton lets it slip that Mama sent Duke Reeves away when he came to the house to ask Eunice on a date. Mama and Eunice scuffle. Eunice decks a police officer who tries to break up the fight, and Mama accidentally hits his partner with her purse. The two end up locked in a jail cell with a hooker. During the seven minute bar scene, Carol Burnett screams “Duke Reeves!” no less than a hundred times. I do not recommend having a Monster Energy Drink, a Pepsi, and two cups of Flavia if you want to get through that scene without a Depend undergarment. The best part: if you listen really closely when you’re watching, you can still hear the Holy Boo laughing. If you want to know what’s so special about “Duke Reeves!”, check out this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCaANQuEZoo

We may not have Duke Reeves, but Club Pittsburgh is going to give you Duke Rivers. He’ll be here on Saturday with Scott Spears. Scott, who was a crowd favorite with his “Sexposition” a few years ago, is returning with his friend Duke to give you a “Sex”tactular. Showtime is at midnight. Not that I’m ever on the internet, but I may have seen Scott cruising the Pittsburgh areas on Manhunt and Gay-Dot-Com last night. I’ve had a lot of inquiries about the show at the club, and I’m sure a lot of fans recognize Scott online, too. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s already gearing up for his trip to Pittsburgh. Scott is currently based in Atlanta, but he can be seen performing in bars and clubs all over the country. His video work is extensive, including films for Catalina, All Worlds Video, Chi Chi La Rue’s Channel 1, and Lucas Entertainment. You can find a link to a clip of Scott performing in Michael Lucas’s “Auditions” series on Scott’s website:

www.scottspearsxxx.com

Honestly guys – the Scott Spears Sextacular is the best way to warm up a cold January weekend. It’s either that or hot toddies and reruns of America’s Next Top Model with Mother and her French poodles, Liza and Lorna. Put some extra brandy in Mother’s Toddy and get your hot ass down to Club Pittsburgh.

TowelBoy has been absent from the blogosphere for the past few weeks because a lot has been happening at Club Pittsburgh. First, we got four new 32’’ high definition televisions in the video lounge. They’re flat panel receivers that provide a crisper picture with no glare from just about any angle. Once we installed them, however, we noticed that the picture quality was less than stellar. In fact, the adult channels throughout the club had lots of snow and distortions. Our TechGuy revamped the entire video system, and now the adult channels are clear in all areas of the club. They look especially good on the new LCD sets. We’ve also been putting a tremendous amount of work into the new website. Our goal is to have the site “live” by February 1st. There are tons of new features and a special “members only” section. If you provide us with your email address, which we promise to keep safe and secure, we will be able to send you “internet only” invitations and coupons. There is also a coupon feature open to everyone. Please check it out – there’s a special coupon that’s our gift to you for visiting the new site. We’ve just finished work on an updated directions page that will link you directly to Google maps. You provide your address, and the website tells you (step by step) how to find the club. Also, on the homepage, you’ll find a link to “Breaking News”, which will let you know about any closures or maintenance issues before you visit the club. What you’ll see in the coming weeks is what we’re calling Phase I. We’re already discussing Phase II, which will allow for viewer created content. Essentially, we’d like to build a section of the website where you can upload videos that you create and watch videos made by other members. Think XTube or LifeOut, Club Pittsburgh style. The site is both dynamic and interactive, and it’s built to change with the times. Keep checking back; the site should be up by February 1st.

So, we’ve got Scott Spears, Duke Rivers, a new viewing experience in the video lounge, and a bubbling hot tub. All of these cool things make a hot January weekend. I have one pesky item of business, and I’ll leave you with a fun website as a gift for paying attention. Lately, the front desk attendants have been having a lot of issues with credit cards. We gladly accept Visa, MasterCard, Discover, and American Express. However, it is company policy that the name on your credit card must match the name on your ID. This is entirely for your protection. Even if your boyfriend or your Aunt Edna is generous enough to loan you a credit card, we can’t accept it if your name isn’t on it. Permission to use the card is irrelevant – the name on the card must match the name on the ID.

Okay, now a site that amuses TowelBoy to no end. If you don’t know who said “Tinaaaaa! Bring me the ax!”, I would like you to turn in your gay card. If you’re having visions of crazy Joan Crawford ripping rose bushes out of her garden, check this out:

www.tinabringmetheax.com

Almost as handsome as Duke Reeves,
TowelBoy

Don't Go "Without"!

2008-01-10T13:28:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy does enjoy his role as a real-life Carrie Bradshaw. I revel in the fact that I’m Sarah Jessica Parker’s bathhouse doppelganger. (With more feminine features, of course.) I’ve answered just about every sexual question imaginable over the past six years. Is it okay to get semen in your eye? (No, Mary – you’ll get the Clap.) Does visiting a bathhouse increase your risk of STD’s? (No – the building has nothing to do with it. It’s all about personal choices during sex.) Do we know each other? (New Year’s Eve 2003. But it was dark and you were drunk.) The list goes on & on. Blogging provides me with yet another opportunity to spread my sexual wisdom. Being a sexual guru was never a part of my master plan. But as impending middle ages robs me of my youth like Dan Onorato after "dedicated funding", I’ve realized it’s easier to ditch the plan and follow my bizarre compulsions.

I spent sixty thousand dollars to get an MFA in theater. Correction: I borrowed sixty thousand dollars. I didn’t realize it while I was there, but I trained at perhaps the most distinguished theater conservatory in the county. My learned professors had notable careers in theater, television, and film. Many of my classmates have become successes in these venues as well. A partner from an acting class had a three-year stint on “Guiding Light”. She’s now the star of the estrogen drama “Women’s Murder Club”, one of only a few television hits this season. Another classmate played my favorite character in the film version of “Rent”. And yet another starred opposite Suzanne Pleshette in her own sitcom. I spent sixty grand and literally wrote a book to get my diploma. I may have even performed a sexual favor or two. Yet obviously, I’m not expecting a Golden Globe nomination anytime soon. (Unless there’s a category for “Most Ejaculate In An Art Film”.) My post-graduate career in the exciting world of drama lasted a whopping seven months. (I spent seven years pursuing the degrees.) After all of that money and preparation, I simply discovered that being the world’s most anal-retentive stage manager wouldn’t get me laid. No sex. Not even the occasional backstage fellatio. Clearly, I had made a very expensive error in judgment.

Sex has been one of my biggest fascinations since I saw Lorenzo Lamas shirtless on “Falcon Crest” when I was nine. It occupies as much of my thoughts and imagine as daytime television and Patty Duke. Since the advent of the world wide web, acquiring sex has become a driven hobby. I may have deceptively led you to believe that I reserve internet cruising for Tuesdays. That is a fact. I kill much of Tuesday with the warm glow of an LCD monitor illuminating my face. However, I work at perfecting the art of hooking up on other days, too. Everyday, actually. There are two bits of irony here. (Alanis, get a pen.) First, I hate wasting time. Laughing at hungry orphans is perhaps a more constructive use of time than scanning chat windows like grandma scrutinizes her 37 bingo cards during the big tournament. (That’s what the fifteen “private chat” windows that litter my screen remind me of: my grandmother watching a dozen bingo cards, constantly looking for a winner.) Most anal-retentive stage managers would find this unacceptable. Also, I constantly feel sexually deprived. “I do without,” I habitually whine to Patches. How can “Mr. Sex in the City” weave tales of great sex when he isn’t having any? At the depths of his despair, TowelBoy pretends he’s Nancy Drew and examines the facts. Between my telephone, internet, and Club Pittsburgh adventures, I’ve certainly earned my Fruit of the Looms a place in the Smithsonian. Let’s take a startling look at the math, Nancy: We’ll say I have two sexual encounters a week. (Okay, sometimes that’s Tuesday, but I digress. Let’s keep the math simple.) Two sexual encounters per week equals roughly 100 liaisons per year. That’s taking into account the occasional cold or influenza when I’m out of commission. I lost my virginity when I was 18. That was 13 years ago. If you multiply the 100 gentleman callers per year by the 13 years that I’ve been a friendly companion to attractive, age-appropriate strangers with a modest endowment, you get a whopping 1300 sexual experiences. I realize that this number would make the average 32 year old heterosexual male think twice about his sexual preference. While he’s schlepping little Pete off to soccer practice and having dinner with his bipolar mother-in-law, I’m getting laid. That’s a pretty good deal. Yet it really does feel like I “do without”. I have not shared the company of a gentleman caller in 12 whole days. If I had a vagina, I would be picking up pamphlets on reconstructive surgery. I’m practically a born-again virgin anyway.

Consider this: If each one of those 1300 gentleman callers had given me ten bucks, I could easily afford that surgery. And perhaps get a nice weave, too.

Club Pittsburgh does not want you to go without. That is why we’re giving you one of our favorite performers, Scott Spears. He’ll be here for a hot show with his friend Duke Rivers. Mark your calendars for Saturday, January 26. Showtime is @ midnight. Scott is a handsome guy, but he also has an incredibly warm personality. His previous performances at Club Pittsburgh were extremely interactive. He is perhaps one of our only performers that has kept in frequent contact with us over the years, often just to say hello. I like Scott a lot – I’m sure you will too. If you’d like to check him out before his show, please visit his website:

www.scottspearsxxx.com

Your Personal Carrie Bradshaw,
TowelBoy

Holiday Hullabaloo

2007-12-26T09:42:00.000-08:00

As usual, TowelBoy spent the holiday with his family fantasizing what his funeral would be like. Hearing my mother’s psychotic neo-conservative neighbor rattle on about rampant global threats tends to make one ponder (wish for, actually) his own death. The possibilities of four-star drama at my funeral are endless with my bizarre family in charge. I’m sure my mother would find some way to turn it into a one-woman show about her own personal agony. She’d weep and wail about the burden of planning my funeral and fulfilling my final wishes. Disenfranchised members of my family from all over the eastern seaboard would make contrition for their crimes against my mother and pummel the funeral home to pay their respects. (To my mother.) My co-workers would flood the funeral home with cards, flowers, and embarrassing stories about the deceased; my employers would supply the grieving with cold cuts, various cheeses, and Maximum Impact. My mother would decorate the funeral parlor with artifacts of my life that have great sentimental value to her but have no spiritual worth for me. Perhaps even my father and his family would come out of the woodwork, lamenting over what could have been. And I hope they have the good sense to bury me face down with my ass in the air, so I can spend eternity in the same position as I did in life. Really, who’s to say? But one thing is for certain:

My funeral would be a virtual showcase of strippers and drag queens. Or, in politically correct terms, “exotic dancers” and “gender illusionists”. Whatever you call them, they’ve been the staple of my social diet for the last six years. My heart is full and my crotch is itchy from cerebral flashes of hot performances by the likes of Scandal, Inferno, and Chocolate Thunder. And whether they’re letting their dogs on the bed during anal intercourse or crashing through the wall of room 309 in a huffing stupor, drag queens are always fabulous entertainment. I’ve never known either of these groups to miss a large gathering of heterosexually-challenged men, especially when the guest of honor is enjoying his final moments above ground from a pine box. My only hope is that the strippers and the queens don’t steal the funeral show from my mother.

It wouldn’t be a holiday party without the strippers and the queens, and of course we had both. Buck, our favorite exotic dancer and friend of Club Pittsburgh, entertained the crowd as Santa’s naughty elf. We were extremely nervous because our queen announced on Friday that she was “almost” birthday drunk. After a recent birthday celebration we had to lock the poor dear in the bathroom for her own safety. I’m pleased to report she was feeling well enough on Friday to enjoy the festivities. Housekeeping superstar Richie humored us by putting on the special Christmas wig. (See picture above.) I’ve confiscated the wig to strategically place in a drain for excitement when the holiday hoopla subsides. Even Santa Claus took a few hours from his busy Christmas schedule to relax at Club Pittsburgh. (Mrs Claus: Please stop calling. I’ve already told you a thousand times that Club Pittsburgh is a “health club”.) Patches was crowned Queen of Christmas for his extraordinary light-up Santa hat. Thanks for making the holidays merry, Patches. Club Pittsburgh is always full of holiday fun for our members and visitors, but it can be a really hectic time for the staff. The ten days between the solstice and the New Year is often the busiest period of the year. It’s a constant symphony of buzzing doorbells, ringing phones, and keys scraping across the counter. As I’m writing this, I’ve already checked in more guys in three hours than I usually do my entire Wednesday shift. I’m pleased to report that the Club Pittsburgh staff is in good spirits. The hateful meter appears to be stuck at “0”. You guys have brought us fun and enthusiasm throughout the season, and we look forward to ringing in the New Year with you.

Now that the holidays are coming to a close, I’m optimistic that I will be somewhat productive in the New Year. But TowelBoy, January, and Productivity aren’t usually a perfect trifecta. The short days make it way too tempting to sleep the evening away. When I finally do wake up, I start with an entire pot of coffee and half of a king-sized Symphony bar. This prepares me for an evening of heated debate over “The Young and the Restless” with my cat, Socks. (I think Sharon Abbott is a psychotic whore; Socks maintains that she’s misunderstood.) The soaps end and the local news begins. The coffee left at the bottom of the pot is sludgy and burned. For the next hour, I wonder if the typically-perky anchorwoman is tired because her hair is disheveled and her iridescent eye shadow has been out of the pages of Vogue since Nancy Reagan left the White House. I take a moment after the news to brew a second pot of coffee and then go to my bedroom. While cruising internet chat rooms and message boards for potential gentleman callers, I make my bed, put my clothes away, pay some bills online, and attempt some actual work at the computer. Work gets pushed aside so I can chat/cruise, chat/cruise, chat/cruise. By midnight, there are more nude pictures of me in email inboxes than Paris Hilton. The cat is screaming at the bedroom door because I’ve been home from work for six hours and he still hasn’t eaten. Clarification: I haven’t fed him. I feed the cat, stuff the other half of the Symphony bar in my mouth, and return to the computer. Then it’s chat/cruise, chat/cruise, chat/cruise…and after awhile I start to wonder if there’s anything on Xtube. The night appears to have two possibilities: either I meet someone, thus eliminating the need for chat/cruise, or I take two Sominex and fall asleep at the computer.

Then I’m overwhelmed by my own genius. I will go to Club Pittsburgh and hang out with the strippers and the queens. And I’ll probably find that gentleman caller, too. Screw you, Comcast High-Speed Internet.

If you missed our Christmas party, (Or you loved our Christmas party), please join us for New Year’s Eve. They’ll be hats, noisemakers, snacks, and a champagne toast at midnight. Club Pittsburgh is also a great place to relax after the bars have closed and all the other parties have ended. When they all close, we keep the party going.

Oh – Santa delivered a brand new website to Club Pittsburgh. We’re working on the content over the next few weeks. The website will be available to you in January. I think you’ll be pleased with our efforts. Keep checking…

Stay Warm!
TowelBoy

Porn Star Blizzard

2007-12-19T10:21:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy is so mad at Jeff Verszyla that he would flatly turn down any offers of a romantic rendezvous. Okay, perhaps I'm not that angry, but I would at least expect him to by me a fancy dinner before I provide any conjugal entertainment. (Actually, an Egg McMuffin would probably do just fine.) For years, I've faithfully watched Jeff's Accuweather forecast and accepted his predictions as scripture. However, I've begun to suspect that Jeff is intentionally scaring handsome hotties from enjoying the copious pleasures of Club Pittsburgh. How so? I check out Jeff on Tuesday, and he's already making ominous predictions for the weekend: freezing rain on Friday, the Blizzard of the Century on Saturday. Two days before the weekend arrives, the newscast is cluttered with images of senior citizens pillaging Giant Eagle of milk, bread, and calcium chloride. These poor golden agers are driven mad by the threat of the impending winter apocolypse. And of course, Friday arrives and what happens? Absolutely nothing. I apparently tripped an old lady to get the last bag of rock salt for no reason. It rains all night on Saturday, and one Club Pittsburgh guest even describes it as “balmy”. The occasional wayward raindrop blurs the security camera, but it's still obvious that there is no snow. Unfortunately, many of you already decided to miss a great party because of Jeff's wintry warning. Shame on you, Jeff Verszyla.

I have been frustrated by this phenomenon for seven winters now. Just the prediction of winter weather dampens gay nightlife in the city. Customers checking in complain that the city's bars and clubs were plagued by sparse crowds and an attitude of malaise. Ironically, Club Pittsburgh gets an overwhelming crowd if a storm actually hits. Many guys from out-of-town choose to get a room at Club Pittsburgh instead of driving home after enjoying the bars. And guests that checked in before the inclement weather often renew their rentals instead of venturing out into the elements. What dampens the party are treacherous predictions that never come true.

If you missed Tober Brandt and Ricky Sinz because of the forecast, then you should seriously consider dropping the Weather Channel from your cable line-up. We actually had an awesome crowd in spite of the weather worries. Toby and Ricky gave our guests an incredible performance. Both are extremely interactive when performing, and the crowd became a part of the show. Our two stars socialized with our guests late into the night, chatting, signing autographs, and giving away their movies. We took the photos above while our performers were mingling after their show. Ricky Sinz was a magnificent proxy for Michael Brandon. Ricky was kind enough to post some comments to my previous blog entry, “Ricky Sinz Performs @ Club Pittsburgh”. Scroll down and read Ricky's sentiments for Club Pittsburgh and our guest.

Bill & Jay were two special guests who stopped by to enjoy the hot performance. These guys were kind enough to work the front desk at Club Pittsburgh while the staff enjoyed our delightful holiday party. Ron and Nick are two more friends of the club who had the daunting task of housekeeping while we reveled in holiday cheer. TowelBoy was so hung over after the festivities that he forgot to give these guys proper kudos on a job well done. Bill, Jay, Ron & Nick: Thanks a bunch from the managers and staff at Club Pittsburgh. Is it too early to book you for next year?

I leave you with good news: all of you are getting another chance at a great time. Club Pittsburgh's annual Holiday Party for members and friends is this Saturday. Please join us for naked elves, snacks, and Santa's Snowflake Punch. Along with our Thanksgiving Horn O' Plenty celebration, the holiday party has become a favorite tradition among Club Pittsburgh's staff and members. I have a feeling that the Holiday Hat Smackdown with Patches will reach its exciting climax at the party. You wouldn't want to miss Patches embarrassed and defeated, would you? Oh, how the crown will sparkle when all of Club Pittsburgh heralds me the Queen of Christmas...

If you are contemplating coming to the club from out of town and have questions about the weather, please give us a call. I promise you an accurate assessment of what's falling from the sky. Don't fall victim to Jeff Verszyla's evil plan.

With Christmas in My Heart,
(Unlike Some Others)
TowelBoy

Ricky Sinz Performs @ Club Pittsburgh

2007-12-13T13:34:00.000-08:00

Well, TowelBoy is certainly having a week of excitement and drama at Club Pittsburgh. If you haven’t already heard, the hot tub is bubbling again. Our hard working maintenance team made the final repairs on Monday night. It’s now late Thursday, and the tub appears to be in good working order. If you haven’t stopped down to check it out yet, I hope you will soon. I have had a long week myself, and a little hot tub action sounds like the perfect way to spend the evening.

We received word on Wednesday that Michael Brandon will be unable to visit club Pittsburgh this weekend. Michael is in the hospital recovering from a back injury. Of course, we understand his situation and wish him a speedy recovery. Michael is disappointed that he won’t be returning to Pittsburgh this weekend, BUT: Michael and our manager have found a worthy replacement to keep you warm for the Yuletide. He is Raging Stallion exclusive Ricky Sinz. Ricky is a tall, handsome hunk of man guaranteed to fulfill the fantasies of tattoo fanatics. Our Shwami nearly popped a nut when he saw Ricky’s photos hanging in the club. Ricky won over Raging Stallion fans for his performances in the studio’s “Grunts” series. He will be performing with Tober Brandt. Tober is one of Raging Stallion’s rising stars, and we’re excited to introduce him to Pittsburgh.

I hope you’ll stop down to give to give Tober and Ricky a big Pittsburgh welcome. Showtime is Saturday at midnight. Our Raging Stallion shows always produce a monstrous crowd, and we’re very excited to have both of these hot performers.

If you’d like more information on Tober Brandt, Ricky Sinz, and Michael Brandon, please visit Raging Stallion’s website:

RagingStallion.com

See you at the show!
TowelBoy

Yep -- The Whirlpool is Bubbling

2007-12-12T09:48:00.000-08:00

TowelBoy does enjoy the holiday season, but he would certainly sparkle much brighter if we could move the most wonderful time of year to sometime in August. I do not appreciate Jack Frost nipping at my nose. (However, I'm extremely grateful that Mr. Frost has the decency to keep his nipping above the belt.) I definitely prefer the days of walking around the house in boxer shorts to wearing so many layers that I'm frequently mistaken for a pre-bypass Starr Jones Reynolds. A few winters ago, I met the most attractive gentleman caller in the history of high-speed internet. But he was so worn out by removing my 37 layers of clothing that he opted for a nice cup of cocoa and a rerun of “Designing Women” instead of sexual relations. (This is sadly 100% true.) Oh how I wish there were a way to stay warm and wear no clothing...

I am bringing you some great news: You can warm yourself up in the hot tub at Club Pittsburgh.

After a month of repairs, the whilpool is finally bubbling in wet fun again. We have received countless calls and inquiries asking when the hot tub would be working again. TowelBoy is most grateful for everyone's patience. Our maintenance team has been working for weeks to solve various problems. After six years, the poor thing just needed some major TLC. The final repair required some skinny queen with a tube of silicone to snake his way through the mechanics. Admittedly, TowelBoy was a little disappointed that he was not the chosen for this task. My six years as Nicole Ritchie's understudy means nothing to these people. Although I can take no credit for this feat, the whirlpool is now sealed tighter than Dick Cheney's lips at a senate inquiry. Please stop in and enjoy it soon!

In the midst of whirlpool rejuvination, the Club Pittsburgh family celebrated the season with a holiday party. These occasions are always lovely and wonderful; I have really special memories of past holidays with my co-workers and friends. This year, however, was definitely my favorite bash of all. The party venue was a delightful eatery in Pittsburgh's Strip District called Kaya. Monika, the restaurant's amazing manager, closed the restaurant to the public so we could enjoy an intimate celebration. The atmosphere, staff, food, drinks, and music were all wonderful. TowelBoy snapped a few photos so you could enjoy the party, too. Allow me to provide a little narration. The first picture is of our hosts and Club Pittsburgh's owners, Steven and Peter. As usual, Peter is holding a big package. Don't they look handsome in their duds? Our manager John is applauding behind them, and the company's PR genius Leo is getting liquored up in front. Kik and the Queen are in the next photo. Obviously, Kik is enjoying the royal treatment. You didn't recognize the Queen without her weave, did you? In the third picture, Richie, Leo, and Patches are enjoying the holiday revelry. Hmmm...how unusual to see these three sitting at the bar. (Please note that Patches is not wearing a festive hat. Apparently someone does not truly have the spirit of Christmas in his heart.) In the next photo, Walter shows us the perfect way to warm up the holidays: with delicious teas! I have come up with a million dollar marketing idea. I am going to make gift cards for Tea with the Queen. The bearer of the card is entitled to one tea with the Queen at the time of his choice (except happy hour and the entire month of the Queen's birthday). However, the card holder must provide his own tea and a nip of Jack. (Even a Queen needs to keep warm during this cold winter season.) At least Walter is half prepared. And the bottom photo (pun intended) is of the two Scotts, Scooter and Esta. I would like to give a shout-out to MTV for pimping Scooter's jacket. What you can't see is the wonderful Steelers gear that Scooter got for Christmas, which was his second wish on his list to Santa. (We tried really hard, but the $20 whores are on strike with the Hollywood writers and the immigrant sidekicks. Maybe next Christmas.) There were many more Club Pittsburgh co-workers enjoying the merriment, but they were all too intoxicated to sign the photo release waivers.

I'd like to give my heartfelt thanks to Monika and her staff at Kaya. We all appreciate your hard work and good spirits. Thanks for a wonderful holiday party, and best wishes for a wonderful and prosperous new year.

There is one very special queen that livened Club Pittsburgh for years, and now she livens our parties in spirit. One person very much in attendance that you won't see in the photographs is our dear friend Jeff. Jeff, known to most of you as Crystal St. Clair, was a true friend and valiant co-worker who lost his brave battle with cancer nearly three years ago. To say Crystal was the life of the party is an enormous understatement. One of my favorite Christmas party moments is from our very first Christmas together in 2001. Someone had gotten Crystal the gift that was at the top of her list: a “mangina”. All of us laughed and howled as we had our photographs taken with the fabulous Ms. St. Clair and her strap-on hoo-hoo. A true queen of comedy, Crystal was never afraid to be the punchline. I can only hope that my own sense of humor is half as bountiful as hers.

I see this tribute to Crystal as a perfect segue for the word...

THE HOLY BOO (n. - celestial spirit) – a divine queen that watches over Club Pittsburgh from the heavens in her own unique way. Crystal affectionately called those in her royal realm “BOO” as a term of endearment. Now working hard as our guardian angel from above, Crystal is known warmly to the Club Pittsburgh staff as the Holy Boo. We frequently evoke the spirit of the Holy Boo to stop the washer from breaking or the steam room from leaking. Once, we saw a known rebel-rouser approaching the front door just after the bar closed. We all asked the Holy Boo to stop this queen from coming in and deliver him safely to Jitters. And sure enough, this hoodlum approached the door, patted his pockets to find no ID, and made a beeline back to Penn Avenue. That made a believer out of the most cynical skeptic. Crystal had an amazing way of making us all laugh, and she's still working hard for us in spirit. Thank you, Holy Boo.

In case you forgot, Michael Brandon will visit Club Pittsburgh on Saturday. This is our gift to you, and you don't want to miss it. Michael and Monster break their previous attendance record each time they visit. Each time we anticipate a big crown, and each time we're floored by the response. This time Michael is adding muscle hunk Tober Brandt to the monstrous fun. Showtime is at midnight – put it in you blackberry or huckleberry or whatever in the hell that thing is, and don't be late :)

Making Your Yuletide Gay,
TowelBoy

A Letter From Patches

2007-12-07T19:16:00.000-08:00

In the interest of “Fair and Balanced” reporting, TowelBoy needs to get off his reindeer and let Patches set the record straight.

Over the years, TowelBoy and Patches have brought the glorious spirit of Christmas to everyone on the overnight shift. With Festive Headgear, those two scamps have truly made the Yuletide gay!!

Suddenly – and without provocation – TowelBoy has accused poor Patches of “stealing” his title “Queen of Christmas”. Larceny, you ask? Not on Christmas! Not on Christmas!!

As a temperate Amish gentleman, Patches feels Christmas should not be rushed. “Let us have some restraint and good manners. Don’t jump the gun!” is his mantra. What happened? TowelBoy marched into Club Pittsburgh on NOVEMBER 30TH with his Santa hat perched perkily atop his noggin.

Too much and too soon was Patches’ only reaction to TowelBoy’s garish display of hubris. Queen of Christmas, indeed! He vowed to give TowelBoy a much needed comeuppance.

Over the next days, those two will put hats on their heads in a bitter duel for Queenly supremacy of Sparkle Season. Who is the real Queen of Christmas? Patches will leave it up to you, dear friend.

One final note: as a humble lad from the Mennonite hinterland, Patches will risk being shunned by his community. Such fancy displays of Christmas cheer is frowned upon. Patches is willing to take the heat if it means bringing joy to his many fans. Like Charlie Brown’s tree, Patches has the humility, grace, and wisdom to be the true Queen of Christmas.

Let’s face it: TowelBoy is too Flash ‘n Glitz for such responsibility. He will just toss it aside come Boxing Day.

Sincerely and with a touch of bile,
Patches

And a message from TowelBoy:

Although I applaud Patches’ holiday zest, I doubt that he has the warmth of Christmas in his heart. Take a chill pill, Patches. With the Holy Boo as my cheerleader from above, I will be Queen.

Ho, Ho, Ho,
TowelBoy

Have You Heard...?

2007-12-05T09:57:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more TowelBoy would love to see under his Christmas tree this year than actor James Marsden. This superstud lit up the screen in 2007 as Corny Collins in the updated version of “Hairspray”. Ah, James – with his perfect smile, smoldering eyes, and beefy biceps! He looks like a young Tom Cruise without the crazy. Although hugely underrated as a talented actor and sex icon, I have been madly in love with James for over a decade. I never thought that James would be interested in someone like me until I saw him lock lips with Calista Flockhart on “Ally McBeal”. (Calista Flockhart is my inner celebrity. And sometimes the outer resemblance is striking.) One of Stud Marsden's more interesting roles was in a 2001 movie called “Gossip”. In the film, Marsden plays Jimmy Web, a college student who embarks on a project to study the consequences of a carefully crafted rumor as it spreads from person to person. Jimmy discovers that the rumor changes subtly with each gossiper until the original piece of information is completely altered. In the end, Jimmy and his classmates are devastated by the outcome as their original rumor becomes an out-of-control monster.

Six years of working at Club Pittsburgh has not left me immune to some of the outrageous rumors about our business. I am still surprised by some of the misguided venom that a few members of our community choose to spread. Much like Marsden's film rumor, many of these stories start with a grain of truth and evolve into something toxic. Lately, we've been getting a lot of phone calls asking if we've been raided. One person heard that we were shut down because of drug issues. Another person was chatting with a friend who said the health department shut our doors because of sanitation problems. Yet another caller read that the city was cracking down on “illegal businesses”. My co-workers and I have been fielding this kinds of calls for six years. For reasons that we haven't yet determined, these kinds of rumors have increased in recent weeks. Allow me to set the record straight. (And please note the rarity in TowelBoy setting anything ''straight'' -- this must be serious.)

First, there is no chance that Club Pittsburgh will be “raided”. We are a licensed business that operates in full cooperation with the city and county. The county is not merely aware of us; our business complies fully with their rules and regulations. A member of the county health department visits the club twice a month to perform free HIV and Syphilis testing to our members. Club Pittsburgh is very active and visible in civic activities that improve the gay community, often working in conjunction with local government and officials. I personally have dispatched the Pittsburgh police, fire department, and EMS. We've not been “raided” when emergency workers visit Club Pittsburgh, and the police are always extremely courteous and helpful. We do not exist as an “underground business”. In fact, we are perhaps the most transparent gay business in the community. Club Pittsburgh employees make an excellent wage and are paid through a payroll service, not in cash “under the table”. The business is fully insured, and so are its employees. Our business pays taxes at every level: city, county, state, and federal. I have six years worth of pay stubs, W-2 forms, and insurance cards to prove it. The owners and managers of Club Pittsburgh take the responsibility of providing a safe and legal establishment to both customers and employees very seriously. The club's relationship with the county and city is both friendly and legal – there is no chance that your privacy will be violated by a ''raid''. I don't know why this particular rumor persists, but it's simply not true.

And TowelBoy is just floored by the implication that Club Pittsburgh would be closed because of housekeeping issues. Obviously, keeping a bathhouse clean and sanitary is a challenging issue. A question that I'm always asked in jest when I mention that I work at a bathhouse is if I ever get tired of cleaning cum. (The answer – it's hell to get out of my green bedspread.) It's my experience that semen is usually the least of the housekeeper's problems at the club. We're extremely aware that that your health and safety depends on our club being sanitary and clean. We know this includes things that are visible to you...and some that aren't. This is the main reason areas of the club are often closed for cleaning at what seems like a most inopportune time. We realize that this may be inconvenient, but keeping you safe is sometimes more important than keeping you happy. The housekeeping staff is on duty 24 hours a day. During weekends and other busy periods, housekeepers outnumber attendants and managers. Visitors from out of town frequently laud our club club as the cleanest they've ever visited. National publications and gay guides have mentioned Club Pittsburgh as the cleanest gay bathhouse in the country. TowelBoy has been accused by a former roommate of having OCD when it comes to housekeeping issues. (Apparently, it's not natural to cry when there's a dirty dish in your sink.) I know clean, people. And Club Pittsburgh IS clean.

TowelBoy has been know to spend an hour or two (or six or ten) cruising internet chat rooms. In addition to meeting the occasional gentleman caller, these chat rooms provide me with some interesting insight. I've discovered that a lot of rumors about Club Pittsburgh start on Gay.Com or Manhunt. I'm often surprised by something that will scroll by while I'll frantically trying to explain to CockBoy85 how to find Carrick. A side note: I am like Rain Man when it comes to names and faces. Come to Club Pittsburgh once, and I'll probably remember you the next time. What's astonishing about the chat room rumor mongers is that I don't know most of them. I've never seen them at Club Pittsburgh. These guys have made judgements about our club and its members without ever visiting. I can not count the number of times that I've seen a chatter that's never been to the club complain about it. There seems to be a handful in the community that repeatedly spread these negative, destructive, and false stories and rumors. Yet when I instant message them to get them to tell me their story, they have no idea who I am. They can't tell me about their Club Pittsburgh experience because they haven't had one. How can you be an expert on something you'd never actually tried?

Perhaps coming to Club Pittsburgh and getting laid would improve their dispositions.

Here is one rumor that I definitely want you to spread: Michael Brandon is coming back to Club Pittsburgh. Michael and Monster return on Saturday, December 15th. The genius behind Raging Stallion Studios and the star of many of its films, Michael is the undisputed favorite among Club Pittsburgh patrons. Monster never fails to draw a monstrous crowd. This time, Michael is bring special guest Tober Grant. December 15th – one awesome event with two incredible stars. Take my advice: get your shopping done now so you have no excuse when Monster comes to town. You can get Uncle Pete those Isotoners anytime, but you only have one shot at getting up close to a Christmas Monster.

Oh, the word. You probably want the vocabulary word. And TowelBoy has got the Club Pittsburgh word that brightens our holiday season.

PHYLICIA RASHAD- (greeting.) You may know Phylicia Rashad as the pretty actress who warmed the heart of America for eight seasons as Claire Huxtable on “The Cosby Show”. Due to TowelBoy's slight hearing impediment, however, he thought that they were singing “Phylicia Rashad” in that Spanish Christmas tune made famous by Jose Feliciano. (I'd like to give a shout-out to Walter for explaining that it's actually Feliz Navidad. That makes more sense if you think about it.) Either way, Phylicia Rashad is Club Pittsburgh's favorite way of wishing you a happy holiday.

Phylicia Rashad,
Phylica Rashad,
She played Claire on “Cosby”
And she married Amhad.

I have to ask one favor before I go. As some of you may already know, Patches is hell bent on stealing my title as Queen of Christmas. The smack-down began last weekend when he wore this gaudy, fluffy, ridiculously plush Santa Hat that upstaged mine. Now everyone knows that Patches LOVES Christmas. The poor dear strings up his lights in July. (Well, he's lit up in July. Take that as you will.) We all appreciate his holiday cheer. But Queen of Christmas? Please! That has been my title for six years running. You can bet your holiday ass that I'm going to pillage every Wal-Mart, Target, Family Dollar, Dollar Tree, and Red White & Blue until I find the most fabulous Santa-themed bonnet ever. My yuletide will be gay, damn it. This Christmas, Patches and I are taking it to the next level. Please stop in and give the true Queen of Christmas your support.

Phylicia Rashad,
TowelBoy

Clouds In My Coffee

2007-11-28T09:49:00.000-08:00

Poor TowelBoy is suffering from the devastating affects of Stratocumulus downers in his delicious cup of Flavia.

Have you all heard that Janet Jackson song “Son of a G?” The song samples from Carly Simon’s 70’s classic, “You’re So Vain”. In fact, Carly is on Janet’s track, rapping (Yep -- Carly Simon is rapping) about those familiar clouds in her coffee. The night gals at the tubs always enjoys when Rhapsody spins this tune, and we tease my co-worker, Richie, about having clouds in his coffee. I think of having “clouds in my coffee” as one of my bad moods, but that isn’t the case with Richie. This poor guy has let us harass the hell out of him for the past several years. For Halloween, I wanted to dress him as Miss Swan from MadTV. He's wicked with a needle & thread; he could have made that jumper himself. Then there was the time that Richie told a new employee that he would inspect his work once it was finished. Of course, we dubiously dubbed him Inspector Richie. That gave us license to play the theme from “Inspector Gadget” every time the poor guy went to check on something. For years, Richie has provided us with countless hours of amusement by performing “general cleanings” in various areas of the tubs. Now he’s General Mamslee. I want to get an old street sweeper from the city so that General Richie can perform his general cleanings efficiently. (Bill Peduto, do you got my back?) Of course, it would be silly to go through all the trouble of getting a street sweeper if he’s not going to wear a pink camouflage jumpsuit and a matching helmet. Always the good sport, I’m sure this suggestion would make Richie laugh. I’ve actually never seen Richie with clouds in his coffee. Well, there was that one time the Queen was performing a lewd act against the Flavia machine, but I digress. Carly and Richie have got me thinking: What is it that puts clouds in TowelBoy's coffee?

I would have to admit that drips, leaks, and water pouring over my head at the front window definitely causes a little cloudiness. That was certainly the case this weekend. As many of you already know, the whirlpool at Club Pittsburgh has been closed for awhile now. The first problem was a blown light bulb. That seems simple enough right? Well, this is no ordinary light bulb, and our poor maintenance guy needs Jeannie Nelson to ransack her bottle while Samantha Stevens twitches her nose to make it appear. Once the light bulb arrives, Ms. B installs it only to discover a leak around the lighting unit. Parts are ordered, seals are shipped, and it's looking as though we'll have the whirlpool bubbling for Thanksgiving. And then another cloud rolls in. It is apparently impossible to dispatch a qualified repairman because everyone in these parts is huntin', and nobody is willing to crawl out of the tree to fix this fucking light. So our delightful and industrious owner shows up with a wrench, some scuba gear, and the best handyman on The Mountain. They fix the light, the seal around the lighting unit is...well...sealed, and we're filling 'er up. And then poor TowelBoy feels a drip on his head in the office. Handyman comes back and replaces a piece of pipe that is holier than Helen on Hannukah. We fill 'er up again, now mere moments before porn star Matthias and his cute friend arrive. And you guessed it...drip, drip, drip. We sent Richie upstairs in riot gear to drain the water and deliver the bad news. Fortunately, we had two really cute porn boys to distract the faithful from an arid jacuzzi. We've determined that there is a structural leak. It's not a problem with the whirlpool's plumbing or mechanics; the stainless steel tub itself is leaking. Unfortunately, this is not a problem that our maintenance people can solve. We need the folks that built the whirlpool. Of course, we called the people that built the tub as soon as we figured this out. Unfortunately, they're still trying to get someone to come out of the tree.

In spite of our whirlpool worries, Matthias and Jacob, his really cute friend, made it a weekend to remember. I have not seen a Friday night that incredibly busy since Pride weekend. And the crowd just kept pouring in until Monday morning. Matthias and Company put on an incredible show that lasted a whopping 75 minutes. The best part of coming to Club Pittsburgh for a porn show is hanging out with the porn stars afterwards. Matthias was still there socializing with our guests when I left in the morning. If you missed this great performance...what the hell were you thinking? It was a great time! While we were enjoying this really hot sex show, you were choking down your mother's turkey tetrazzini and listing to the story of your Aunt Patty's bunion surgery. Don't make that mistake at Christmas, people. Come and see Michael Brandon. I posted some pictures in case you missed a great show and our busiest weekend since Pride. Gee Whiz.

Of course, we had delicious Hoochie Harvest Punch to celebrate the Horn' O Plenty. TowelBoy chooses not to participate in such libations. Let's face it, I'm loose enough without the hooch. So what did TowelBoy have in that mug all weekend? And what does our Baroness require immediately after a hard weekend of celebrating the traditions of the Olde Country?

FLAVIA – (n). A delicious selection of hot beverages made to order from a clever little machine at Club Pittsburgh. You may call it coffee, but it's so much more. The spinning Flavia tree next to the machine offers a wide selection of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. The individual packets even have this brilliant caffeine rating at the bottom so you know just how sober you're getting. Did you have six glasses of punch and now you feel a little tipsy woo-woo? Ask Patches or Walter to trade that dollar bill for four quarters and make yourself a cup of Flavia's delicious Intense Dark Roast. This has a Flavia caffeine rating of 7, guaranteed to make you as good as new. Flavia: Richie tested, Baroness approved.

[Club Pittsburgh management is not responsible for any clouds caused by lewd acts that the Queen may perform on or near the Flavia machine.]

As a great weekend ended, one last cloud had to burst on TowelBoy. As I was finishing my shift on Sunday morning, I noticed that a delightful gentleman was upgrading to a room. Tall, blonde, blue eyes, great shoulder-to-hip ratio. I quickly checked the waiver to make sure he was age-appropriate. 35 – Bingo! I didn't want to appear easy (I'm serious, so stop laughing), so I waited a socially-acceptable three minutes before walking past his room. The door was shut. I went back to the office and chatted with Walter before making another round. Apparently, I should have used this time to get undressed. I didn't think of that. I make another sweep of the club, still dressed in my Club Pittsburgh employee attire. I spot a sexy silhouette in the 5^th floor shower. It's him! Good news – he peaks out to see who's cruising him. He smiles and stares. At the moment, I'm uncharacteristically inept and go into this bashful Scarlett routine. He goes into the sauna but keeps his eyes locked with mine while I lurk in the hall. He's watching me through the door. As I get closer, he gestures for me to come in. As I'm about to give in, I make an incovenient realization: Fuck! I'm still dressed! And I'm not about to go into the sauna looking all official. (This may shock you, but I respect the sanctity of the uniform.) Mr. Sexy Studman is confused as I dash away from the sauna. I run downstairs, grab a key, a big girl towel, and manage to rip my clothes off and get them into the locker in one surprisingly precise motion. I then HAUL ASS up to the sauna.

Of course, he's gone. I run back downstairs just in time to see him get on the elevator. He smiles at me as the elevator door shuts. At that moment, I hear that familiar crack of thunder. It's at that moment I realize that I soooo should have gone into that sauna with my clothes on. Damn.

Awhile back, Loosey Ricardowitz made his usual late afternoon visit to Club Pittsburgh. Still reeling from old Babalu refusing to let him be in the show, our Loosey was concerned that it was going to rain on his sundeck tanning. Thanks to technological advances and a freakish obsession with former KDKA meteorologist Rebecca Hower, TowelBoy is an idiot savant when it comes to weather. I was pleased to inform him that it wouldn't rain because high pressure was in control. "What does that mean?" Loosey asked. "Well," I responded, "High pressure holds moist air to the ground. If the air can't rise, then clouds can't form. In a nutshell, no clouds means no rain." This must have put Loosey at ease, because he let out a huge guffaw and dove right into a funny story. But our Loosey should be warned: Just because there are no clouds in the sky doesn't mean you can't have clouds in your coffee.

Your Cirrocumulus Compatriot,

TowelBoy

Matthias the Horn O' Plenty

2007-11-19T08:57:00.000-08:00

Lately, it seems that TowelBoy is constantly struggling with the age-old dilemma: do I settle for the Sure Thing, or do I keep waiting for Mr. Perfect? I'm sure you all know what I'm talking about. You visit Club Pittsburgh, and almost immediately someone shows some interest. He's relatively attractive, age appropriate, and interested right now. He watches you change at your locker. He's right behind you in the shower. Every time you look in another direction, he's there. He's not the man of your dreams, but is he adequate enough to be a ten minute distraction? Should you just go for it, or should you wait for the man that makes your eyes roll back in your head? And just as you're about to give in...you see Mr. Perfect out of the corner of your eye! He's the man you've come to Club Pittsburgh to find: sexy body, beautiful eyes, and a handsome smile. You immediately glance and smile. Mr. Perfect doesn't glance back. Perhaps he didn't see you. You walk past Mr. Perfect. He nods and smiles, but keeps moving. Sure Thing is following three paces behind. What to do...?

This drives TowelBoy absolutely bananas. The epitome of conjugal impasses occurred this past summer. I had been quite stricken with a very attractive gentleman who would visit the club during my Wednesday shift at the front window. The first time the elevator doors opened to reveal Mr. Perfect, TowelBoy nearly passed out. He's age appropriate, has beautiful eyes, a perfect smile, and an ass that should have its own federal holiday. I'd been agog by this handsome stranger almost every Wednesday for the entire summer. But every week he'd check out before I was finished working. On this particular Wednesday, however, Mr. Perfect checked in just as my shift was about to end. At exactly 11:01 PM, I put my valuables in a lock box, dashed to a locker, shucked my clothes off, and started the prowl. As I barreled into the steam room, Mr. Perfect bumped into me in the doorway. I smiled. He smiled. I said hello. He muttered a shy reply. We paused for a second. And then he walked away. We reenacted this tragedy repeatedly until I noticed someone watching me out of the corner of my eye. And then I noticed that where ever I was...so was he. He was age appropriate, relatively attractive, and definitely interested. He was not the man I'd been dreaming about, but he was a Sure Thing. Hmmm....what to do?

If you haven't heard, there's no better way to spend the weekend after Thanksgiving than enjoying the holiday revelry at Club Pittsburgh. This year, our post-Thanksgiving weekend is tastier than Aunt Margie's famous pumpkin pie. On Friday, sexy stud Matthias will stop by for a performance that you won't be able to see at the Macy's parade. He's young, he's hung, and Thanksgiving makes him horny. Don't miss his erotic live sex show at midnight. I can't think of a better way to end a hard day of retail madness. Friday is going to be great, but don't worry – we'll get you out of Uncle Stu's Saturday night canasta extravaganza, too. Stop back in on Saturday night for our annual Horn O' Plenty party. This Club Pittsburgh tradition is know for its cornucopia of hot guys and good times. And the Hoochie Harvest punch will warm the heart faster than little cousin Ernie in the local fire hall's annual Thanksgiving pageant. Mark your calendars and send your regrets to your overbearing relatives now: Matthias on Friday, Horn O' Plenty madness on Saturday. Nothing is tastier than the Club Pittsburgh holiday pie. We promise to save you a slice.

And when you visit Club Pittsburgh, be sure to take a peak at...

MULBERRY WAY: (n.) - the alley behind Club Pittsburgh. It's a dark, mysterious stretch of pavement littered with fire escapes, metal security doors, dumpsters, and muffin vans. For years, this curious passageway was simply referred to as “the alley”, until the mental giants on Grant Street gave it this perplexing moniker. Rumor has it that Mulberry Way inspired TowelBoy's favorite Hot House video, Butch Alley. Take a walk through Mulberry way, enjoy its allure, hide behind the dumpster while you spy that hot guy going into the club...but DO NOT leave Grandma Sylvia's Lexus parked in that fucking alley.

So you're coming to Club Pittsburgh this weekend, right? You've cleared your schedule for Matthias on Friday and the Horn O' Plenty party on Saturday, correct? While you're there, don't forget to pick up your ticket for this year's Spark! Party. This year's party is on Wednesday, December 5. Tickets are available at the front desk for $75. You can check out PittsburghPrideSpace.com to see photos from last year's party. This year's event features the funny and charming Johnny McGovern. You can get a preview of Johnny's very gay brand of humor all Thanksgiving day. He'll be hosting the “Big Pimpin' Thanksgiving” on the Logo network.

Oh – about Mr. Perfect. I got pissed off because he didn't seem interested, so I decided to spend those ten minutes with Mr. Sure Thing. When I was walking back to my locker afterwards, Mr. Perfect invited me back to his room. Because I'd given an Oscar-worthy performance just five minutes earlier, my run with Mr. Perfect was cut short by technical difficulties. I sheepishly ducked out of Mr. Perfect's room and headed for the stud that never lets me down: the Burger King. And even though it wasn't quite what I'd imagined, I ended up getting the Whopper I wanted all night long.

A note about Mr. Sure Thing: Although he may not be the man of your dreams, keep in mind that you're his Mr. Perfect.

Happy Thanksgiving!

TowelBoy