Taste the Rainbow

My cousin texted me last week, asking me to blog about a practice he’d recently heard about: vajazzling. Now, if you think I’m going to devote a section of my blog to an exceedingly odd process of body decoration…




OK, this is too twisted not to comment on. Vajazzling is, um, how to describe this? Vajazzling is when a woman covers her Ho-Ho in a sparkling array of colorful sprinkles.



OK, seriously – how can this be fun for anyone? Are the lady parts really so uninteresting to look at that they require being painfully adorned with sequin or glass crystals? I know I’ve never shown much interest in that particular anatomical feature, but it’s not because it needed to be decorated like a cheap Mexican restaurant.



And I can’t believe this is painless. I don’t know if they get implanted with some sort of stapling device like a Bedazzler, or an adhesive like a hot glue gun – but it can’t be comfortable. And what about for guys? Does any man want to trade a soft landing for a shot at road rash? Ladies – if this is what turns your guy on, let him suck on a Christmas ornament and rub his dick with sandpaper – but don’t turn your hoo-hoo into a kaleidoscope.



Call me old fashioned, but I’m perfectly satisfied with plain old sodomy.

Anyway – I have lots to tell you all from the weekend, but first – a quick review. I was out in California last week and got to visit the Viceroy Hotel, at the edge of Santa Monica, just barely out of Venice. The lobby is done in that very retro-70s-updated thing that a lot of the Morgans properties (the Mondrian) have done. All very baroque and patterned with the white leather and the very lounge-y, lounge-y thing going on. It works – but only in Florida or southern California . It helps if everyone around you is pretty, under 30, and gorgeous.



The hotel is right across the street from the beach (and a restaurant called Capo, which I ate at about 2 years ago, and has the honor of being one of the most expensive places I ever ate. It was good, but not good enough for the prices they charged. Skip it, and go up the block to Chez Jay – a true “dive” – still around from the 50s. It’s an Italian seafood restaurant – you can smell the garlic from the street and practically envision Sinatra and Dean-o sitting in a booth holding court and drinking scotch.)



Anyway, we ate at Whist, in the Viceroy. A limited menu, but superb, with a focus on fresh fish. My sea bass was excellent - well-cooked and flavorful - and one of my dinner companions had the halibut, which he said was equally good. He was a little fart-y the next day, but he blames that on the beet salad, so maybe skip that and get the burrata, which is served with a bread salad and cherries. Not cherry tomatoes, but actual cherries. Yum.



We sat outside, in a pool area filled with little nooks and private seating areas. It’s a total L.A. experience.

I arrived home to a busy weekend: Saturday we had a graduation party for Neil’s cousin’s son up in Westchester, and Sunday was Gay Pride.



We took the Metro-North up to Katonah for the graduation party. I thought it was a little weird that they threw the party on a Saturday night – wouldn’t the kids want to be with their friends, rather than family? I associate Sundays with family celebrations – but, what do I know? This particular cousin is a Jehovah Witness, so maybe they don’t go out on Saturday nights? Or they get up early on Sundays so they can go knock on doors? Whatever – I just hoped there was alcohol, otherwise it was going to be a long night spent nibbling on cheese and sneaking off to send text messages to my girlfriends.



Fortunately, when we got there, the place was awash in liquor. Unfortunately, the hors' d'euvres consisted off one vegetables tray with some ranch dressing and a small bowl of Tostitos Scoops. For 25 people. For 2 and a half hours. By the time dinner made it to the table, Neil and I were plastered.



He spent most of the night talking to his late uncle’s first wife, as well as her sister who was wearing what appeared to be a one-piece bathing suit with a pair of shorts. Oh – and high-heeled sandals with rhinestones. Really, the only accessory she was missing was a bowl of fruit on her head.



I spent the night talking to his cousin’s daughter’s boyfriend’s parents. They were very nice, and are clearly close in age, despite the fact that, in appearance, he seems to be 20 years older than she. She meanwhile, kept talking about several guy friends that she spends time with, leading me to wonder if there are a lot of gays up in Columbia County (she could totally hang with the ‘mos) or if she’s getting a bit on the side. This idea amused me as I continued to get drunker and drunker.

Oh – and have you ever heard of people barbecuing with aluminum foil on the grill? I’m not talking about wrapping fish or corn or something that might be too delicate for the grill, but hot dogs, hamburgers and chicken. The result was that the fat didn’t burn off onto the coals, but pooled right there under the food, resulting in an effect similar to boiling. Or poaching. Barbe-poaching. Everything grilled in its own fat.



And before we ate, a group prayer was conducted. I don’t really mind brief, overt displays of religiosity like this. I really respect people who have that kind of faith – they seem to have a sense of peace about them (those who haven’t let it slide all the way from peace into self-righteousness, indignation or smugness.) I just wish they had prayed for a better meal. (This isn’t entirely fair: the pasta salad – which was basically penne, basil, tomatoes, mozzarella, garlic, salt and olive oil – was outstanding.)



Fortunately I had a bag of licorice in my bag for the ride home.

On Sunday, we celebrated Gay Pride – or, as I like to call it, Gay Shame. I’m sorry – but this thing just feels like a relic to me at this point. I don’t really like parades to begin with, and don’t really need to stand on a hot, humid street corner watching Dikes on Bikes and four hours of clubs and organizations like the Gay Dominicans from Yonkers. Plus, the city gets overrun with a bridge and tunnel crowd, you can’t get around easily, and a bunch of sweaty, tweaked-out freaks is not my idea of a good time.



Still, the boys wanted to get together for brunch, which seemed harmless enough. Neil and I both had such a hangover that a Bellini or two was just what the doctor ordered (seriously, it’s only a matter of time before I’m forced to re-name this column: Mean Gay Drunk.) Another friend of ours stopped by briefly – long enough to tell us about the party he went to on Governor’s Island the night before – a new event for Pride week.



Apparently, “everybody” was there. “It was like they took all the gay boys from Fire Island and combined it with all the gay boys from the Hamptons!” This sounds like a riddle. What do you get?



Ummm, I don’t know? In island full of the same obnoxious drugged out middle aged homos I ignore on non-holiday weekends?



Oh no! I’ve missed the gay social event of the season. (Ack. Ugh. Wretch.)



But, after brunch, a trip to the parade was, dispiritingly, inevitable. We managed to hang out for half an hour or so, then head over to some party the guys had gone to the previous year.



This was the strangest party I ever attended. It was in a very nice apartment in the West Village, and, in the midst of cocktails, crudite, and a very nice cheese plate, some boy was getting tied up and stripped.

Ok, look. Now that I’m married and almost 40, a sex party isn’t my thing – but I’m not shocked by them. And it’s not like I might not find it an appealing novelty if I were younger and single – but this wasn’t even a sex party. It wasn’t like some Colt or Mustang video – all dark and porn-y. It was someone’s apartment living room, with a naked boy in rope being groped desultorily while the rest of us sort of ignored it, except when we were debating the relative wisdom of eating the grapes.



So, another weekend down. I hope you enjoyed the stories, because experiencing it – let’s just say I wasn’t Vajazzled.