Talk about a needle in the haystack. I managed to find a top on Christopher Street last night.
My French flight attendant friend, Gilles, was in New York for one day, between flights. Every time someone from out of town is visiting, I try to venture out to bars I never go to (i.e. all bars other than Urge). After a quick cameo at Hangar (not!), we end up at Stonewall (53 Christopher St., between 6th and 7th Ave.), which is apparently "where it all started".
While the clientele was mostly arch-eyebrowed 60-year-olds making cookout plans for their 100th birthdays, the bartender immediately caught our attention. He had "Brooklyn" and "Italian-American" written all over him. We could almost see the white towel hanging on his shoulder, tank top-clad, wiping sweater droplets on his forehead with his coarse hands -- helping his pops at the family pizza joint. The too-manly-to-be-skinny body, the theatrical masculinity, the surprisingly innocent smile, the tacky golden chain. Don't you just love real men?
Gilles doesn't live in New York and I'm just shameless, so we fiercely stare at him until he approaches us and starts talking. Except that a top's conversation is usually limited to "You guys having a good time?", "Where in the city do you live?" and other boring crap. If you say anything outside geographical coordinates they just sort of nod in confusion. Which is totally fine, we don't want them wondering the meaning of life like a New School fag.
So we find out his name is Mike, he is, of course, born and raised in Brooklyn (he probably doesn't even know what SoHo is - hot!), Italian-American (but probably never boarded an airplane) and is 38. Which is ideal -- too old to still be a whore, young enough to make us babies.
And if you're 38 and from Brooklyn and all you've done with your life was cross the river and bartend at Stonewall you are automatically a top! The lack of ambition, the oblivion to anything non-pragmatic, the repulsive shrug at life's more abstract questions -- that's just the definition of manhood.
So he gave me his email address and winked. Who winks in 2007? Only trashy straight guys wink these days, which got him a few extra points. I could already envision our email exchanges. Me, writing a 12-paragraph confessional on how hard it is to exist and digressing on the possible outcomes of our "relationship". Him, a laconic string of words started by "yo", less than two sentences long, ending with "peace", without any punctuation.
Why can't tops punctuate? Why can't tops write emails longer than two sentences? Why don't tops ever change the subject line in their emails? (after the 5th exchange it reads something like "Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: hello there"). And, mostly, why do tops feel the need to SIGN their emails? (as in "jKing" or "-gEasy" or "-KDub"). I recognize the email address, sweetheart, no need for gangsta monikers.
Still, that's what makes them tops: the sheer incapacity to think outside the obvious. Which is totally what us bottoms need, if they ever did consider that which isn't immediately tangible, they'd find out the benefits of bottom-ness and never come back!
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