Ben In LA
Latest Update: June 28, 2004

OUT THROUGH THE IN DOOR

Sunday night I went to the final party for the OutFest, the 22nd L.A. Gay and Lesbian Film Festival sponsored by HBO, Absolut Vanilla, the DGA, Avis, the Advocate and, humorously, Tylenol PM. This was a last-minute deal and I wasn't sure what the party was all about or what I would do there and despite all my years and experience I was a little uneasy about being out of place. But what the hell. I’d been surfing Malibu all day and this party was between the beach and home. There might be free drinks and puu-puus to cap a lovely summer’s day, and who was it that said "You can't know too much about the human condition?" That was my mantra.

The party was at the Spider Club, on Vine across from the Capitol Records building. A valet out in the street with a Spider Club sign helped me dodge the $15 parking fee by pointing to some parking spots right there in the street: "See those LA DOT bags over the parking meters? That's from a movie shoot. You can trust me. I wouldn't lie to you. How about a tip?" he smiled through some pretty bad teeth. I gave him a three-dollar bill.

So I parked and threw on my black Armani battle jacket and walked up to the entrance thinking, "What is a straight 40-something doing at this alternative bacchanal?"

"My friend Larry is a photographer," I told the doorman. "He invited me at the last minute."

The doormen waved me through to the stairs and I walked up, rudely not making eye contact with anyone, and, for once, feeling nicely out of place.

Larry was up there with his camera by his side and a grimace on his face and we were both early. It was 9:30 PM on a Sunday night and the Spider Club was a glass half full or half empty, depending on how you look at things. The crowd at that point was mostly sleek and chic 20-somethings, looking good, dressed nice, with more men than women and a lot of pretty hot women.

I thought of a bumper-sticker: “Chicks dig me because I’m gay.”

The Spider Club is not that big and would fill up fast so I wandered around and cased the place while it was still possible to move and breathe. The club has a sort of Casbah look with lots of sofas and settes tucked away in dark corners, and altogether clean but not well-lighted. Another room opened up as the people filed in, and I grabbed a seat at a table with an ice water and a cardboard carton of hot wings and made eye contact with an issue of Flaunt Magazine.

I watched the people come and go, ate the hot wings and fulfilled my destiny as a trained observer. I don't know what I was expecting, but this wasn't what I expected. This looked like any night anywhere in Los Angeles-could have been the Bar Marmont on a Saturday or the Viceroy on a Friday. It was a fairly typical crowd of hipsters, schmoozers and wannabes. Cell phones, cleavage, air-kissing. You know.

There were no live sex acts on stage, although I did see one man rubbing the leg of another man, and I also noticed that when men shook hands they did it for a long, long time. At some point a tall, well-built, mostly naked man walked past wearing a loin cloth, body paint, a long knife and a Trojan helmet but that was as blue as it got.

I was alone at my table until a Super Fly young African man sat down wearing a red huggy bear hat. He had a woman with him who couldn't eat the buffalo wings because she was vegetarian.

Huggy Bear said, "You have beautiful hair," and I pulled a Richard Pryor line from Silver Streak: "That's a bad hat, how much you want for it?" And from there we got along like ebony and ivory, and shared the hotwings.

They both were nice and asked if I had seen any of the movies and I said I hadn't had they? They had seen some of the shorts and recommended checking out some comedy skits on the Internet at www.prettythingsss.com.

Occasionally Larry passed by with his camera, looking for the Von Dutch guy or the sponsors from Skyy Vodka. He looked like he needed one of those Tylenol PM.

The room filled up with every passing minute and occasionally someone would bring the hot wings or vegetarian sushi for the vegan at the table. I tried both and drank a lot of water because this was a full room on a summer night in July.

As the room filled with people it also filled with music, and hats off to whoever was spinning them that night, as it was mostly 70s and 80s "old school" soul and funk: Bill Withers, Dobie Gray, Hot Chocolate, Earth Wind and Fire.

Rap kids these days just don't know what they missed.

And then, just like that, it was over, at least for me. Larry came by looking exasperated and I said, "New York is sooo cool." He cracked up and said, "OutFest? That's right, I'm outta here."

As I got up Huggy Bear said, “So soon? These parties don’t get rolling until after midnight.”

I said, “But it’s a school night!” and he smiled sweetly.

I walked down the steps still not making eye-contact. There were now two well-built young men in body paint and loin cloths at the top of the stairs. They said goodbye and thank you by laying on hands from behind in a way that felt like a reverse frisking. Down the steps and into the fresh air, there was a big line of people eager to get in and I felt good that I had freed up a spot. It was only 11:30, the night was well hung, I mean, young.

I had a green wristband on that would let me back in, but I slipped it off and gave it to a cross-dresser who looked like a combination of Perry Farrell and Pat Nixon. He tried to give me a kiss, but I said I had to go.