Guest Star: Dario Dalla Lasta

I could go on and on about how much I love and respect Dario, but instead I will sum up my feelings for him in one sentence:

DARIO IS COOLER THAN BATMAN.

There, I said it. Now, without further ado, Dario!

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I love sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll, it’s true, but that’s probably obvious.

After all, I’ve been a fixture on the NYC nightlife scene for 15 years. Yes, I started dancing as a go-go boy at 38 years old, what of it? I also became a deejay at 40 known for playing “cock rock and pussy pop.”

There’s even a logo to prove it:

Yep, I’m a late bloomer.

Thanks, Oleander, for putting that gorgeous banner together for my website! Besides being one of my favorite writers, she’s a supremely talented graphic designer and website builder as well, which you can ogle over at her Pretty Poison Graphics site (shameless plug, please check it out here). She completely turned my website around, changing it from embarrassingly amateur to an embarrassment of riches. I’m still blown away by it.

But enough of her, I’m the guest blogger here!

In keeping with the rock and roll theme, I’ve decided to indulge you with a story regarding a decadent time of my life, namely, 2002. During that year, I composed a weekly diary of nearly everything I did in Manhattan and, let me tell you, I did a shit-ton of hedonistic things. At the end of the year, I compiled everything into a book I entitled “Extreme Indulgence: A Diary of New York City Nightlife (February 2002 – February 2003)—One Man’s Extraordinary Yet Everyday Experiences With Dance Clubs, Corruptible Minors, and X-rated Alcoholic Drinks.”

Could I have picked a longer title?

Anyway, I privately published it through Lulu.com, complete with a 12-page Appendix, and gave out copies to all of the guilty parties involved.

Here’s just a sampling of one week in September 2002 when I hung out with an underage cross-dresser, met Alan Cumming at a book signing, and had an unusually sweaty armpit.

“My Left Pit”: A Diary Entry from September 6-9, 2002

By Dario Dalla Lasta

For some reason lately, my left armpit has been sweating.

It’s really weird. My right pit seems fine. The left one, however, is causing some concern. Normally I’m not a sweaty person by nature. During our horrendous streak of heat waves this summer in New York, I was sticky and uncomfortable but never outright sweaty. That seems to be changing.

For instance, let’s take tonight (Monday, September 9^th). After work, I hop on the downtown N/R train to attend a book reading and signing by actor-cum-novelist Alan Cumming at Barnes & Noble on 23^rd Street and Sixth Avenue.

Yes, I’ll grant that it is hotter today than yesterday; and yes, I’m in so-called “work” clothes. But are these valid reasons for starting a brand new perspiration pattern? I wouldn’t think so.

What happens is that once Alan reads three short excerpts from his delightful debut Tommy’s Tale and indulges in a brief Q & A session, we line up for him to sign our hardback copies.

As I inch closer to him, my left pit begins slowly dripping down my side. Perhaps it’s some sort of nervous reaction wherein when I’m in the presence of a famous actor, a previously unknown sweat gland located solely in my left armpit is thereby triggered.

When I feel the first drop roll down, I’m surprised. After all, I’m just going to say hello, give him my name to inscribe, say a little bon mot, and that’s it. What’s the big deal? Believe you me, I’ve met much bigger celebrities than Alan Cumming without having a leaky armpit.

Yet it still trickles down.

So while I chat briefly with Mr. Cumming as he signs my book, I realize two things: he is absolutely adorable in person, and the spigot in my left armpit is turned on. High. I can tell Alan is proud and a bit taken aback that I have already read his book, which makes my normally pale face a bit flushed. A compliment and his dimples can do that. Lighting up a cigarette outside afterwards, I can’t help noticing that my armpit is flushed as well. Yuck. Only then do I remember that this strange, physical reaction happened to me last night as well. Hmm, something fishy is going on.

Sunday night (September 8^th), I’ve completed a three-mile run through Central Park, rigorously finished both my 8-Minute Abs and 8-Minute Arms workout DVD, and am indulging in a congratulatory smoke in my hand-painted rocking chair by the window of my 57^th Street studio apartment. Even though I didn’t break a sweat, I showered anyway so am fresh as a spring meadow flowered with cheap Rite-Aid soap. My plans with John have fallen through (more on that later), so I’m just chilling at home, reading Stephen King’s description in On Writing of his accident with the blue van in the Maine ditch that almost killed the prolific son of a bitch, when the phone rings.

Surprise, my underage friend Harry wants to go out. “Sure,” I reply per usual. After all, I’m still fresh as a virgin’s pussy on a cool October morn. Not even a hint of sweat hovers over me. After a cursory glance through my closet, I slip on a tight pair of Helmut Lang jeans, a maroon tank top, and my new Converse high-tops emblazoned with flames (and if you call me a flamer, I’ll kick your ass).

Everything’s still hunky dory in the problem area. Until the subway.

On the air-conditioned N/R train downtown, a pesky dribble of sweat crawls down the inner side of my left arm. What is this shit, I inquire silently as I swipe the tiny bead off. No more, I sternly warn my left pit; just dry up and shut up.

But at Global 33 on Second Avenue in the East Village where Michael T. is spinning glam rock tunes and I’m imbibing a $3.00 cosmopolitan (Carrie and the girls from Sex and the City should know about this deal), it happens again. My left armpit releases a drop of sweat in the middle of a dainty slurp. At this point, I’m ready to bludgeon my own arm or at least splash a dab of liquor up there. Yet when Harry shows up, I either forget about it or am too entranced to even notice. I mean, Harry looks like a white-winged dove, like a very young Stevie Nicks—he’s wearing a sexy black shawl-like shirt, sprayed-on jeans, and stilettos, and he’s also rockin’ new blonder-than-blonde tresses that fall down the back of his skinny, six-foot-something frame.

He’s like Wicca Woman.

Luckily, the rest of the night is uneventful in that area (we’re talking armpit). Harry and I catch up over the past week, meet some boys, and have a little fun. I flirt with this guy Ron—one of the promoters of Club Motherfucker with Michael T.—who is rocking a simply darling Boy Scout uniform. He then tells me he was the one last week at the Motherfucker party covered in fake blood and wearing monstrous platform boots. “That was you?” I squeal, belying my 38 years of breeding. I act younger than this kid, who must be all of 22.

Anyway, Harry and I leave just when it’s getting revved up, do not ask me why. As we step outside, it quickly becomes apparent that the East Village is inexplicably and completely deserted. In fact, it’s almost eerie. Where the hell is everyone? It’s only 1:15am on a Sunday night. I thought this was the city that never sleeps.

Apparently, it does.

We check out The Hole on 2^nd Street and Second Avenue (closed!) then go next door to Urge since Harry has to pee. This place is creepy and weird and has the oddest mix of people. At least gay porn is playing on the video screen. After my own bathroom break to relieve my bladder of the $4.00 Sour Berry martini special, I walk out to see a guy emerging from some dark room hidden behind an old red velvet curtain. Oh, there must be an illicit backroom here, just like in the golden days of yore! Although titillated, the thought of pitch-black, anonymous sex with the likes of these patrons gets me dizzy and nauseous. Well, it’s either that or the disgusting martini.

Reunited again, Harry and I depart (P)Urge and hot-foot it over to Fez Under Time Café at Lafayette and Great Jones for their gay Sunday night celebration called Sheik, only to find out that they are closing for the night too. Huh? We’re advised that DJ Girlina has, like Elvis, already left the building, and glimpse only a handful of stragglers left paying the bartender. Harry and I both sigh with defeat before heading our separate ways for the night. He jumps into a cab amidst a swirl of fringe and blond hair as I trudge to the desolate subway for the ride uptown with only one damp armpit to keep me company. While staring at my reflection in the train’s window, I wonder what the night would have brought if John and I had gone out. Unfortunately, he canceled on me due to the big “New York New York” concert at Webster Hall that he had procured VIP tickets for, starring Nina Hagen, the Toilet Boys, Theo from the Lunachicks, Ari Up from the Slits, and the Dazzle Dancers. Lucky bastard.

Speaking of John again, on Friday night, September 6^th (do you like how I’m working backwards here? It’s so Memento of me) I’m at The Hole, of course, since it’s my ritual to hear redheaded DJ Corey Tut rock my world every week. However, I’m also here for another reason that may just shock your pants off.

I’m meeting someone.

Someone I don’t know.

Someone I’ve only corresponded with through the online Time Out New York personals.

Yes, kids, I’ve been playing online at work and while I know that’s not kosher, it’s too much decadent fun. Here’s what you do: you set up a profile, post a few cute pics and a description of yourself in a pithy little nutshell and, if people like what they read, they can contact you. It’s kind of a trip going online, reading everyone’s shit, and checking out the photos. There’s something sneaky about it that turns me on. I think most guys are looking for dates, it doesn’t seem to be a sex thing, and hey, I’m in the market now, so what have I got to lose? (If you said “Nothing,” I like you; if you said my dignity with a smirk, keep reading.)

Some guy actually contacts little old me on Thursday, writing, “I like your profile. Check mine out and hit me back if you’re interested.” Yes, he actually wrote “hit me back.” How studly is that? Fingers typing with excitement, I click on stag16nyc’s profile to discover he is 33 years old and kind of hot looking. Alas, he doesn’t sound too intellectually stimulating and is only 5’7” tall. That means he stands five long inches below me. Great, he’s dumb and short. But like I said, kind of hot looking.

So I write back.

And that’s how I end up here at The Hole, waiting for a total stranger and showing off the new tattoos coursing down my entire right arm by sporting a white tank top that has BOYSCOUT printed across the chest. (Yes, this is before I meet Ron in the Boy Scout uniform at Global 33.) Since I told my blind date I’d be wearing this conspicuous article of clothing, I figure that he’s gotta spot me.

Instead, I see my friend John walk in and make a beeline toward me and my Razberi Stoli and 7-Up. John is short in stature too, but really hot; and not too stupid, either. I met this fine young specimen at the Pop Rocks party a while back while ordering drinks from his boyfriend Jorge in the upstairs bar. Interesting note: Jorge just served me my cocktail here at The Hole as well, so I guess he gets around. Which probably explains why John is here. Um, can I go back to Pop Rocks for a moment, please? I mean, that’s a really sordid story, all about a chance encounter between two guys who meet, dig each other, make out, and then do nasty things in the men’s bathroom. All under the watchful gaze of the bartender boyfriend. Did I say sordid?

Jorge seems pretty nice to me at this point, even when John practically runs into my arms and exclaims, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Even though he acts a little embarrassed by this outburst, I’m quite pleased and express it by giving him a chaste little kiss. I must have glanced a bit in Jorge’s direction after this public display of affection because John adds with a flip of his hand, “Oh please, we broke up. Besides, I think he’s sleeping with Corey.” Dear sweet Jesus, the agony and the ecstasy of it all! I mean, that just reinforces my belief that my favorite deejay Corey is a big old slut and will never, ever, ever be mine all mine. On the converse, it also means that John is now a free man.

Without thinking twice, I leave my easy-to-spot barstool to hang with John and his gaggle of friends at the opposite end of the bar. Oops, I’m supposed to be waiting for a blind date, remember? Okay, I know I’m not situated right in front of the bar anymore and am also thoroughly engrossed in conversation and vodka, but still—I’m the only one in there with a friggin’ white tank top on that reads BOYSCOUT. And the bar is small. Still, there’s no sign of stag16nyc (aka Steven).

Am I being stood up? Who knows.

Who cares?

I should probably feel humiliated but actually, to be honest, I don’t really give a damn. I guess he never showed up or he walked in and couldn’t find me or he took one look at me and hightailed it out of there. Whatever the reason we don’t meet, I end up winning. Not only did I put myself on the line (pat on the back), I also got a real date out of it (little hottie John).

Now, don’t get your hopes up that dear old Dario finally got some booty. Au contraire. John leaves the bar by 2:00am as he has a 7:00am call as a hair stylist on an H&M photo shoot Saturday morning. I, of course, being the drunken mess that I am, stay at the bar until about 5:00am with DJ Corey Tut, but that’s another story altogether.

And would you believe it? After hours of drinking, smoking, dancing, kissing, and just plain hanging out at The Hole, my left pit is totally dry.

Go figure.

***

Someday, I am going bar-hopping with Batman, I mean Dario, and hear more of his stories and possibly get him to teach me to go-go dance. We will stay up all night swapping manly stories and in the morning, we’ll go to Waffle House. (Do they have those in NYC?) You can read more about the dashing Dario at his blog and I demand you follow him on Twitter. Dario is a super fantastical writer and you can check out his books here and here.

And for those of you who thought I was kidding: