Friday Night Frights — Will McNair

Oct 25

Oct 25 Friday Night Frights

Friday nights are the toughest. Where Sophia gave Dorothy no rest in pointing out the lack of a date on Saturday nights, my mind gives me absolute hell on Fridays for my lack of any kind of life off mine or Bestie’s couch. An absolute devastation, given Friday nights throughout my adulthood being Legend!

In my twenties, most Friday nights were spent with my best gay Judys at Krash NYC, aka Club Krash, the hottest Latino & Black gay club in Chelsea, and BOY did we have a time! We’d arrive cost-effectively early and stood in line for free-before-10:00 entry and half-priced drinks, on humid summer and snowy winter nights, wearing the latest business-casual wear standard for clubbing in the early-to-mid 2000’s. My H&M, Express, or Armani Exchange button-down fragrant with Cool Water cologne, we’d enter the first floor of the club embraced by the thumpa-thumpa of Latin or Black house music and the warmth of a LaRitza Dumont “Ooo shit,” an Anthony Lamont “Yaaas, Honey,” or a Tyra Allure “Welcome!” Heaven. I can still see my friend T immediately stomping a catwalk, dress shoes clanking on the dancefloor, arms wide open in a Diana Ross twirl as if this was the first time that week he’d been able to be himself. I would go straight to the bar for an X-Rated and Sprite to loosen my typically tightly-wound self, immediately followed by locating either of my two favorite go-gos dancing atop the bar to happily and virginly bestow my rent money upon his person while I waited for the R&B/Hip Hop room to open downstairs. We spent most of our Friday nights in the club basement, sweating our clothes out dancing to “Oye Mi Canto,” “Goodies,” “Lose My Breath,” and every other hit the DJ ignited to test our stamina and lung capacity. The banquettes-to-ceiling mirror walls that lined the room would literally sweat from the heat of the gyration and perspiration off our packed hundred or so bodies. I don’t care what club you find yourself in today… NOTHING comes close to the fun that was had in da clurb back in the 2000’s and before. These kids now are too busy trying to look cute for the internet, while we…are grateful there were no high-res camera phones.

Thirty-something Will has only one thing to say about Friday nights: Boxers! Growing up I watched “Cheers” often thinking, “That must be nice…a place where everyone knows your name and they’re always glad you came.” Little did I know I would find such a place in 2010: a freshly-opened gay sports bar, also in Chelsea NYC, named for the attire donned by the boys slinging the drinks. My favorite tender was a beautiful twenty-something Puerto Rican Papi (what is wrong with me?!) named Moises, who slung so much more than my vodka soda or old fashioned. Within a year’s time I could show up to Boxers on any given night and have my pick of guys behind the bar who knew me by name, would greet me upon entering, and often comped me drinks on busy nights when I’d pop in needing to get out of the apartment. Somewhere inside commiserating every Friday with the bartenders, me taking the edge off the work week and them slicing limes ahead of a busy evening, I became a regular. No luck outside of free drinks, though; most of the bartenders were straight, which I find incredibly unfair. Why would you blueball me like that? Not once did I get to so much as lay my eyes on any of the bounty of Thanksgiving-carrots dangling in front of me every week. *sucks teeth* Bullshit.

Anyway, Friday nights. There were a handful of glorious years, between 2010 and 2016, where just about every Friday I would arrive at Boxers after work, around 5:30, and stay until at least 10pm. I had a whole gang of folks who would come revolving through, all looking to drink and dance away the stresses of our day jobs and lives. When I arrived, I would gather high-top tables and chairs in “our spot,” for I knew, without a doubt, there’d be at least five of us, and I waited, chair-dancing with my old fashioned and uselessly flirting with Moises, while I watched people filter in and fill the space. Happy Hour was a two-for-one-until-eight rowdy time full of booze, brick oven pizza, music, dancing, catching up with friends, and ogling boys – even flirting when I could summon the courage. I generally have no game, but my “flirting” at that time was particularly sad. I have always been a proponent of achieving self-actualization, and I’d use that as my entry into men’s hearts and pants.

I would approach a guy I was interested in, comment on a piece of clothing or accessory he was wearing, introduce myself, asking his name, drink of choice, and occupation, and then, where a normal person would respond a simple, “Cool,” moving on to a sexier topic, I would offer a philosophical question. “Do you enjoy that work,” I would ask? “Does it bring you joy? Is it your passion? What is your passion? What have you always dreamed of doing,” I would pry? In a bar. Whiskey-drunk and horny, the tunes of Neyo, Britney, and Beyonce drowning the gist of most of what I was saying. Calling myself trynna get some dick by “setting myself apart.” Jesus. I’m so sorry to those men. No wonder I haven’t been laid in a decade. And yet, despite the lack of game or play, the polite responses to my prying before walking away, or the pleadings from friends to fucking stop, I had a blast almost every single Friday night and especially on my birthdays, when I would commandeer a full section of the bar to dance the night away with tens of friends and acquaintances. What BIG FUN we had! Damn, I miss those days. Shoutout to Boxers NYC, man, and the OG bartending squad!

These days Friday nights are trials of survival. No bars where the tenders know my name; no clubs where the go-gos know my generosity; no close friends with whom I can dance until dawn. It sucks. I know I’m older now, with a body and temperament unconducive to partying every Friday, but some regular weekly, or even bi-weekly, excitement would be nice. I have been back in LA, struggling through setting a foundation and rebuilding a life, the entirety of my forties. Admittedly, it wasn’t so bad in the beginning. That first year back, when the excitement of my return was brimming, I had a lot of fun catching up with folks, hitting WeHo with visiting friends and toasting with Bestie and others to the streets of Los Angeles no longer being safe. The folks I caught up with went back to their lives, often forgetting to include me or respond while making plans inside their fully-baked friendships, then my own life got in the way, and now…it’s me and the couch with wine or an old fashioned, half watching television and half liking photos of near naked dudes (thankfully, now varied from just Puerto Rican) on Instagram. In my late thirties, when the joy of Boxers began to wane, Friday nights became evenings where I’d have friends over, or they would, me, for dinner, drinks, music, conversation, and maybe a movie. It was grown-adult fun and I lived for it, delighting in a camaraderie similar to a Nancy Meyers suburban quartet of friends; only in Brooklyn. And Black. And poor.

I have hope for that camaraderie finding me again, albeit in much wealthier state. Gay dudes in LA, at least the ones I’ve met, don’t seem to enjoy or be interested in hanging out at the crib simply enjoying each other’s company. “What are we gonna do, braid our hair,” I read in the group chat once at the suggestion? Yikes. But that’s okay. There are people somewhere in this city with whom I will vibe and can build strong, long-lasting, friendships, and I intend to find them. Friday nights won’t always be so scary and sad. I have made a commitment to getting outside, and by doing so and talking to people – like a normal person, not some damn life guru – I shall eventually make some great friends and find myself on Friday nights cozy at my homies’ with my Judys, gasping for air during fits of laughter over wine, pies, and tales of our shenanigans and idiocy. Soon come, Will. Soon come. And when it happens...take more pictures!