Good bye
An Open Letter To Buffalo Gay Bars
Dear Buffalo gay bars,
First, I'd like to thank you for your years of service. From March 23, 1996, when I first stepped foot into my first-ever knob-gobblin' watering hole, to the night I met Ben, to my various birthdays, to each illicit hook-up, to the two instances in which I was totally roofed, your various establishments, designed to lubricate the throats of those who later wish to lubricate elsewhere, have provided adventure, danger, and no shortage of memories.
That said, I think I'm done.
Each trip to the various video, cabaret, and cruising bars comprising Buffalo's low-thread-count tapestry of gay life has been met, since moving away, with diminishing returns. It's no longer quite as fun to play "Count The Hard Rock Cafe Jackets". Drinking a mason jar filled with some rotgut dubbed a "Motherfucker" doesn't quite give me the same charge anymore. And as amusing as tucked-in sweatshirts, blond tips, and the passionate aversion to any body type other than that of a twelve year-old boy is, it's no longer enough.
So carry on, fellas. Continue to pour mixed drinks that would incapacitate a midsized elk. Resume your drag shows featuring performers that at last solve the mystery of what Roseanne's been up to since her talk show got cancelled. But you will now have to sport tapered jeans, weigh a buck twenty soaking wet, and be racist in my absence.
Besides, we all know the hot guys in Buffalo are straight. And we also know just how much they'll be willing to do and how little they'll be able to remember after their thirteenth Jagerbomb. Mary Christmas. And no, I spelled that correctly.
Love ya like a sister who hates ya,
Michael Francis Hartney II
Tags: cockoholick gay queer fag cum cock homo homosexual dick semen jerk off gay orgy erection masturbation
Dear Buffalo gay bars,
First, I'd like to thank you for your years of service. From March 23, 1996, when I first stepped foot into my first-ever knob-gobblin' watering hole, to the night I met Ben, to my various birthdays, to each illicit hook-up, to the two instances in which I was totally roofed, your various establishments, designed to lubricate the throats of those who later wish to lubricate elsewhere, have provided adventure, danger, and no shortage of memories.
That said, I think I'm done.
Each trip to the various video, cabaret, and cruising bars comprising Buffalo's low-thread-count tapestry of gay life has been met, since moving away, with diminishing returns. It's no longer quite as fun to play "Count The Hard Rock Cafe Jackets". Drinking a mason jar filled with some rotgut dubbed a "Motherfucker" doesn't quite give me the same charge anymore. And as amusing as tucked-in sweatshirts, blond tips, and the passionate aversion to any body type other than that of a twelve year-old boy is, it's no longer enough.
So carry on, fellas. Continue to pour mixed drinks that would incapacitate a midsized elk. Resume your drag shows featuring performers that at last solve the mystery of what Roseanne's been up to since her talk show got cancelled. But you will now have to sport tapered jeans, weigh a buck twenty soaking wet, and be racist in my absence.
Besides, we all know the hot guys in Buffalo are straight. And we also know just how much they'll be willing to do and how little they'll be able to remember after their thirteenth Jagerbomb. Mary Christmas. And no, I spelled that correctly.
Love ya like a sister who hates ya,
Michael Francis Hartney II
Tags: cockoholick gay queer fag cum cock homo homosexual dick semen jerk off gay orgy erection masturbation
posted by cockoholick at 10:18 AM
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