February 21, 2011
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BLU.
There are certain nights. There are, nights can just be certain. They happen and you understand why. They are certain.
This was not certain. This was unplanned, off the cuff and totally absurd.
The night starts normally drinks with Derek (abnormalbrain.com). Discussions of politics, relationships and how cool Kojak really was. The setting opens at Nick’s Bar and Cabaret on Millbury St. in Worcester. This is exactly what it sounds like and then it isn’t. The lighting is low and the staff are dressed nice and the music is light and vintage. But then there’s food, heavy, delicious German food. And then there’s beer, heavy, delicious German beer. And then there’s Naragansett as well. A nice starter
While discussing everything under the sun, the fine establishment of 3G’s Sports Bar comes up. Cut to our next stop. To explain this place is to re-paint the Sistine Chapel. It won’t ruin its beauty, for sure, but it will take away from the authenticity. 3G’s is a site to two comedy open mics during the week. One on Tuesday and one on Saturday. There are games to play, like “Spot the Drug Deal” or “Millie.”
“Millie” is my favorite game. There is a not well off woman who walks up and down Millbury St. and sells beaded bracelets and necklaces. Her name is Millie. The game is a lot like hot potato. The loser is the one whose set is interrupted when she comes in to hustle every last one of us.
“One buck!”
“I’m sorry Millie I don’t have a dollar.”
“Oh…one buck?”
“Okay fine.”
That specific night Derek and I came across an interesting situation. There was a prostitute dancing with two men near the Keno register. And from their looks of encouragement to each other and her “seductive” dancing this could be nothing more than a choice contest. These two bought her together and were going to let her decide who will get syphilis at the end of the night.
We moved onto the 9ines practically next door. This place was empty, but were playing The Black Keys and had very cheap beer. The only company Derek and I had was a skinny Philippino man playing an overweight drunk in darts behind us.
It was onto The Hotel Vernon after that. We ran into a mutual friend who said he and a couple others were going to be heading to the gay dance club BLU.
“We’re going,” I said.
“Oh, I know we are,” says Derek.
As we approach the door a transgendered person walks by and give a flirty wink. After the 10 dollar cover and the playful words given to the doorman:
“You’re too strong to just do this.”
“Baby, I need you here more often,” he replies.
As soon as we step in to the actual dance club part of the building the bass quakes in my ribcage. Directly to my left are two oiled men with muscles I didn’t know existed on top of the bar in just white briefs.
There’s a man in a red one-piece lycra getup that knows every word to every song standing next to the DJ. There are every type of human on the floor. Girls, guys, white, black, asian, hispanic, sweaty, hot, ugly, thug, prissy, liberal, conservative. But we’re all staring and dancing. Its great. There’s a shot boy dressed like a Chippendale’s dancer walking around offering. There’s two twinks grinding awkwardly next to me, they look so in lust. I then look at Derek and we both have the same dopey grin on.
As we head over to the bar to get our 7 dollar vodka and tonic. My ass is grabbed, but it seemed that it was out of nowhere. And then there we are at the bar. Balls and dicks just above our foreheads. The old queens who are our bartenders treat it like its business as usual. One of our mutual friends goes to put a dollar in the undergarments of the dancer pretty much on top of us. She does so and then looks at us in disgust.
“What!?” screams Derek.
“My hands are all oily.”
After about a half an hour Lady Gaga dance remix and one of the happiest moments of my life. The show begins: our two bar dancers are now going to put on a choreographed show for us.
There was some of what you’d expect. The 90s boy band choreography, the hip gyrations, the abdominal rubbing and ass-shaking. But then something even those Chinese freaks in Cirque Du Soleil couldn’t do. And even as I write this I realize I honestly can’t give it justice.
In the middle of the arm gestures and hip swaying. The littler of the two jumps in the air and the larger one catches him mid-flight. He then places the littler one’s abs on his head and continues to dance, while the dancer on top is extended straight out like he’s about to take flight with Peter Pan to Neverland.
Not too soon after that, there is a bit of a bustle on the floor. Once I’m able to shut my jaw from being dropped. I look to see what the commotion is. Unfortunately a bit of a fight has broken out. I can see the guy who is throwing the punches get pulled away. The guy getting beaten is on the floor pretty much in the fetal position. His friend is now going after the attacker who has already been pulled away. And I jump in to pull him off, getting two shots in the nose. Security comes in and officially diffuses the situation and the music starts back up again.
The buzzkill is too much. The electricity of the club went out. Derek and I find each other and decide to leave.
It turns out he was the other guy who broke the fight up. We, together, broke that fight up, without either of us really knowing we were going to.
I want to thank Kelley Sq. in Worcester, MA for existing. No other place can start with a German pretzel and end with a euphoric gay experience.
Worcester. It happens.
