Flying the Fagly Skies

“Of course you’d be on this flight, in this line, and bending over in front of me,” said the deep guttural voice of someone who’s spent the past decade or two yelling above circuit speakers as he grinned standing behind me. I stood up with bags of toiletries in hand ready to put them on the conveyor belt, turned around, and saw one of my nearest and dearest circuit friends standing in the next Disneyland style row of lines at the first class security terminal at LAX.

“It has begun,” I said jokingly.
He looked at me and said, “not yet - but soon.”

There is a category in my phone just about everyone. As much as Judith Butler would strike me dead for not putting my studies of Queer Theory to use, I love categories and labels in my phone. It’s just easier to remind myself who the hell people are and what category they belong to when my phone rings with the ring tone assigned for that category of people.

We’ll call my friend James and say that he exists in the CPA category. Some friends see this and wonder why I need so many accountants; I’m comfortable, but not THAT comfortable. Circuit Party Associates. People I meet at events across the country from all around the world who I probably won’t see until the next big party. James lives in LA. We met through a friend over Lunch at the Grove in West Hollywood nearly a year before he hugged me shirtless, sweaty, and bouncing at Twilo in Miami during the White Party there. I had been going to circuit parties and such since I was seventeen and the “Boys Gone Wild twenty-five and under White Party” fiasco, not until I got that hug then did I feel I realized what it was REALLY all about.

I had originally intended to include this in my White Party Entry but giving myself structure that I am doomed never to follow just results in a backlog of unpublished material and fun stories. Now, I’ll try to make it all thematic and post as the muse allows me.

Not that I feel the need to assign blame, but being American and all it’s woven into my nature; blogger.com has inhibited me from posting the blogs I want to because of their interface. I would post more blogs and make them photographically intricate if it weren’t for the dragging the photo from the top of the blog all the way down into the text and then after that readjusting all the text over and over. It’s just too much. I consider myself more than proficient and pretty damned good at figuring out short cuts but I’ve yet to find a away around any of this so if anyone can help.

So with that said, I may just never post pictures again just to make sure I get the text out.

::insert shrill shriek at thought that nobody would actually read this if I didn’t post pictures of Rentboy Owner Tom Weise holding Barrett Long’s cock ever again::

JUST KIDDING. I’ll probably start posts that are just pictures maybe with captions. Everybody wins that way :) So back to the White Party, er the Circuit Party. Thematics!!!

Another distraction, hot guys in the seat behind me “cheers”ing the beginning.
“To the beginning of the end,” I reply back.

That’s what circuit parties are to me. Planning the end and what can be taken away from the experience. The parties are about making new friends, finding community, discovering new cities, having fun. To some, they’re only about the drugs, music, and dancing. To each their own. I stay away from the drugs that are going to damage me permanently and turn me into a zombie that I’ll regret photos of in the morning. Alcohol is just mind altering enough to make me happy and I have my friends – being high on life is the one of the greatest highs of all.

The dancing and the music are always an experience in and of themselves; a sea of gay men, moving together as one – throbbing and pulsing to the music. The music winds down and picks back up after some diva wails causing cheers from the crowd and a renewed second wind commences bringing jumping and arms in the air. The next phase of music begins and the party continues to thrive and throb.

In Faggots, Larry Kramer wrote of the “walking dead” after a weekend on Fire Island as if the end did not justify the means, it was as if the drug usage and the togetherness of a community meant nothing and all he could focus on was how they got there. His inferences discussed a rising epidemic of the AIDS crisis but now a day I’d like to hope people are safer and more conscious of the dangers out there despite their fatigue.

This year, The White Party in Palm Springs was a different experience than it had been in the now five years I’ve been attending. It wasn’t going to none of the parties, it wasn’t going to all of them. It was just being there, bouncing from clique to clique and just having a good time. No schedules, no expectations.

I started the weekend in bed dying. Probably still recovering from the Rentboy Pool Party the weekend before (no that’s not a tease I’ll actually write about it) and dehydrated to holy hell. Thanks to the TLC from my circuit friends who had also arrived to Palm Springs early I was ready to go by Friday morning.

The time in the room sweating bullets gave me a chance to watch the local news and interviews from patrons of the party. They gave me perspective on the aspect that I always thought about but could never put my finger on – Tribal. Ironic that being a “tribe” member in the Jewish sense prevented me from thinking of the word. The gay men as a tribe of people sharing in the same joys, sorrows, and persecutions.

Jeffrey Sanker went on to say that he looked at the White Party in Palm Springs as Gay Spring Break. “They have Cozumel and Daytona, Palm Springs is our time to cut loose.” And when you think about it … aren’t they really the same? A bunch of half naked people dancing on the beach or around the pool celebrating a vacation, a chance to meet cool new people, and have anonymous sex they shouldn’t have to worry about when they get home. Hell, gay spring break is even more accepting considering straight spring break is usually only for college students.

Hearing these opinions and others at a little chat at the Friday pool party, it became apparent that Jeffrey knows what the weekend has always been and continues to evolve to be: a weekend where LA moves to Palm Springs and leaves the LA bullshit where it belongs. And that’s awesome.

Now White Party is about the private parties and groups meeting somewhere beside the gayborhood strip on Santa Monica. The young and pretty mingle with the original “queens of the desert” and everyone just strips off their body armor along with their clothing appreciating their time to spend with their friends.

James was only a few people behind me in line at security, I could only imagine what was in his luggage and was happy to not fear guilt by association. I knew I was fine, (cock-neyed) “I’m a good girl I am!” I managed to pack six days of clothing at a minimum of two costume changes per day into a roller, a duffel and a laptop case. Let’s see if the luggage nazis say anything about three pieces THIS time (they did -– I swear going through the motions is the most idiotic thing in the world). Does me shoving my laptop bag INTO my duffel (not even zipping the duffel mind you) make a frickin’ difference? Apparently it does.

Nevertheless, my heart skipped a beat when I saw TSA’s newest instrument of evil. It reminded me of that “bionic nose tool” from Richie Rich that could figure out what something was based on scent:

(computerized) “Tri nitro toluene.”
“Darling I remember that from chemistry class, isn’t that”
(shrieking) “TNT”

Yeah, and there was Mr. TSA about to open my toiletry bag with poppers in it. He stuck the futuristic looking electronic gun into a small opening of my toiletry bag, released the trigger, and handed it back to me. Apparently the flammable poppers aren’t a threat to anyone or the cap was closed tightly enough. Although I would die laughing if the bottle broke on the plane and everyone started getting REALLY horny.

I decided to wait for James and he verified for me that this flight was “that flight.”

“This is the only non-stop from LAX to Orlando. Otherwise my ass wouldn’t have been up at 5:15 this morning. Every queen in the city coming into Orlando today will be on this flight.”

Sure as hell, ten minutes in the Admiral’s club yielded Brett Henrichsen and Manny Lehman, two of the most highly sought out circuit DJ’s in the world, having wine at seven in the morning. I guess it’s noon somewhere … in the middle of the Atlantic. Soon after and slowly but surely, “they” filed in with their Tumi’s, Louis’, and Prada’s. The traveling circuit queens. Only the best of the best for rollaboards to the elite status qualifying gays.

Chatter about “did you get upgraded? They said first class checked in all 22 full” ensued.

“Shit, why couldn’t I have gone to the Grabby’s last weekend to go from Gold to Platinum,” said one exasperated traveler with Dior Sunglasses on despite the June Gloom in May skies.

“Wouldn’t have done you any good,” started a fellow traveler wearing torn jeans and a fitted tee. “I’m platinum and since I didn’t check in till this morning I am number three on the list.”

James leaned in, “NOW, it has begun. Keep your eyes peeled for claws and hold onto your boarding pass.”

I immediately texted my friend thanking him for sending me an email to check last night which led to a reminder to check in the night before. West Hollywood clones started walking in more and more setting down their luggage for bloody marys and mimosas. Hugs were exchanged among most and it almost seemed like the Admiral’s club was the first venue for the weekend thousands of miles away from host hotel.

We decided to walk to the gate a little early since we knew that overhead space is limited when EVERYONE has packed their luggage into carry-ons and would be storing it in the overhead. They had just called for first and I was approaching boarding pass in hand but was appealed to wait by friends rifling through their bags for slips of paper equitable to their seats on board.

I did my best Miranda Priestly impression and channeled Madame Streep, “Why is no one rea-deee….” trailing off and clicking my tongue.

We had a good laugh and boarded. Shortly after, a very gay purser handed me my first mimosa of what has been sthrees four five (hey, gimme a break it’s a long flight and I had a lot of proofreading) at this point. Oh quiet, NOW it’s 1 PM in Orlando. I mean Manny was drinking at 7:15 PST. C’mon! Was he trying to close the bars in Hawaii or something? Actually with his travel schedule, LAX could have just been a stop on the way to Orlando.

Ahhh the traveling life. The mileage upgrades, the mile high club, the mysteries of why the vacuum in the lavatory is a more efficient hoover than I. I love flying the fagly skies.