FRIDAY NIGHT

On a recent Friday night in New York City, four single gay men noshed on salads and gossip at HK in Hell’s Kitchen.

HK in Hell’s Kitchen

It wasn’t long before we began giggling and speaking in hush-tones about our favorite topic: sex.

Will whipped out his iPhone to show off photos of his new dildo. Housed in a velvet-lined case the size of a small ottoman, the dildo stands erect when the case is opened, like a pop-up book. Will’s eyes twinkled with excitement as he shamelessly flipped through the photos. “Will,” I said. “From here on out, I shall call you Wildo!”

“Honey, Everyone should own a dildo.”

“I’ve never even had anal sex,” said Kristoff. “The closest I’ve gotten was a finger up my ass.”

“In public,” snapped Phillip.

I looked around the restaurant. “Is that John Leguizamo?” I asked, nodding to a nearby table.

The Pest, er, I mean John Leguizamo

“Yup,” said Phillip. “And, scandal! He’s wearing sweat pants!”

Not impressed with our celebrity sighting, Wildo waved at a handsome Puerto Rican who was seated at the bar. He leaned in and whispered. “That’s Javier. He was at a sex party I went to last month.”

“Nice.” I said, rolling my eyes.

Wildo clutched his chest. “What?! I didn’t sleep with him!” He looked down at his plate and quietly picked at a crouton with his fork.

“What happens at these sex parties?” asked Phillip. “You just walk in and have sex? Is that all there is to it?”

“Pretty much,” said Wildo. “Sometimes there are refreshments.”

“Like what? Crudités?” I teased. “An artisan cheese presentation with fresh fruit garnish?”

“No, silly,” Will said, matter-of-factly. “Like chips and dip and maybe a meat tray or a bag of Oreos.”

The hot Javier passed our table and winked at Wildo. “Wait, I just remembered. I DID have sex with Javier. But just for a couple of minutes. I forgot.”

In a sudden flurry of movement, Kristoff laughed at Wildo and knocked over his glass of water, which startled Wildo, causing a mouthful of hot coffee to spurt out of his nose. Embarrassed, Wildo coughed and hacked and frantically tried to clean the coffee from the table. After he exhausted our table’s supply of napkins he dug into the pockets of his Gucci jacket and pulled out a fistful of yellow napkins.

“Boy, don’t play,” I chided, knocking the bougie Wildo with my elbow. “Those napkins are from Wendy’s. You better recognize.”

“Let’s go ice skating and then get dessert at Serendipity 3,” said Kristoff.

“I can’t go ice skating,” whined Phillip. “My ankles are too delicate.”

“And no one here needs dessert,” I said.

“Oh, come on!” pleaded Kristoff. “I know the host at Serendipity! I can get us a table!”

“Are they even open?” asked Phillip. “Didn’t the city shut them down for roach infestation?”

“Yes, but they’ve re-opened! C’mon, lets go!” Once Kristoff gets an idea in his head, you cannot convince him otherwise, no matter how bad the idea is, like his penchant for Uggs or his obvious wearing of make-up.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m in, but only because it’ll keep me out of Rockbar for the night.”

The four of us piled into a cab and made our way to Serendipity, getting out near Dylan’s Candy Bar.

Dylan’s Candy Bar

“Why’s it so crowded in there?” asked Phillip as we meandered past the window. Suddenly, Kristoff released a shrill, girly squeal.

“Looooooook! It’s Joan Rivers!” We clamored toward the window, and sure enough, there stood Joan Rivers in a full-length fur coat with her manicured hand in a giant jar of Gobstoppers.

The incomparable Joan Rivers

As a bonus, her tight-faced daughter, Melissa, stood at her side, frowning. Surrounding them both was a gaggle of gays and housewives, snapping photos with their cell phones.

Serendipity 3 and not a roach in sight

Of course, there was a three-hour wait for a table at Serendipity 3. We huddled to stay warm while Kristoff flirted with the host to no avail. “How do you know this guy, again?” Phillip asked when Kristoff rejoined us.

“We met at the gym.”

Wildo, Phillip and I shared a knowing glance. “Steamroom!” the three of us simultaneously blurted.

From a sudden commotion at the restaurant’s entrance emerged a large man with a cane, a dark beard and a messy mop of brown hair. It was James Lipton, of In The Actor’s Studio fame.

James Lipton

“Oh, I love him!” I said.

“That bloated booze hound?” asked Kristoff. “John Leguizamo and Joan Rivers don’t impress you, but this guy does?”

I waved at Mr. Lipton and he waved back. “Good evening,” he said. “How are you?” Stunned, I didn’t answer. I was just so thrilled to be asked a question by on of the greatest question-askers of our time.

“Your table is ready,” said the host. With visions of hot fudge sundaes in our mind, we shuffled into the toasty restaurant as Mr. Lipton climbed into a waiting town car that quickly sped down the street with plumes of its exhaust sputtering into the chilly night air.

TO READ MORE ABOUT PHILLIP AND KRISTOFF, CLICK HERE.