Losing your shirt is a stupid cliché to use in reference to an underwear party like Nardi Gras, the gay Mardi Gras fete organized by New York’s dirtiest men, Daniel Nardicio and DJ Adam. But since I’m that kind of asshole, I did just that, at the end of the party right before I was leaving! Luckily I kept my pants on—and was one of the few who did.
Entering the soiree’s secret location (an East Village storefront) with my cohort, a young gent clad in black Armani briefs tossed us garbage bags (“mandatory clothes check!”) and marked our forearms with giant numbers, 109 and 110.
Moving in, I caught a glimpse of two go-go boys slathered in body paint, wagging their junk at a crowd of mostly over-forties in sagging but festive briefs. Toward the back, a third dancer stood on a stage, sipping a drink and nonchalantly tugging at his denuded crotch.
Breaking my gaze, I wandered over to chat with Nardicio, who spoke to me about the experience of working with Levi Johnston and his career in dirty parties. “Initially I didn’t intend for these things to be sex events, just an open-minded space where people don’t feel inhibited or constrained by rules.” Yeah, right.
“As for Johnston, he was such a polite and earnest guy, but if we didn’t have Playgirl there’s nothing we have in common to talk about. Of course, we would have preferred full frontal shots but I’m happy with the results we got, not to mention the political impact it had,” he said before pausing to hug a naked 20-year-old. “Plus,” he continued, “it opened up all sorts of doors for me: the people at NBC and all of these newspapers keep telling me to keep in touch!”
Speaking of touch, I felt oddly conflicted about keeping my pants on in this crowd of fancy underwear: Christian Andrew, 2(x)ist, Dolce & Gabbana.
And as I was scribbling in a notepad, Guy #128—a redhead named Max wearing black Bjorn briefs—told me that my wearing pants was “akin to the choices that anthropologists have to make during field studies.”
I almost dropped my pen. “Did you just say ‘anthropologist?’” I asked.
“Yeah. You should read Margaret Mead Made Me Gay, it fleshes out some of these theories better than I can explain.”
All of my blood drained into a newly formed erection. “Did you just recommend a book to me at this party?!” I almost yelled. “Can I get your number?”
Meanwhile, outside of the bathroom, a crew of aging hipster was grouped together like wildebeests, mimicking the animal behavior of sniffing each other’s crotches.