The Black Anniversary

This weekend is the annual Saint-At-Large Black Party, the venerable bacchanal held every year to usher in Spring and all things living. Of all the circuit parties, it’s the dirtiest, most fetish-aligned, down-right sex-fueled grouping of them all. Of course this is where Jeff and I met eleven years ago. The swirl of his dad’s death coupled with our over-ten years anniversarishness make strange bedfellows as neither of us feels much like celebrating anything right now, and even barring Death this year, there is the third anniversary of my Mom’s death and the 15th anniversary of my grandfather’s death the next week. Barring all that, Jeff and I gave up the Black Party the year after we met, already sealing our reputations as old, married guys by claiming that the Black Party starts too late, is too expensive, and is just over. Over for us means we just have no interest in keeping up, not that it is in anyway fashionably over. When all else fails, you have the Black Party to instill hope that Spring springs eternal.

I will leave this post referencing the source of my eternal silent stalking quest, Joe My God, who is probably napping at this very moment, getting ready for a leather-clad night with his friends and hopefully has a pencil and paper tucked neatly…somewhere…to take more notes like he did last year. His posting and those he links are well worth the read to get the real feel for the Black Party. All I got out of it was a pretty good LTR.