It was with a toxic mix of boredom, curiosity, invigoration and the pathetic devilishness particular to the elderly that I called Kyle and asked him what he was doing Friday night. "The usual," he said, as though I’d stalked him and knew his routine. (OK, there was a brief period when I had stalked him, but let’s leave that aside.)

"What’s that?" I asked. "Get home around 7, shower, change, meet Robbie for drinks and dinner, and then see what develops. Wanna join us?" In more ways than one, I thought lecherously, but answered, "Sure." Dan was in Duluth – in February! – at an Alzheimer’s conference. "Don’t forget to come home!" I cried after he shut the door on the way out, knowing he wouldn’t deign to unlock the door to reprimand me for my bad taste.

I was in the mood to hang out with youth because I’d picked up a copy of GQ and was shocked to find that I’d heard of none of the people whose handsome faces and superb bodies graced its pages; I knew nothing of the products being touted and advertised; and the recommended hot spots in New York City were as foreign to me as the best places to get grilled yak in Ulan Bator. Where once were my favorite blocks of sleazy sex clubs now stand the showrooms of Stella McCartney and Alexander McQueen. (That particular neighborhood’s name, the Meatpacking District, has remained relevant, however. First it was Manhattan’s slaughterhouse neighborhood, then a place where men inserted themselves into other men, and now it’s where oversized rich women go to squeeze into clothes one size too small.)

Kyle told me to meet him at Naval, a relatively new bar in the far west Hell’s Kitchen. I remembered the block as a wasteland of bus parking lots; now it’s ablaze with soaring rental apartment buildings, thriving restaurants and showy bars, including Naval, with its double theme of sailors and treasure trails, all depicted in giant close-up murals on the walls. By the time Robbie got there it was almost 9 p.m. I was yawning.

"Here," said Kyle. "Drink this." He handed me something he’d gotten from the bartender. I looked at the can. "What’s a Blue Ox?" "It’s an energy drink," Robbie shouted. I took a mouthful and – because it tasted like artificially sweetened crankcase oil pretending to be cola – promptly spat it out on the floor, much to the consternation of the idiot next to me who was wearing shorts and flip flops on a frigid February night and ended up with spat-out Blue Ox all over his shins and feet. "Asshole!" he squealed. I tend to get belligerent when I’m not drunk, so I shoved his shoulders back with both hands and said, "No, you’re the asshole for dressing like you’re in Barbados when in fact you’re in New Friggin’ York in February. Now go poof or I’ll beat the crap out of you, you asinine little twink." He spun around and ran away.

Kyle and Robbie stood in silent amazement for a moment then broke into applause. "Butch!" said Kyle admiringly. "Take me home, Daddy," Robbie mewed. "Just buy me a drink," I replied. "A real one. How about a Salty Dog? You think Louise here knows how to make one?" He didn’t. I instructed him. Commanded is a better word.

The Salty Dog
3 oz. grapefruit juice
3 oz. Absolut vodka
Cut lemon
Salt
Ice, cubes or crushed

Rub the cut edge of the lemon on the rim of a glass, then dip the glass in a plate full of flaked salt. Put the ice in the glass, then add the juice and vodka and stir gently, so as not to disturb the salt on the rim. If the drink is too strong for you, cut it with more grapefruit juice.

Arg! Rum!

Onboard the Neue Weimar, queen of the Deutche-America line: I write this column on the second day of the honeymoon Dan and I never had the chance to take before. We’re on one of those VSOP cruises you’re always seeing ads for – not a Pacifica cruise, the brand aimed at the younger set with ads featuring hairless, Speedoed gym twinks, but a VSOP, the one pitched at those over, um, 40. Well, I am here to tell you that the average gay man over, um, 40 is in no better physical condition and has no flatter abs, nor a firmer rear, than the average straight man over 23. In fact, I’ve never seen a more grotesquely obese shriek of gay men in my life. (Fish swim in schools; gay men move in shrieks.)

Don’t get me wrong: there are plenty of stiffy-worthy hunks aboard. The hormones are raging; the heady whiff of male funk wafts through the corridors like tear gas in Syria. Everywhere you look there’s some shirtless dreamguy with military shoulders and a Peter Pan butt. But the view is often blocked by an elephantine gentleman wearing shorts that could have been sewn together for a circus sideshow with more acreage of naked flesh on his single gargantuan body than on the 10 guys he’s blocking. What is wrong with this country? No, we do not need a breakfast of fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, toast, sausage, waffles with syrup and butter, and a side of grits and, oh, yes, that chocolate chip muffin looks good.... It’s amazing this tub still floats.

Anyway, last night was our Bon Voyage party. The theme was "Pirates!" We’ve had too much on our minds to deal with pulling together clever theme-night outfits. Apparently so did a lot of other guys, who just brought black eye patches. (One campy fellow added a wig and turned himself into Bette Davis in The Anniversary.) But then I spotted two men leaning over the railing wearing matching vintage-looking baseball uniforms with the name "Waner" on the back, and I laughed so abruptly I spat some rum out of my mouth and onto Dan’s new white T-shirt. "Lovely," he snarled. "Sorry, but look!" I cried, pointing. "I don’t get it," said the sports-hating Manhattanite as he vainly blotted the brown stains with a paper cocktail napkin. "Paul and Lloyd Waner! Pittsburgh Pirates from ’20s! We’re meeting these guys. Now!"

I dragged a disgruntled Dan through the throngs of one-eyed sea thieves to the two baseball legends, who turned out to look even better from the front than they did from the back. Their firm, round asses were flawlessly stitched into their pants, but their strapping chests and long, lean abs were outlined in what appeared to be spandex. They were both quite cute, too. "Which one’s ‘Big Poison’ and which one’s ‘Little Poison’?" I shouted over the blasting music. "Thank you," they yelled back in unison. "You’re the only guy on this ship of fools who knows anything about baseball," said the taller of the two. "I know nothing about baseball," I confessed. "I just grew up in Pittsburgh." "Good enough," said the other one. "Yuns havin’ fun?" We sure did, especially when they turned out to be players in more than one sense of the word.

Rum

Get yourself a bottle of good rum – not the kind you mix with cola or waste in one of those hideous fruit-a-bumbas everybody’s supposed to drink on Caribbean cruises. I like Gosling’s Black Bermuda and Haiti’s Betancourt. Pour it over ice or drink it neat. Savor it, like scotch or good bourbon. And say "arg" a lot.