sure, like just about everybody else i know, i occasionally make snide references to Chelsea boys . . . in my day we called 'em "clones" . . . they lived in the West Village, danced at 12 West or the Saint, fucked at the Mineshaft or the Anvil and summered in the Pines . . . in other words, they defined themselves by their homosexuality, embracing a scene that made the gay urban professionals like me who flocked to the upper west side more than a little uptight . . . Chelsea boys may live a little farther uptown than their ancestors and they generally have better bodies with goatees and shaved heads replacing shoulder-length hair and Mark Spitz mustaches, but since many aren't old enough to recall the fate of so many clones, they even have begun to share the same sexual abandonment that for so long has been enjoyed only by the dead . . . and now that i've reached a point in my life where, like so many Chelsea boys, i, too, am counting the days to the Black Party, i can admit that much of my disdain for the scene has always been that of an envious outsider . . . until last night, when a pair of 30something lovebirds cruising online invited me down to their apartment on Eighth Avenue between 15th & 16th Streets . . . it takes a lot to get me to travel that far on my bike when it's 32 degrees outside but with pictures like theirs i probably would have swum to Staten Island if necessary . . . they were so hot that i had a lot of trouble believing 1) they existed and 2) they would invite me inside . . . the Latin guy who answered the door wearing only camouflage shorts looked like he should be behind the bar at Twist . . . gulp . . . my boyfriend's taking a shower . . . he'll be right out . . . i cataloged the furnishings (kitchen table, a ratty red couch that looked as if it belonged in a Wild West bordello, a chair, stereo, TV and computer) in their dreary fifth floor walk-up while he got me a glass of water . . . a pint-size Colt model, whose chiseled face had been mostly obscured by a white cowboy hat in the pictures they had sent, soon emerged . . . an even bigger gulp . . . glistening with oil, he was attitude-free and eager to get started . . . their huge sleigh bed took up most of the only other room, where they said they already had spent much of the day, and had enough down pillows for a sleepover after an orgy . . . we started off slowly, just like the club music coming from the living area, while i got the lay of the land, so to speak . . . i couldn't imagine what they needed me for until i realized my dick was twice as big and hard as either of theirs, without a cockring, which they both wore . . . but when the sex started to get as "intense" as their profile had promised, i sacrificed condom use to the heat of the moment and found myself behaving as if i were the star top in a bareback porno movie being directed by the guy who answered the door . . . that's right, fuck his face, he loves it . . . c'mon, shove it up his ass hard while he sucks my cock . . . ain't love grand? . . . this went on for nearly an hour until they both came . . . i didn't, knowing that there would be plenty of time for that in future fantasy replays . . . we don't do this very often, explained the director who showed me to the bathroom and pointed to a stack of white towels plentiful enough for the clientele of the New York Sports Club . . . they're clean, he said, grabbing one . . . i hope your boyfriend's asshole is too . . . we didn't find much to talk about while i dressed altho they both complimented me on my . . . punctuality . . . sigh . . . as i unlocked my bike downstairs, another cute Chelsea boy walking his dog smiled at me and looked back a couple of times . . . i rode back to my safer and wider world where there are fewer men who can make me lose my mind.