It never fails. When I venture outside of midtown, something extraordinary happens.

My muse, Madelaine, had a graduation party last weekend at a new downtown club. I invited The Prince of Darkness to accompany me. The Prince of Darkness works like the devil, so, needless to say, it's difficult to get him out of his crypt.

The Prince of Darkness had surprised me earlier that afternoon by inviting me to join him for a cocktail at our favorite midtown watering hole. After cocktails, I convinced The Prince of Darkness to return to the crypt, change clothes and head downtown with me.

We had a little trouble finding the club. East Jefferson, on the south side of the avenue, between the Renaissance complex and Belle Isle, can politely be described as a neighborhood in transition. There are warehouses, old mansions, an amphitheatre and vacant lots. The landlords refuse to sell at reasonable prices. Most of the properties sit and deteriorate, because of neglect and water damage, or they spontaneously combust, in the middle of the night.

As I discovered that night, the area between East Jefferson and the river has become "No MAN'S Land"!

Standing at the door of the club were two security guards--five foot9 and fivefoot10--in metrosexual combat gear. Fivefoot9--wearing a crocheted black skull cap, sleeveless mesh shirt, black fatigues and combat boots--demanded we raise our arms. Fivefoot10--who was too fat for a mesh shirt--walked behind me and grabbed me by my man boobs! His hands lingered on my pecks, then slid down the seams of my jacket. He patted me on the hips, then grabbed the contents of the front pockets of my trousers and jiggled the contents up and down--like he was trying to make music with my ass!

The Prince of Darkness had forgotten to remove his baby pitchfork from his pant pocket. I always carry a cork screw on my person. Fivefoot10 shook my right pocket, which contained the cork screw, until I demanded he let go! Fivefoot9 insisted that we get rid of our party accessories, before entering the club.

We had to go back to the car. When we returned, fivefoot10 motioned for me to raise my arms. As I stepped forward, he made that Prince sliding behind Appolonia move and stood behind me. He slapped both hands on my pecks, firmer than the last time, and gave my titties and the contents of my jacket a firm shake. His hands lingered on my chest. After what seemed like a full 60 seconds, fivefoot10 moved his hands down my coat seams, like he was caressing a mink coat with Halle Barry in it, finally resting his hands on my hips. His right hand became disoriented. I had removed the corkscrew from my trousers. Fivefoot10's right hand wantonly fingered my apartment keys, like he wanted to move in with me! He flipped my wallet round and round with his clubby left hand.

At that point I began cussing. I accused him of having sexual relations with his mother. He took his hands off of me. The punk didn't even offer me a cigarette, yet he took great liberties with my person! How many unsuspecting men had he violated, in the name of security?!!

After our ordeal, we made our way to the third floor of the club and sat at the bar. The drinks were moderately priced, so we had quite a few, to try and calm down. J Paul had never been molested by a man before, and in public no less! The Prince of Darkness had been molested numerous times, however, this was the first time a fivefoot9 metrosexual security guard had ever grabbed his testicles on the sidewalk in front of a club. We were mortified.

As the night went on, the cheap drinks served as some consolation. The molestations turned out to be the most exciting part of our evening.

The music was particularly bad. Twice within 2 hours, the DJ played "Cold Blooded." Despite the bad DJ and all the stuffed blue denim, we hung out until 1 a.m.»