Sunday was Robert Burns' birthday. Now, it's not like ordinarily I keep track of stuff like this, like I've got a World's Greatest Poets Calendar where useless trivia about Yeats or Thackeray is shared. "Even well into her fifties Maya Angelou could solve a Rubik's cube in twenty seconds," it'd offer on one day. "Did you know Ted Hughes was a whiz with a hacky-sack?" it'd ask on the next.

No, I only know this because there's a Scottish pub two blocks from my apartment, and they decided to mark the occasion. A sign in the window said they'd be reading poetry, playing Scottish music, and serving free whiskey all night long. Such is the power of that last item that I happily ignored the first two.

I got to the party ten minutes after the doors opened, and the place was already jammed to the rafters. Revellers were laughing and dancing and downing drinks like they'd just crawled through the Sahara. I fought my way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a whiskey. With the first sip it all came back to me: how do people drink this stuff? It's like sucking a charcoal briquet through a mouthful of moss. Well, I thought as I choked it down, until I earned some money or pubs started celebrating Charo's birthday with free Cuervo, this was what life held for me.

In the back a trio played those happy airs that make bonnie Scotch lassies dance in circles with their fists on their hips. Surprisingly, I enjoyed it. I claimed an empty spot nearby and watched them play as I drank. And drank. And drank. But after a couple hours, just as I was really warming to the place, I noticed an odd irritation. The pub was slowly emptying out, but it seemed like every ten seconds somebody'd shove past me and nearly rub my clothes off my body.

What's the attraction? I wondered. The free alcohol is up front. The bathroom is over there. This is a quiet corner. Why are all these folks pushing their way past?

And then I realized something. All the pushing and shoving was being done by one person: a nice-looking, middle-aged guy. "Excuse me!" he said with an apologetic smile. Two minutes later: "Pardon me!"

The first eight times his hand slid along my stomach. And on the ninth it stopped for a quick rest on my dick.

Now, I wasn't entirely thrilled with this guy. I'd have preferred him to introduce himself to my face rather than my dangly bits. And while he was handsome, he had that Keanu Reeves kind of androgyny where you catch them in a certain light and start picturing them in a two-piece swimsuit.

No, it was the party that made me do it. The music was great, the drinks were plentiful, the people were friendly. I wanted to celebrate the festivities in some way, and nobody wants to see a tall guy dance. The next time he pushed past, my eyes met his, and I nodded when he tipped his head toward the bathroom.

I waited a discreet ten seconds before following. He locked the door behind me, then pulled me into an embrace. I felt myself being swept away by the feel of his hard body, his slim musculature, the softness of his lips on mine.

And then I looked up in the mirror and saw our reflection. (1) Dude had a ponytail, and (2) dude wasn't wearing pants.

I don't know why I was so surprised. New York is full of minorities who do all sorts of crazy minority stuff. Throw a Robbie Burns night and naturally folks will show up in Scottish garb. My eyes slid in horror down his pleated plaid ass to slender, hairless legs where garters held up socks.

I pushed him to arm's length, desperate to reassess the situation. And that's when I noticed the sporran across his stomach. You know, sporran. It's like the fannypack your grandma wears to carry her coupons and reading glasses to Wal-Mart.

Well, I thought, it's a little awkward. I mean, toss in a mug of General Foods Hazelnut Mocha and it's like making out with a soccer mom. Still, I pressed myself against him and tried to forget. We kissed for another minute, then he spun around and braced himself against the sink. "Hurry!" he whispered. "We don't have much time. Lift up my skirt and take me from behind!"

And my penis deflated like the Hindenburg, though with substantially less rope. I anxiously appraised his waiting form. He's a man, I told myself. He's hot. I want to do this.

I squared my shoulders and decided I'd screw him like men have been screwing women since the beginning of time.

I told him that I loved him, then asked if I could borrow a thousand bucks.