Once a year the International Contemporary Furniture Fair hits New York, bringing with it every gay designer and decorator in the universe. New York's finest stores seize the opportunity to attract new clientele, so literally every night for almost a week there are fifteen or twenty fetes beckoning the upscale, the stylish or, in my case, the poor drunk.

Unfortunately, the recession has taken its toll on the budgets, so these parties aren't quite as lavish as they used to be. Core77 served beer at their party -- beer! One wondered if the Hooters girls were going to show up next. Yigal Azrouël's bash was supposed to introduce Fenom absinthe to the world, but they claimed they couldn't get the proper permits so they served effervescent Shell gas instead.

Artemide went to quite a bit more work with the same results. Their dreadful signature cocktail was made of vast quantities of vodka with a mystery ingredient that colored it Smurf Blue. Bisazza's prosecco went down a bit easier, helped by addictive little chocolate ganache ice cream cones and truffled popcorn.

Out Magazine's little bash -- it may have been a private party unrelated to Furniture Week, but who am I to argue? -- was by far the most fun, with a DJ playing Lady Gaga and four flavors of Belvedere vodka offered by hunky, shirtless waiters. Of course, after an hour or two of serving they exclaimed "Fuck this!" en masse and leapt atop the banquettes to dance, but we all know you can't keep a good go-go boy down. Their gift bag contained, naturally, a copy of Out Magazine and a bottle of vodka for that long cab ride home.

Yes, that's right: in New York City, one goes to parties thrown by capitalist enterprises that get you drunk, feed you and then send you home with free gifts. Only the bitterest heterosexual would say this is the kind of business model that's destroying Greece.

While the average person would have gotten a pocketful of business cards from successful, attractive designers, I got exactly zero. Mind you, I had several thousand conversations: it's just none came near the Everest of witty banter that TV shows like Bones and Moonlighting have led me to require in a man.

At the Kartell party, an attractive man sidled up next to me and opened with the rather banal, "You're very handsome."

"Thanks," I said.

"I'm gay," came his uninspired follow-up.

I smiled. "I think nine out of ten of the men here are."

"So," he said, shooting me a smoldering look over his cocktail, "are you Guy #8?"

I claimed to spot an old friend across the room and literally ran for the hills. Okay, maybe I'll never get the witty banter I want, but can't I find a guy who makes sense?

On the fashion front, chest hair is clearly making a comeback. Nine out of ten of the male partygoers proudly showed off their assets, some with one button cheekily unfastened and some going pirate-style, exposing vast swathes of their verdant forests with shirts open to the waist.

Yes, you guessed it: I was Guy #8.