When it comes to the Underwear Party, what went on in Chicago in the 1990s at Manhole (the previous occupant of the Hydrate space) was quite literally legendary and has had a difficult time being replicated in this latter part of the first decade of the 21st century. Don't get me wrong, the monthly underwear parties that take place currently at Jackhammer and Chicago Eagle are quite fun; however, they unfortunately, in my humble opinion, lack that special something. The reason I liked the Manhole Underwear Parties so much was that they were extremely liberating and democratizing. While the slutty and piggish were sure to show up in boxers or briefs, the more conservative types would also attend, claiming they came out to dance. Yeah, right! The music and dancing at Manhole was always fun, but many guys came to the Underwear Party because it was a seemingly acceptable forum in which to let their "inner naughty" roam free. That meant roaming with their eyes and frequently with their hands. A crowded club made copping a feel easy and fun to do. My unofficial Underwear Party motto: "Live and let live feel and let feel up!" As for the democratizing aspect of the Underwear Party, well it's like this. Say you somehow didn't fit the "gay ideal" with a gym body, salon perfect hair, white teeth, stellar personality, and a quick wit, all within the age range of 25-35. While that may have been a hindrance at most bars on most nights, at the Underwear Party not possessing those qualities could quickly be overcome by packaging your assets, your dick and your ass, to maximum effect. While a tight body will always have currency in the gay world, at the Underwear Party the relative value of rock hard six-pack abs pales in comparison to the value (and potential value) of a six-inches-while-still-soft penis. The six-pack will stay at six, but the soft six-incher is likely to harden and grow into a "Oh My God!" I admit that at Underwear Parties I barely saw peoples' faces: my eyes were always cast downward. The bigger the package you were displaying or the bubblier your butt was, the less concerned I was about the extra 30 pounds you carried or that your face was marked with acne. Shallow thinking, I know, but not atypical of those of us in attendance. Guys who attended Underwear Parties were notorious for not waiting until they got home to get the prize that was not so well concealed in Calvins and BVDs. Blow jobs on the dance floor were far from uncommon (the sight of five guys dancing in a huddle usually meant there was a sixth in the middle on his knees; I have been a part of the quintet and had, on occasion, been the sixth. Yummy!), and believe me when I say that fingers were not the only appendages that probed anal canals. The smell of ass always hung heavy in the air at an Underwear Party, like an intoxicant, late into the night and when the lights came on at closing time there was always a used condom or two, or three, or ten in sight. I confess, one of those condoms, a Magnum, had some of my DNA on it, but I'll never tell you whether the CSI team would have found my sample on the inside or the outside of the prophylactic. Let's just say someone was walking funny the following few days, but sure enough they were back at play at the next Manhole Underwear Party.