A few weeks after I moved to the East Village in 1998, I started dating Blake, who lived in my building. Seemingly an ideal boyfriend: in his 30s, black, muscular, religious (devout Episcopalian), with a Mortadella beneath the belt. BUT he was pretentious, elitist, an opera buff, and always had a glass of wine in his hand. Eventually I pawned him off onto Yuri, and they dated for about three months.
He and Yuri stayed friends. Sometimes when Yuri came to Manhattan for the weekend, he got all of us tickets to Broadway shows and operas. I generally dislike operas, but the performers often wore bulgeworthy tights, and afterwards we often went to parties with big name celebrities in attendance, like Andrew Lloyd Weber.
Apparently Yuri stayed in contact. When we came back to New York for a visit in June 2009, he suggested that we spend a day with Blake.
"And the night. He's the ex-boyfriend for both of us, so it's polite to ask him to share."
"But he'll invite us to the opera!" I protested.
Yuri shrugged. "You can live through an opera, if you look at the bulges."
Fact: all opera singers are huge beneath the belt.
"Ok, I'll call him."
The full story, with nude photos and sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.