Oh, the drama of it all. If Manhattan is to money what Washington is to power, then it's all about the drama of power. From that on-again, off-again shirt controversy at the Mellon Auditorium right through to the drama of Moody's Moody Dearest and all the dramatic sightings of various circuit legends and locals and the late entrances and the missed connections, Cherry Drama 10 was the most thrilling melodrama of the spring season.

And it starts with the drama of departure from The Island City we inhabit which is impossible to leave on Friday afternoon, and so we're thinking, Fine, we missed that flight – but somehow we race through JFK and onto the plane before the doors slam shut in our wake. Okay. That's a good start.

Then the host hotel, the Beacon, which is so very perfectly located across the street from the Human Rights Campaign Fund headquarters with its proud yellow equality flag flying just below the stars and stripes. It's just that the Beacon initially gives us a less-than-perfect room, so a few Jacksons later, and we're more happily situated on the 7th floor – and soon a couple bottles of wine arrive, and now we're feeling hosted – because it's a brand-new, reconverted hotel with well-designed butter leather headboards and chairs and marble baths and a huge Phillips flat-screen t.v. All the perqs you need for a circuit weekend –
 
Except that then there's the little drama of someone in our party of four dancing in the room with a lit scented candle – until hot wax (red currant) is splattering jeans (Seven, no less!), carpets and bedspreads. Fortunately, Heloise manqué emerges – with iron and
paper bag. Didja know? Heat on paper lifts wax?

And this is good because D.C. is all about clean, especially NW, and particularly when compared to New York. And come the next morn, Dupont Circle positively shines in the Saturday sun – and we're walking 17th Street, where the boys are – shopping and eating and drinking – and who do we spot coming at us, in mufti, or his version thereof (skintight, lowrise jeans with red cap and red leather shrug and bare chest) -- it's none other than POWER INFINITI. And so we fawn and gurgle and kiss him good luck for his (shirtless) performance at Main Event.

And now it's heading on time for Moody Dearest and so we glam up according to the paper-covered wire hangar invite, which given the locale, means jeans and a flossy top, and maybe a little more bling. And into a cab for the three-block trip (who knew?) to Club Five where the entrance is covered with wire hangars in the shape of the letter M and there she is, just inside the door, Moody Dearest Herself, greeting her guests who are pouring into the club and up the stairs and past two pitch black floors of dark throbbing beats and out into the bright sun which covers the rooftop deck. Tiki huts and wire hangars everywhere – it's Joan Crawford in South Pacific.

We're sitting there, soaking it up, the alcohol and the spirits and the boyz – and then, the drama of it all, there they are as the crowd parts and they make their entrance, the boys, our It Boy Couple. This is their town, their turf, and sooner or later, we knew we'd see them, and now, here they are, and the sun is shining on their beautiful faces – and we're having a moment. We're beside ourselves, giddy and happy, because now it's right. They've arrived. They're here – and we are too. We're where we want to be. It's Cherry 10 in D.C.

And Moody's party has kicked in. Rick Mitchell at the controls and he's taking the packed floor into overdrive with a mix that makes us feel as if we're seeing the circuit from the past five years mashed into one continuous song loop. Our It Boys are dancing on the floor, with a boy who wants to be their puppy – and then there's Flava all in white fox and feathers and white leather thigh-high boots which she kicks to the mirror balls. She works the stage and makes the boyz scream. And we run into Moody and grab him and he says, "Didn't I tell you? It's off the hook, right?"

Which is merely preparation for his own performance onstage where an acid-yellow blond Christina is merrily skipping in front of a flower garden and picket fence – before, the drama of it all, MOODY DEAREST singing Mary J.'s "No More Drama," gets wheeled through the crowd in a botched-lobotomy get-up and proceeds to FREAK OUT onstage, complete with garden shears, scissors, and axe – ultimately wreaking utter devastation so that nothing onstage remains standing save for an illuminated sign flashing Moody Dearest as glow sticks and t-shirts fly through the air and into the crowd. No more drama indeed.

We have to eat. Food. We have to sleep. We have to rest before there's – MORE DRAMA – at the Main Event which is at the most dramatic Mellon Auditorium with its huge marble colums and gilded ceiling, chandeliers and lanterns, sconces and staircases the likes of which Scarlett could practice falling for days. Marble and more marble and so much space – so much space – and no coat check. So we stash the rags under the seats in the balcony – and wait. Because in spite of all the warnings about getting there on time, there's NO ONE in the space before eleven p.m. and even at eleven, the place is taking its very sweet time to get crowded. In fact, this space is so huge, it could take a month to fill, because it's not only about the auditorium itself, but also the huge foyer/gathering hall, and the two magnificent staircases on either side leading up into the balcony which overlooks the immensity of the main room itself – and all its thirty columns. A marvelous piece of architecture of which Stanford White would've approved (and just who was the architect here?)

And it takes a while for Alyson to take over, and maybe it's because the sound system is not completely right, given the acoustics of such an incredible structure. Something about the reverb and the echo and the volume. But Alyson comes out onto the floor and stands in front of the two speaker columns and speaks to her techies and soon, yes, the sound is better, much, and now we're in her hands and there's a version of critical mass on the floor – and SHIRTS ARE OFF – and security looks blase, save for the few police who are filming the event for their grandchildren.

Nobody seems bothered about anything – and certainly not our It Boy Couple who have finally arrived, albeit separately, but now they're together again and we can feel their joy in having so many people in their town – and that's what this party is about, supporting those organizations in D.C. which need our help. Apparently there hasn't been a GLBT community center in D.C. until the Cherry Fund stepped in. That's why we're here, dancing in a hall which is a little too bright without the very best acoustics. This is the hall where NATO was first signed into being – and let's hope more alliances are formed thanks to our presence in this hall.

And there's Paul Richard of the Cherry Fund who got the SHIRTS policy rescinded and we bow to him in thanks, and then, OMG, the drama of this arrival, but at last, there's JOE CARO, who's got a story to tell, about his own dramatic missed connections and riding the rails through the night and morning..... And Lawrence without his Tigger ears or his Bunny ears, but Lawrence nonetheless, although without his Marcia Brady, because of their own hotel room dramas. Oh, the drama of it all – And circuit husband Denver Random City who knows every song title within three beats.

And then, the most melodramatic song of this moment in time starts, Whitney Ho's "You'll Never Walk Alone" – and it's POWER onstage, in a black and white sequin splattered shrug with cherry red knee-high leather boots and white honey hot pants hugging her crack, and she's working that song, selling it to us hard, reminding us why we're here, in this hallowed historic hall, and how it's all about keeping on walking, walking, and never stopping, onward we go, as she kicks and storms the stage and Moody's getting it on film at her feet, and Power is sending it out to us, never missing a beat, catching it all with her fluid body – and then like that, she throws herself out and off the stage and into the crowd, which carries her high above, our arms upstretched, keeping her aloft as we pass her back, further and further into the crowd, and we go, "Fuck, what an exit" – and then she's back onstage, for the final bow and that all-encompassing smile which says, "To you, all of you."

Oh, yeah, we're there. And now we know that love will see us through because Whitney just told us and Power showed us and there's no reason to fear – and really, who doesn't love Cherry in D.C.?

And so Sunday we take the moms to brunch and wander through the Mall and into the Jefferson Memorial where we read the words Thomas Jefferson wrote and which now engrave the walls of his memorial: "Laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind as that becomes....more enlightened." And we toast to enlightenment – and hope that our bare chests have helped enlighten D.C.

And then to Nation for Abel – into SE D.C. which is not NW, and Nation which is huge, if not quite immaculate— In fact, far from immaculate, but hey, let's not quibble about cleanliness when it's all for a good cause, and besides, who cares about dirt and grime when the boyz are so friendly and pretty and the crowd is ready for a good time. Which Abel delivers, right on target, right after midnight, starting off with Deborah Cox's "Easy As Life," and then working his way into that beat which gets the boyz crazy. And we're getting into his groove, when all of a sudden, the crowd parts again, and OMG, another dramatic entrance, there she is, at last, in spite of allergies and late trains, in person, it's NURSE, and we shriek in delirium and generally wreck the nerves of everyone around us as she receives her obeisances.

And of course, also, there they are, our It Boy Couple, they're Hosts of the party, and gracious ones at that, naughty and gracious, at the same time, especially our It Boy whom we watch working the nerves of two newbies, cruising them with careless abandon and sliding between them, just enough to rattle their calm, so that in their wake, the question emerges, "And just who was that?" Who indeed? You've been cruised by the best.

It's a very sweet crowd. One of the Cherry volunteers comes over and puts VIP wristbands on us, inviting us upstairs where there's cake and massage, though not necessarily in that order. And outside, there's a rooftop deck and we sit and chatter with Lawrence and get the lowdown of the real definition of circuit husband, which one might say is equivalent to "friend with benefits."

And there's something about being in D.C. which seems very local and easy. We tip a bartender a buck and he looks us in the eyes and thanks us. And every cabbie is gracious and at the hotel every request is greeted with politeness and the iced tea in every restaurant is spot on and the sun has shone on us every day and now it's Monday morn and for the last time of the weekend, we watch our It Boy Couple on the box and send them good love, until we see them again, at the next circuit party where the boyz live to dance, and on to Abel, to nod to him in thanks, and then it's out into the morning –

And now Cherry 10 has ended, all the drama happily resolved. Happy endings all around. May there be many more Cherries until the need is no more.

With thanks and respect to all the most dedicated Cherry volunteers, who embodied the best of our nation's capital.