It’s ten a.m. on the first day of a new year.  The Miami sun’s blazing—and the boys are lined up along Washington Avenue: to head into Mansion for Genesis IV.  “Should we go in? Is it gonna be good?” two guys ask us.  Better than good—and definitely one of the few reasons to leave such a beautiful day outside.

The backbeat’s pounding all through the red-swathed lobby. We slip into the Main Room just as “And I’m Telling You (I’m Not Going)” is working the crowd.  “You’re gonna love me”—indeed.  Not to worry, Tracy—we do, we already do. 

Ciggy in hand, Tracy’s at the room’s far end, high above the crowded floor like St. Peter at the gate.  Flanked by two massive illuminated golden frames, she’s pumping her arms, working that smile.  Girl loves her boyz right back. 

Mansion is a roomful of history, starting from its days as an Art Deco movie palace.  And then those legendary years with Abel at the helm when the club was known the world over as Paragon, before its incarnation as GlamSlam when Prince took it over, and then the years as Level, and also as Club 1235—and now it’s Mansion with its immense pink Swarovski chandeliers and the oversized silver urns, overflowing with white roses.  White roses by the score and giltwood frames and crystal sconces.  This is Hugh Hefner’s South Beach Playboy Mansion.  Ivy-covered palazzo archways in white stone and gas lanterns and candlelight.  Burgundy settees and leather couches.  And all around us there’s the sense of romance of being at a party that, day or night, never ends.   

Everyone’s dancing, and not only on the floor. The mezzanines and landings are packed and nearly impassable.  It’s “World, Hold On.”  We’re partying to show the world it’s so much better like this.  Better to love and have fun, better to tolerate and accept.  Three hotties in dark shades and black tees ask the bartender to take their photo.  Smile and look pretty.  We was here. We was partying.  We was partying at Mansion.

And there—there’s Andre.  Fresh out of college, he’s only been on the sandbar for eight months.  And this, this party—  “It’s my first morning party,” he says excitedly.  “I worked all night so I could come to Mansion today.”  He has the fresh-voiced joy of someone still learning the scene.  Twenty-two years young, he’s ever-enthusiastic.  Bottle it now, sweet boy, and hold it close forever.

And now Tracy’s doing “Can We Get Together?”  Uh,huh.  Fine by us.  We’re watching two boys on a box lick each other all over.  Delicious, delovely.  Such smooth skin, such camera-savvy attitude.  And then Tracy’s mixing in “Ladies with an attitude, let’s get to it,” a sentiment which takes on newer meaning in a room filled with circuit boyz.

We’re a roomful of nonviolent offenders. “We Dance for Freedom”—which Tracy mixes in for us with a bouncing bobbing bass.  It’s perfect for marching into the new year, 2007.   

We watch a fan dancer on a box—which reminds us of New Year’s Day parties at Amnesia, and the long South Beach tradition of New Year’s Day parties.  Daylong affairs, they used to be thrown by Craig and the Boys at the beautiful indoor/outdoor space known as Amnesia—and now, thankfully, Mike Mazer has taken the baton, upholding the tradition with his daylong Genesis parties.  It’s a lot of work and he tells us he’ll be happy when it’s tomorrow, but for now, he needn’t worry: this party is happening and the roomful of hot and sexy people could hardly be happier.

And then Tracy leads us into Christina’s “Hurt.”  The perfect end-of-Act-One number.  The song the boyz want to hear.  A little lesbian circuit boy drama, with the lyrics’ implicit promises to be better: less slutty in the new year.  Ha, not hardly—but it sends us all into intermission with a big optimistic finish. 

Which, for us, means it’s time for a quick cab ride home—to get rid of the cameras.  At last.  And how nice to be at a party with in-and-out privileges.  You can leave with your hottie boy and “do your bidness.”  Put your junk in a box—and unwrap it, or head to the ocean for a quick ride over the waves, or a powder of the nose, a change of outfit, a smoothie—and then, snap, just like that, you’re back for Act Two.

Back into the flashing darkness, where Tracy’s working “Be Without You” and “That Sound” and “Second to None.”  Songs which drive us to the floor and keep us there.  She punctuates them with lesbian interludes.  Those moments of romance when you cat stretch your body.  Send your arms upward to work out the kinks.  And then we’re off again.  Getting ready for the performance.  “There’s a performer? Who is it?” someone asks us.  “Clueless,” Robert answers.  “Clueless?  Who’s that?”  Never mind.

Her name is Amuka. She sings “I Want More” and “Appreciate Me”—which she might’ve sung to us a cappella if she’d just heard that little exchange. Girl is looking good in a boat-sized feathered hat and Vivienne Westwood plaid mini, with boots.  And she’s got stage presence.  She knows her job.  And right before she sings her biggest hit, she says, with what feels like complete sincerity, “You guys—  I just want you to have the BEST year ever.  This is your year.  2007 is YOUR year.” 

It’s just what we want—and need to hear.  And girl, we do appreciate you.  And listening to her sing, we remember the time Manny played that song at the old Salvation, back when it was first popular (about a lifetime ago), and when a spotlight shone on his booth, a whole room started applauding him—and he pretended to protest, a big old smile on his face. 

We head back into the living room/lounge where circuit boys are scattered around on the sofas and banquettes.  These South Beach circuit boyz with their shades and their perfect pecs, their long lean torsos, their tight bubble butts—they’re the Playboy Bunnies of our time.  They’re littered around the lounge, lying in various states of repose, while above them, on the walls are reproductions of Old Masters in giltwood frames.  Their antecedents from the halls of Versailles and the days of the Sun King when pleasure was paramount. These boyz are stretched long and luscious while Tracy plays “Cradle Me.”  You know, “eight letters, three words, rarely ever heard.”  Not in this crowd, they aren’t: I love you, I love you, I love you—and you, and you, and you.  We do, we do, we really do. 

Oh, let the straights have their Bowl games on New Year’s Day.  We’ll take our parties.  Our New Year’s Day parties on the Beach, and in New York, and out in LA.  Circuit parties with a purpose: to get the new year started right and to show the world how it’s done.  “Let the Music Lift You Up,” and let love rule.  Our mantra for the new year.  Here’s to a year which finds more of the world dancing to a good beat.