On a November night somehow both warm and crisp, the Gawker gods decided to punish Nikola Tamindzic by sending him to three parties in six hours. By far the strangest occasion celebrated notorious pornographer and fellatio expert Al Goldstein, who penned a 267-page tale of sexual depravity called I, Goldstein. Interestingly enough, we're told there will be a book review in the New York Times this Sunday. No word on whether or not they mention his time at Rikers, erotic escapades with hairy BFF Ron Jeremy, or how he used to hang a former lover upside down and lick her clit. Venture into this gallery of horrors, if you dare. After the jump, Intern Stephanie and overworked shutterbug Nikola arrive late, leave early, and still manage to get felt up by random strangers.

As you know by now, us Gawker interns have a very low standard of excellence. Recently, Intern Heather called a retarded woman retarded, and just yesterday, I added a random "l" at the end of "Bussel," igniting one sex addict into a minor frenzy. So it should come as no surprise that I had no idea who Al Goldstein is/was except for the few random phrases I got in an e-mail from management: pervert, bankrupt, Jew. Is this supposed to be unusual? Oh. Wow. Well. He has an IMDB entry, but so does my former high school lover, who had a six-minute cameo in Conviction, some random NBC show that was canceled while the rest of the world was fixated on Shiloh Nouvel and Kingston James McGregor being born within 24 hours of each other. However, Al was in Tales from the Clit, and said lover was not.

Anyway, the Slipper Room is a seedy Lower East Side bar that hasn't been remodeled since Nixon was president. At first glance, I appear to be the only person in the bar who was born after 1952. I text Nikola because he isn't here yet and because he was born after 1952.

Me: K, i'm here and its 2 lame for words
Nikola: Oh no, i'm just coming from another lame party — so lame, in fact, i can't use the photos, well we'll be brutal then

As I'm texting, I sense glares of ire burning into my skin. It's the doorman. I give my most serious do-you-have-a-fucking-problem look. He returns the favor.

"Are you over 21?"

He returns to his flimsy bar stool. I remind myself that I look about a decade younger than my actual age, which I always happen to forget when I meet people. Something about black don't crack or the like.

Mohney always reminds me to ID the "important people," but after meeting the author, co-author, editor, publisher, publicist, and lawyer within 120 seconds, I realized I didn't have the mental capacity to remember nuances, even as I scribbled notes on the back of my HopStop directions, which were totally useless since I managed to get lost and asked a 40-something hobo for directions. He peered at me as if I should know these things because I partially resemble a 20-something hipster who frequents seedy bars in the Lower East Side. Thankfully, I'm not.

By now I notice that there are two reactions to the phrase, "I'm Stephanie from Gawker." One is "OH MY GAWD, I LOVE GAWKER." The other is "What the hell is that?" I receive equal amounts of both. Someone introduces me to Al, who gives me his number, tells me to visit his site, and says his blog is dirtier than he is. Then his attention becomes fixated on another walking vagina. Co-author Josh Alan Friedman asks if I'd like naked pictures of he and Al to post on the site. I say I'll ask Nikola. I never do.

Nikola: Did you talk to Al?
Me: Yeah, he gave me his number.
Nikola: Post it on gawker.
Me: Can I do that?
Nikola: Did you tell him you were a journalist?

Wait. So writing a bulleted list of things for you to do instead of watching Access Hollywood and ineligible, rambling musings about parties makes me a journalist? It's good to know my $18,224-per-year state school education didn't go to complete waste.

There's a real estate agent with a bright gold jacket, red tie, and eyepatch. Nikola insists I talk to him. Like an idiot, I shrug and say okay. Eye patch grabs my hand and doesn't let go. Suddenly I feel as if I'm getting pulled into the abyss. He leans his forehead against mine and breathes stale air into my mouth, which I forgot to close. I pull away. My hand is now free, thankfully.

We play a blind item game. Why am I doing this to myself? I love the blind items in Page Six so I play along.

"Which flamboyant singer gave me this jacket?"
"Elton John!!"
"No. It begins with an L."
"Lionel Ritchie? Little Richard?
"No, Liberace."

What a letdown. I know less about Liberace than I do about Al and Screw. Someone taps me on the shoulder. She says she needs to talk to me. Who is this woman? Do I know her? My brain is too scarred from Eye Patch to think clearly. I assumed I introduced myself to her earlier and forgot her name. Eyepatch barks "One minute," as he grabs my hand again. If there is a God, he would provide hand sanitizer and a Tic Tac right now. He doesn't. Somehow, I manage to regain 23 percent of my sanity and walk over to her.

"Do I know you?"
"No, I was trying to save you."
"Oh. Thank you!!"

Nothing brings women together like scary men in bars and running out of toilet paper in a public restroom. Meanwhile, a video is playing. Al groping a naked woman. Al groping another naked woman. Al groping a naked women in the spread eagle position. Nikola and I leave before reverse cowgirl and doggy style, but not before we hear the mating call of the wild beast.

"I have not tasted pussy in a year and a half. So I'm going to ask you women out there to sit on my face and let me use your pussy as a breathing apparatus. Let me play a few musical numbers on your clit."

My only consolation present for hearing "clit" more times in 90 minutes than I have in my entire life was a copy of the book. I'm fulfilling my journalistic duty by sharing this anecdote:

Right around the time I was losing everything, someone arranged a date with hotel heiress Leona Helmsley, after her husband Henry, who owned the Empire State Building, croaked. She was ugly, old, mean and fat, but I was willing to suck her clit all night. I figured if I made her come, maybe she'd find me an apartment. She found out who I was and immediately canceled.

Hey Leona. Call me.

This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.

Al Goldstein Book Launch @ Slipper Room [Photos]