I Live Upstairs from a Notoriously Penetrating Gay Bar

I live upstairs from a notoriously penetrating gay bar. There are two pool tables in the back of the place and the few times I have been there to have a beer or three the only balls I saw in play on them were hairy/waxed/pleasantly coiffed. I live one block east of a 3-story bathhouse. It boasts a “glory hole maze” with 38 different holes for 38 anonymous cocks to be shoved into, to be received by 38 anonymous mouths or 38 anonymous assholes, or into 38 pairs of well-lubed and anonymous hands.
My curiosity is strong as to what exactly goes on in there, but not strong enough to actually pony up the $5 locker fee and venture into its depths. I am not gay (though like all heterosexual men, I am mildly curious and open to the fact that in the right mood and under the right circumstances and with the right amount of alcohol or drugs, I could be swayed into experimentation) but I live in the city’s bustling gayborhood. It is a small neighborhood, easily referred to as a block in some circles. I am here to hide from interactions and because in this neighborhood I can do whatever it is that I want and not have to worry about raising any eyebrows.
Though I am mentally undressed every time I walk the block, it is tempered with a peculiar anonymity. No one here, no matter how flamboyant or bitchy, could be considered a stool pigeon (note to self: try to make that new slang for someone who likes poop in their sex play) as we all respect secrets, privacy, and understand, to one degree or another, flight from things best left unsaid.
For all of the catcalls and the occasional ass-swats, I know that as far as anyone outside of this area is concerned, I am invisible.
ANd that is exactly what I am looking for.

Is there a musician in the house?

So, I write a lot of things that I want to be lyrics, but the writer in me overrides the musician and it (the Writer) gets carried away and pukes up something that, as far as I have been able to tell, absolutely can not be put to music. And I don't want to pull a King Missle thing. I want the lyrics to go with music. Something you could sing along with while having fun or hating yourself or driving or getting booked into an Alabama prison on consensual sodomy charges (a friend of a friend... yeah). So, here's a challenge to the two of you, if you play music. Help me out here. Put this to a song, I'll buy you a beer and we'll play it for old people in a rest home. Good luck, if you care. If not, well, yeah.
If you didn't notice, I am talking to myself here. Please disregard this post. All of it:
"YOU GOT THE PRETTIEST FUCKING EYES I’VE EVER SEEN,
AN…
huh? Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was screaming. It’s just that I got a little carried away and…
wha? Yeah, I know you don’t like the language. I’m sorry, it just came out. When I think of you…
whu? Yeah, I know. Yes, yelling and swearing aren’t good manners, I am aware of this, it’s just that…
yeah, I know but if you’d just give me a sec…
whu? Oh come on! Jesus, every time I try to compliment you you do this. Yes, every damned time. You don’t even acknowledge the fact that I’m trying to be nice, you just correct the presentation or change the subject. Yes, you most certainly do. I… no, it’s..
just wai…
you know what? I just wanted to tell you that you had pretty eyes, it’s as simple as that. And you couldn’t accept it. So now…no you listen to me…
you still have pretty eyes but enough is enough.
Go get fucked.
I’m outta here."
I'm thinking a simple G-C-D progression, a little twang, but like PW Long twang--greasy and untrustworthy. You know what I mean.
OK, I am done talking to myself. Move on to the Falwell post.