Last night, the buzz on where to go for Thursday nights was severely off target.

While hanging at The Lounge, a monthly networking party for writers and creative types (actually it’s a thinly disguised excuse for drinking and carousing, which is fine by me), I ran into not one, not two, but three separate groups of friends who hyped the scene over at the hi-dive on Broadway.

Word was, “The Makeout” was the hottest Thursday night spot, with a whole sexy-ironic theme happening. My friends extolled the virtues of soft porn from the 60s and 70s (so cheesy it’s cool again, apparently) rolling on film screens throughout, and corset-clad vixens who chase down naughty indie rockers for spankings. Tales were told of terrible-but-hysterical soundtracks, images of free love hippie chicks running with their bosoms a-heaving through fields of daisies, and scooter kids reveling in spontaneous makeout sessions in dark corners. Oh — and they have drink specials, a DJ, and whatever else. All I heard was “cheesy porn,” “spankings,” “hottest spot,” “makeout sessions.” It sounded hot, all right.

I might have been warned by the fact that all three groups were hanging out the High Street Speakeasy at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night as they sang The Makeout’s praises, and yet I took the bait. Imagine how high the bitch-o-meter within me rose when I arrived to find a totally dead scene, with a dozen or so 80s punk wannabes wandering around aimlessly, hands in pockets, avoiding all eye contact.

Normally, my friends are pretty cool. They usually know what’s up, but not this time. Maybe I’ll try it again. It is January, it was cold and icy last night, and perhaps I caught the hi-dive on an off night. Then again, maybe Makeout just sounds cooler than it really is.