Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Go-Go No-No
You know, sometimes fantasy is better than the real thing.
During my recent New York business excursion, a friend took me to XL, a gay bar in Chelsea. It’s a trendy, fairly classy establishment. Now in fairness, the eight stalls in the men’s room are all slightly larger than most handicap accessible bathrooms. And they have complete doors – that is to say, once the door is closed no one can see anything inside the stall. I mentioned to my friend that a men’s room built for sex was kind of sleazy in a very fun way. He told me that later that night he would take me to the East Village so I could experience what he called, "A truly sleazy gay club." When I asked just how sleazy we’re talking here, he told me the last time he had patronized the place in question there were hot go-go boys dancing naked on the bar sporting hard-ons, two separate circle-jerks in darkened corners, and several people engaged in an orgy in coat-check room in the basement. Needless to say, I was thrilled with the idea.
The bar is called The Cock just above Houston Street in Alphabet City. There was a ten dollar cover charge, and with that you got one drink. Upon entering we were told to put our wallets in our front pockets, not to leave our drinks unattended and to have a good time. I was planning on it.
Now you have to understand, I’m not a naive hick here. I’ve been to some sleazy, dark bars in my life, including a wonderful joint called the Water Works I used to love in New York’s upper West Side. One of my favorite Seattle gay bars is The Eagle, with its hard-core porn projected on the big screen (of course I like that), its hanging leather sling and, best of all, the barber chair, in which, any occupant is ensured a quick blow-job.
Still The Cock may be the darkest bar I’ve ever been in. There was a rotating mirror ball hanging from the ceiling, with two red gelled spot lights carelessly aimed towards it. This is the sole light source for the entire place. There is one medium-sized room, and this night it was packed with men of all ages and sizes and types.
Sadly no one was having sex with anyone while we were there. There was that quiet, forlorn, frustrated desperation that comes from guys longing to do something dirty, but not having the guts to go for it. In the basement coat-check pit (I can’t really call it a room) all that was being checked out were the coats. I was sorely disappointed, and not paying much attention when my buddy suddenly said, "Okay, here we go." I looked up to see two young men dancing on bar. Both wore cowboy boots and bikini underwear and nothing else.
That reinstated my interest. The boys danced acceptably but without imagination. One had been practicing his high kicks. I know because that’s almost all he did. I worked my way through the sweaty throng to get a better look at the go-go boys, since in the gloomy light any discernable features were dim at best. What a disappointment! They were way too skinny, had not seen a gym since junior high, were very unattractive, and resembled the worst sixth-rate strung-out street hustler you’ve ever seen (which they very easily could have been.) They danced for almost an hour, pulling their shorts down to expose their asses and pubes, but never their cocks. I kept waiting and hoping, but to no avail.
Guys were tipping them and when they did I noticed most would squeeze the dancer's baskets. Well, since nothing interesting was going on, I thought I’d give that a try. I took a bill out of my front pocketed wallet, got the attention of one of the boys and pushed the money under the waistband of his Hanes. The familiar sensation of trimmed pubes traveled across my fingers, and so I went for it. I squeezed the package. More disappointment! I know of a lot of hung guys who, when flaccid, have fairly small dicks, but this guy had almost nothing. I might as well have been feeling up a nine year old. No wonder he wouldn’t drop his undies. And worst of all, it cost me a dollar to discover this.
My friend apologized for the disastrous evening, claiming The Cock had been so much more fun when he'd visited before. It was late and so we returned to his apartment where I was staying. If it had been earlier in the evening we would have tried a couple other bars. I’ve since been told the clubs with the truly hot boy dancers are places like The Urge (right next door to The Cock), The Slide, The Boy’s Room, The Tool Box, Siberia Saturdays and, yes, XL, the bar where we had started our drinking adventure that afternoon. Oh, well. I’ll hit them next time I’m in The Big Apple.
And until then, I’m back to my go-go boy fantasy. And that’s just fine. After all, it never fails to be hot or to get me off. And the boys are so much better looking.
During my recent New York business excursion, a friend took me to XL, a gay bar in Chelsea. It’s a trendy, fairly classy establishment. Now in fairness, the eight stalls in the men’s room are all slightly larger than most handicap accessible bathrooms. And they have complete doors – that is to say, once the door is closed no one can see anything inside the stall. I mentioned to my friend that a men’s room built for sex was kind of sleazy in a very fun way. He told me that later that night he would take me to the East Village so I could experience what he called, "A truly sleazy gay club." When I asked just how sleazy we’re talking here, he told me the last time he had patronized the place in question there were hot go-go boys dancing naked on the bar sporting hard-ons, two separate circle-jerks in darkened corners, and several people engaged in an orgy in coat-check room in the basement. Needless to say, I was thrilled with the idea.
The bar is called The Cock just above Houston Street in Alphabet City. There was a ten dollar cover charge, and with that you got one drink. Upon entering we were told to put our wallets in our front pockets, not to leave our drinks unattended and to have a good time. I was planning on it.
Now you have to understand, I’m not a naive hick here. I’ve been to some sleazy, dark bars in my life, including a wonderful joint called the Water Works I used to love in New York’s upper West Side. One of my favorite Seattle gay bars is The Eagle, with its hard-core porn projected on the big screen (of course I like that), its hanging leather sling and, best of all, the barber chair, in which, any occupant is ensured a quick blow-job.
Still The Cock may be the darkest bar I’ve ever been in. There was a rotating mirror ball hanging from the ceiling, with two red gelled spot lights carelessly aimed towards it. This is the sole light source for the entire place. There is one medium-sized room, and this night it was packed with men of all ages and sizes and types.
Sadly no one was having sex with anyone while we were there. There was that quiet, forlorn, frustrated desperation that comes from guys longing to do something dirty, but not having the guts to go for it. In the basement coat-check pit (I can’t really call it a room) all that was being checked out were the coats. I was sorely disappointed, and not paying much attention when my buddy suddenly said, "Okay, here we go." I looked up to see two young men dancing on bar. Both wore cowboy boots and bikini underwear and nothing else.
That reinstated my interest. The boys danced acceptably but without imagination. One had been practicing his high kicks. I know because that’s almost all he did. I worked my way through the sweaty throng to get a better look at the go-go boys, since in the gloomy light any discernable features were dim at best. What a disappointment! They were way too skinny, had not seen a gym since junior high, were very unattractive, and resembled the worst sixth-rate strung-out street hustler you’ve ever seen (which they very easily could have been.) They danced for almost an hour, pulling their shorts down to expose their asses and pubes, but never their cocks. I kept waiting and hoping, but to no avail.
Guys were tipping them and when they did I noticed most would squeeze the dancer's baskets. Well, since nothing interesting was going on, I thought I’d give that a try. I took a bill out of my front pocketed wallet, got the attention of one of the boys and pushed the money under the waistband of his Hanes. The familiar sensation of trimmed pubes traveled across my fingers, and so I went for it. I squeezed the package. More disappointment! I know of a lot of hung guys who, when flaccid, have fairly small dicks, but this guy had almost nothing. I might as well have been feeling up a nine year old. No wonder he wouldn’t drop his undies. And worst of all, it cost me a dollar to discover this.
My friend apologized for the disastrous evening, claiming The Cock had been so much more fun when he'd visited before. It was late and so we returned to his apartment where I was staying. If it had been earlier in the evening we would have tried a couple other bars. I’ve since been told the clubs with the truly hot boy dancers are places like The Urge (right next door to The Cock), The Slide, The Boy’s Room, The Tool Box, Siberia Saturdays and, yes, XL, the bar where we had started our drinking adventure that afternoon. Oh, well. I’ll hit them next time I’m in The Big Apple.
And until then, I’m back to my go-go boy fantasy. And that’s just fine. After all, it never fails to be hot or to get me off. And the boys are so much better looking.
