An attempt at a slightly anthropological study of the gay bar scene in NY, part 1.

And by anthropological study, I mean I went out and had quite a few tasty cocktails, and decided to write about it.

Night 1.

I started out much, much too early for New York standards.  As soon as I got settled into my hotel room, I ventured out into the city, immediately getting lost.  Luckily, my trusty gaydar directed me to the closest bar (and by gaydar, I mean the GPS on my phone), which just so happened to be the Stonewall Inn.  I enjoyed the fact that the first bar I went to also happened to be the most historical and socially relevant bar you can possibly go to. 

The bar itself seemed to be a neighborhood bar, lots of older men with nothing else to do, and a dusting of out-of-towners.  I immediately made friends with the off duty bartender, who proceeded to get me awfully tipsy at 5pm.  He took me to the bar next door (owned by the same person), which was empty.  We had more drinks, and he and another bartender helped me with a map of Manhattan, explaining which bars to go to, and which bars to avoid.

By that time it was 7pm, and I was a little buzzed (that Jameson catches up to you), so I decided to venture back to the hotel.  After all, I had a long night ahead of me. 

I relaxed, sobered up, and got ready for the night.  I figured I’d go back to the places I was at earlier, but when I got there, they were playing bingo in one bar, and singing really bad show tunes in the other bar.  And the crowd went from mature older men to people who didn’t even look 21, and not a whole lot of homos.  So I decided to explore.

First I went to a place called Rock Bar.  They played Katy Perry, which is not, in fact, rock.  Also the solitary go-go boy looked to be in his 50s, which was awkward.  Luckily, I met a very nice woman doing an AIDS research study, and she directed me to East Village, and some bars over there.  And so I went to the Boiler Room, which, when I got there, smelled like incense and broken dreams.

At this point, I wasn’t really getting a sense of community from the gay bars.  In LA, so much of the gay community surrounds the bar culture, so I assumed there would be a similar sense of family.  But that didn’t seem to be the case.  I couldn’t tell if it was because, maybe, there is still a certain level of taboo surrounding homosexuality here, or if it’s so commonplace that there is no need for a united community to stand against the dangerous homophobia that we all face.  I’d like to think that, but as I was walking alone on Christopher Street, I certainly didn’t feel like I was accepted, or safe.  In fact, I had to cross to the other side of the street because of a large group of straight black men who were hooting and hollering at, well, everything.   

There’s clearly a level of understanding here about the history that we, as a community, have had to (and continue to) endure.  But I’m not sure if there is as much forward thinking activism as the west coast.  Still, this was my first evening out, so I’m not making any conclusions, just observations. 

The bar staff, as a whole, seem incredibly friendly, welcoming, and helpful.  I enjoy being able to walk in, say hello, make eye contact, and have a pleasant reaction.  Perhaps some individuals in the service industry on the west coast could learn a little bit of that.  I have yet to feel like I am bothering a bartender by asking for a drink, which I often feel in West Hollywood.  But then again, I’ve only gone to bars that have distaste for pretention.  I suppose I should try out the other bars and see if this excellent customer service is universal here.  I doubt it.

I was disappointed by the patrons.  It wasn’t the fact that all the bars were virtually empty (it’s a Monday, so I wasn’t expecting much), but their lack of inclusivity was a little intimidating, even for me.  I made an effort to smile, look eager, earnest, and approachable.  In fact, the only people who approached me were the old men looking to pay me for sex—so I guess some things are the same on both coasts. 

And then I went to The Cock.  At that point, I was pretty much disappointed in my evening.  But as soon as I walked up to the door, I was treated like an old friend.  The door guy was sassy and amazing.  I walked into the very, VERY dark bar, which had maybe 10 people in it, and was immediately greeted and within 5 minutes I had been introduced to everyone at the bar.  Trannys, club kids, otters, and go-go boys all treated me like a human.  Only one person put his hand down my pants, which was surprisingly refreshing, considering the place I was in.  They welcomed me into their group, invited me to events for the rest of the week, and were sad to see me leave. 

They helped humanize the city.  Being here, alone, is a fairly daunting endeavor, and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed.  A little humanity in this concrete jungle is tremendously endearing.