Yuri and His Boyfriend Find a Gay Hangout

Setauket, Long Island, February 1999

Wednesday

This is Yuri's third date with Daniel -- they met on Valentine's Day -- and he has invited me and some of his other friends out to dinner to meet him.  Daniel seems to be exactly his type: early 40s, handsome, bearded, with a bodybuilder's v-shaped torso, ample chest hair poking out over his t-shirt, and of course an enormous bulge (Yuri likes them gigantic).

I usually stay over with Yuri on Wednesday nights rather than going all the way into Manhattan and back again the next morning, but I don't want to suggest "sharing" so soon in their relationship, so I say "Well, the Long Island Railroad awaits..."

"Can't wait to get back to the City, huh?" Daniel asks.

I've been having rather a bad day, and I don't relish the idea of two hours on a train, a 20-minute subway ride, and a five block walk in the in the February ice, so I snipe "No, actually, I don't like it there at all."

Gulp -- that was the mistake.  All gay men living east of Chicago are expected to believe that Manhattan is Heaven, to be desired, dreamed of, wept over, and fought over.  You don't like Heaven?  Blasphemer!

Four guys around the table at the Raga Indian Restaurant in Setauket stare at me in surprise.  Then they all start talking at once:
"I'd give anything to live in the City, instead of out here in the sticks!"
"It's the biggest, most exciting, most gay city in the world.  What's not to like about it?"
"You spend all last year saying how much you want to live there, and now you don't like it?"
"What don't you like? The museums, the restaurants, or the gay culture?

"I know, I know, it's got the best of everything in the world," I say, stopping them.  "I love the Met, the Museum of Natural History, the Guggenheim.  I love having Chinese, Japanese, Thai, and Vietnamese restaurants within a few blocks.  But... I'm a perpetual tourist.  I never really feel at home."

"Maybe you're staying overnight with Yuri too much," Daniel says, with a note of jealousy in his voice.  "Maybe you're not giving it enough time."

"I only stay with Yuri on Monday and Wednesday nights.  I'm in the City five nights a week.  It's just that...everyone is a stranger.  The streets are crowded with ghosts, time travelers, lost souls."

I'm on a roll.  "My roommate is a stranger.  All of my friends are here on Long Island. I don't have any hangouts, like the French Quarter in West Hollywood or Orphan Andy's in San Francisco.  I'm always alone."

"What is hangout?" Yuri asks.

I explain it to him.

"Ok, that's easy.  We come to the City this weekend, find you a hangout.  You pay for dinner."

"It's settled, then," Daniel says.  "The Great 'Find Boomer a Gay Hangout' Quest of 1998."  He pauses.  "And you don't need to go back to the horrible bright lights of Manhattan tonight.  I'm sure one of these Long Islanders will take pity on you and offer you his bed."


The City, Saturday

Yuri and Daniel arrive at Penn Station around noon, their Spartacus Gay Guide in hand.  We go to the Museum of Natural History and the big Brentano's Bookstore on 5th Street, then get down to business.

"What was your favorite hangout in West Hollywood?" Daniel asks.

"Mugi," I tell them.  "It was a small bar for Asian guys and their admirers.  They played 'One Night in Bangkok' two or three times a night.  It was ridiculous!"  I smile at the memory.

9:00 pm: The Web.  A small, cramped bar on 58th Street in Midtown, near Central Park.  Dirty, sleazy, full of leering, elderly rice queens who aggressively cruise Cute Young Thing Yuri.  There aren't any Asian guys except some go-go boys dancing in their underwear, looking bored.

Yuri is annoyed by the aggressive cruising.  We leave quickly.

"Ok, how about the Faultline in West Hollywood?" I say.  "A bear/ leather bar with an outdoor patio and beer/soda busts every Sunday.  I also hung out at the San Francisco Eagle, same kind of format."

11:00 pm: The New York Eagle.   On West 28th, near Penn Station.  I know my way around a leather bar, but this cavernous, red-hued fetish space is a little over the top.  A vast sea of sweating, pierced, leather-clad bodies swigging on beer bottles, chomping on cigars, and giving major Attitude.  At least they're not aggressively cruising.  Or cruising at all.

And there's a little dark room activity going on.  Yuri goes down on a very well hung older bear, while Daniel, a guy named Carl, and I watch/keep guard.  Daniel gets so excited that he pulls it out, and lets me fondle it for awhile.  I'm too skittish to go down on him, until later, when we return to my apartment to "share."

The bedroom activity is fine: Daniel and Yuri kiss while I go down on them both, and then he tops Yuri while Yuri goes down on me.  Not my favorite hookup, but fine.


Sunday

We get up, have a breakfast of cereal and toast, and then set out again to find a hangout.

In West Hollywood, I went to the gay-specific Metropolitan Community Church every Sunday.  It was a small congregation, no more than 30, and they became like family.  I dated several members of the congregation, including two student clergy.   I also went to the MCC of San Francisco, but not as often.

Yuri is Russian Orthodox who goes to Mass occasionally, and Daniel is a non-practicing Jew.  They both agree to come to church, in the interest of providing me with a hangout.


10:00 am: The New York MCC.  On West 38th Street, just north of Penn Station.  There are over 500 congregants; it is a very narrow, cramped space, crowded with mostly lesbian couples and a few older gay men.  During the coffee hour afterwards, we get major Attitude; no one comes up to welcome us.

Next!

I'm running a little low on potential hangouts.

"You talk about the French Quarter all the time," Yuri suggests.

I loved the French Quarter in West Hollywood.  We went several times a week, often for Sunday brunch or in the evening after a night of cruising.  All gay except for a few elderly Jewish ladies in mink coats.  The waiters were all hot, and had no Attitude.  Best omelettes I've ever eaten, and the zucchini sticks -- wow! I'd pay to have them air-shipped to New York.

12:00 pm: The Bistro, on Bleecker Street, about a mile from my apartment.   They don't start serving brunch until noon.  It's a bright, airy space, with interesting selections like salmon and polento benedict, which turn out more bland and tasteless than you'd expect.  And our waiter, although cute, spends most of his time ignoring us, and the rest rolling his eyes when we request water.

Next!

We walk north on Broadway, through Washington Square.

"Well, did you have any other hangouts?" Daniel asks.

"Just the bear parties in San Francisco."  They were held twice a week at a private house South of Market.  Socializing and snacks upstairs, sexual activity downstairs.  The regulars got to be pretty good friends."

 "We have that on Long Island," Yuri points out.  "Ravi's Bear Parties."

"On Long Island," I say with a sad smile.  "I guess Manhattan is a lost cause.  So, what do you guys want to do this afternoon, before you catch your train back home?  How about the Museum of Modern Art?"

"We must go to the gym," Yuri says. "We do not go yesterday."

I don't actually belong to a gym in the City.  I'm on Long Island four days a week, where I can use the campus gym for free, and on the other days I just go to the 'fitness center' in the basement of my building.  But I could use a workout, too, so we find a gym wit day memberships.

2:00 pm: The New York Spots Club.  On Irving Place, a few blocks from my apartment.

It doesn't advertise as gay-specific, but the members seem to be mostly gay men, languid twinks with 10-lb dumbbells, tanned 30-ish guys in designer gym clothes on the treadmills, chubby bears straining at the chest press machines, gym rats in mesh t-shirts grunting as they bench 400.  The familiar smells of chalk and sweat.  The sound of clanking weights, grunts, and gossip.

I sit at a incline press machine, wipe off the last guy's sweat with a rough white towel, set the weight to my usual, and press.

A feeling of contentment sweeps over me.

No matter how cold and alien the City is, this is always warm and familiar.  This is home.

My favorite hangout is not a bar or restaurant, or a sex club, or church.  It's the gym.