The Black Party, he said with an eye roll, "is definitely an experience." I'd heard people describe it as one of the filthiest events you could go to in New York City, and I knew a little bit about its history - like the rumors that its performances, at one point, had included a man having sex with a snake and the fact that it had emerged out of the Saint, the notorious East Village gay dance club.Īlthough it closed in 1988, the Saint's extravagant production values and muscular clientele helped define the body-obsessed party culture that most people still associate with gayness.
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After I wrote a magazine article about HIV educators, a source approached me with an intriguing proposition: He had a free ticket to the Black Party and was wondering if I'd like to tag along. I would watch them idly smoke their cigarettes during the afternoon and wonder whether I was missing out on a key part of the gay experience by not being over there in my towel, instead of heading home to my boyfriend.īut by the time I was single again - and living in New York - I was determined to change that.
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"Too bad they're all married with kids." When I got a job working in a gay video store, I could see guys hanging out on the roof deck of the gay bathhouse across the street. "You'd be surprised by how hot those men behind the bushes are," one of them told me. When I lived in Toronto after college, my older friends visited bathhouses and cruised the park in my Portuguese neighborhood. I was a monogamist by nature, but I longed to be more adventurous in sex. But my sexual coming-of-age was probably not that different from that of most straight men and women, filled with prolonged periods of unwanted celibacy and awkward one-night stands. As I moved from my hometown in Edmonton, Canada, to bigger cities, I went to gay punk shows and arty queer dance parties, getting myself drunk enough to talk to men I thought were cute and, on occasion, going home with them. Like most gay guys, I spent my late teens and early 20s making up for the chastity of my high school years. But as the night progressed, my attitude went from excitement to discomfort to utter revulsion - and I began to wonder, did I even belong here? I had come here to confirm several of my long-cherished beliefs about sex and gayness: that sex in all of its forms was awesome, that gay men's permissive attitudes toward it were much saner than the straight community's, and that events like this one were a healthy celebration of the most transgressive elements of gay life that had preceded me. ( This year's party will take place on Saturday, March 19.) For three decades, the party has been a raunchy high point of the gay calendar in New York, and a throwback to the most hedonistic aspects of pre-AIDS gay culture. rolls around, have public sex in various parts of the building. Every March, thousands of shirtless men cram into the large concert venue in midtown to dance to world-famous house DJs, do lots of drugs and, once 3 a.m. I had spent the last six hours at the Black Party, a giant gay event that takes place every year at Roseland Ballroom in Manhattan. "Some guy must have pissed ALL OVER my shoulder!"
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"Oh my God!" he exclaimed to his friend, as his wet skin rubbed up against my arm. And as I stood there contemplating the circumstances that had led me to this place, a man wearing nothing but a harness and underwear staggered down the hallway and accidentally pressed up against me. A man dressed in a leather jacket emblazoned with the words "human urinal" was next to me, a funnel strapped to his face. It was 7:30 in the morning, and I was standing in front of a bunch of cots filled with piles of naked men. I remember the exact moment I realized it was time to leave the sex party and go home.