Five Days in New York: The Men and NYC’s Sanitized Gay Scene
No doubt about it. The more I travel, the more I realize that the internet that has spawned all those hook-up sites and phone apps and 24/7 opportunities to meet a guy has actually fucked things up royally everywhere, including what was once the gay capital of America, New York City.
That’s not to say I was box office poison the time I was there. Hell, I got over a hundred hits on the almost dozen sites I’m on – I guess I benefited from the “New Meat” phenomenon – but most were guys who apparently did not read my profile. “I’m so into hairy guys,“ oozed one surfer boy. My reply: “But did you ask me what I want?” Then there were the usual gameplayers, like the dozen or so cute or hot guys who hit me up and who I wanted but just before closing the deal, disappeared into the safety of anonymous cyberspace, or worst, played mindfucker. “Done walking Fido. I’ll be grabbing a cab for your hotel In five minutes,” and never materialized. A few, after all the bullshit, actually blocked me so there would be no way for me to tell them to fuck off. But why bother. Guys who pull this like playing power games, are fucked up, on drugs or like all of us, playing three or four or more guys at the same time, hoping to get Number 14 but not dropping Number 8 just in case.
In the end, I focused on the doables and had sex every day I was there.
Friday night, when nothing was happening for me on the web, I strolled over to my old haunt, the West Side Club bath house, where a cutie from Austin spent forty five minutes in my lap, and where twenty minutes later, a humpy hairy New Yorker finished me off.
Saturday night, before hitting the Eagle, I walked over a few blocks from my hotel for a Bear Night advertised on Growlr, and had one older guy in uniform work me over on some Salvation Army sofa, only to be pushed aside by a hairy humpy man in town from D.C. Relax, guys, there’s enough to go around.
Sunday, I was invited to a threesome by some guy on Daddyhunt, again walking distance from my hotel, that was wild for the first-forty five minutes till a twink – apparently it was his apartment – barged in and told us to wrap it up. We grabbed a cab and continued in my hotel room, and later I got lucky on Scruff and did a little coke with a bearded buddy who told me coke is a lot cheaper than meth in New York and a hell of lot easier to get.
Monday, I fucked a musician who worked at Lincoln Center ( he had just purchased a million dollar one bedroom on the Upper West Side – God bless America and the free enterprise system), and that evening I had a threesome when two guys, one from Growlr, the other from Nastykinkpigs, both wanted me at the same time. (Nastykinkpigs was between jobs and paying $3800 in rent for a one bedroom in midtown.)
That same day, one guy had pleaded with me to visit him in Soho, another on the Upper West Side. But why bother? I had had fun without ever leaving West 38th Street.
Monday, my last day in the City, which would probably be the last day I would spend in New York in my life, I took the subway down to Sheridan Square and the West Village, my old stomping rounds as a leather man of the eighties and nineties. Christopher Street, our catwalk, was now more trendy than sexy, and where my seedy hangouts, the original Eagle, the Spike and the Lure, once catered to the whims of the leather/levi crowd, high rise condos sliced into the sky. The crumpling West Street piers, the site of decadent night time liaisons, were now a sleek urban park, complete with a jogging trail and tourist ferries. Ah, if only the sidewalks could talk.
As for St. Vincent’s Hospital, once a City landmark on 12th Street which ran the health care system I worked for till I left for Florida in 2002 (the system went bankrupt a few years later), it was being converted into luxury apartments.
The philosopher was right.
You can’t go home again.