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Atmosphere: Nightlife, Quirky. Output Bar, Nightclub, Contemporary. View this post on Instagram. Atmosphere: Nightlife. Trans-Pecos Nightclub, Bar, Contemporary. Situated in the former home of Silent Barn, Trans-Pecos is an all-ages show venue and community space on the increasingly buzzy Bushwick-Ridgewood border. Located in Brooklyn where else? Sun: pm - am.

Tue: pm - am. Wed: pm - am. Thu - Fri: pm - am. Fri - Sat: pm - am. Sat - Sun: pm - am. Send me an email at Will back2Stonewall. Within days of it opening I went frequently and there were NO queues. The back room was off the ground floor bar and above the bar on a small stage there were live shows every night, fisting, dildo squatting, and one memorable guy who danced with a pint glass of beer attached by a chain and clip attached to his foreskin. Within 4 months of opening Truman Capote and Andy Warhol showed up and the place was ruined.

When the celebrity crowd showed up I never went back and clearly the Anvil had already changed for the worse. Well now! Perhaps someone was a bit confused between upstairs and downstairs? As for the tunnels, in I was daring enough to explore one of the supposed tunnels, but both the smell and rotting structure turned us back even though we could hear the traffic overhead on West Street and hear the Hudson.

There were sex fisting shows on the main floor when the club first went from straight to gay and became the Anvil. They stopped doing them when the club started to become popular.

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I only remember the basement level being open the entrance was on the southeast side of the building. The Anvil, the most notoriously decadent after-hours West Village club of its time, a virtual institution of gay sin, good music, and a three ring circus of gay entertainment was located in a small three story, free standing triangular building bordered on all three sides by the West Side Highway and 11th Avenue with its entrance on 14th Street.

The Anvil had everything I needed under my circumstances as a weekend dancer at the Gaiety Burlesque Theater that relied on the generosity of couch-surfing. I had no couch available some nights.

So I would count on the Anvil as my hostel. The Anvil was open from midnight until noon the next day, seven days a week.


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It was a drug friendly environment. But it was danceable because the DJ was on drugs, and knew how to mix. There were drag queen shows at regular intervals all night on a center stage that I found terribly entertaining after a long binge of hard dancing. The Anvil catered to some of the hottest looking local and international men I had ever seen comingling around the go-go boy festooned bar and tight dance floor, like every rare species of gay men for me to admire and possibly sleep with.

The Anvil provided facilities to have quick and sometimes dangerous sex in the cave-like basement, but even with my seemingly cavalier attitude about sex from hustling, I still would prefer to make love in a comfortable bed than in a dark cold ominous subterranean vault. The Village Voice ran a cover story investigating unresolved murder cases of gay and transsexual men in the West Village, and one of the murder victims that the police did not care about bringing justice to a tortured corpse found in the Anvil basement.

I liked to stay upstairs on the dance floor high on drugs and twirl to the music than risk being mummified in the subterranean level of the Anvil. Both would not budge from the entrance door area, to observe the crowd at a safe distance, until their fatigue and boredom swept them out the handy getaway exit, and back to the comfort of the Upper East Side.

One Friday night I danced, drank cans of Budweiser beer, peed in the large urinal as men with bathroom fetishes lurked around me, flirted and socialized with go-go boys as they swung from rooftop ropes, and developed my first gay crush on a man with beautiful eyes who I had been cruising with heavy stares across the dance floor. I was skilled at communicating my intentions to another man in a disco while I danced, never uttering a word for hours until I found myself standing next to Mr. Eyes while at the bar waiting to order another beer.

At the narcissist age of nineteen years old, I would enter a club, size up the crowd to see if there was anyone I felt was attractive enough for me, and I would fixate on them, obsessing when they were out of sight for a moment as if they left, until they would reappear and I would continue the cruising charade. Nine times out of ten the object of my obsession would finally leave the disco without a word ever spoken between us. It was a futile game of cat and mouse, and my young ego was not ready for rejection.

When it was apparent that Mr. Eyes was not going to make the first move, and the morning sun was beginning to stream through the exit door as members left the club, I decided it was time to let him know I was interested in him. His beautiful orbs cemented my crush as I stood close to him and shook his hand and introduced myself. Some small talk ensued. I asked him to dance, the reward of a successful cruise, but Mr.

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  6. Eyes said he was about to leave. He suggested that I return the following Saturday night to the Anvil to meet up with him.


    I left the club shortly after he left. I walked along the slippery cattle fat and blood drippings coating the active meat market sidewalk of 14th Street feeling that my new infatuation, the first step to being in love, with someone of the same sex, was possible. After a day of rest at a now available loft of a caring friend, and excited prattle with him about my new crush, I returned to the Gaiety for the Saturday night Marathon, changed into a butch protocol outfit to ensure entry to the Anvil, and started my Saturday night dancing at my club of choice, the Gallery.

    Being impatient and afraid of missing Mr. Eyes, I got to the Anvil a few hours earlier than the agreed upon time. I was too distracted looking at the entrance door to enjoy myself, even the strange stage performances that were unique to this bizarre institution of gay extremism. The resident drag queen, MC, and DJ was Miss Candy Stevens, a black man who had so much estrogen and silicon injected into his body and his face that wearing the skin tight sequin cat suit he favored, he looked like a creature from another planet with exaggerated hips, tits, cheekbones and lips.

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    One Christmas he stopped his show to share the tender story of his mother calling him earlier that day to say she wanted her boy home for Christmas. This was not meant as a joke, and most of the less cynical members of the audience gave him their sympathetic applause. Yuba, a mean looking black man who could do a respectable imitation of Grace Jones, did his trademark fire act that night by running the flames of two torches over his hard, hairless and nude body, finishing with a dangerous spit of fire into the audience like a violent dragon.

    I forgave Mr. Eyes when he finally came through the front door hours later, socialized at length with bartenders, and ordered himself a beer without seeming to notice me or appear to be looking for me. I had put so much energy obsessing about Mr. Eyes that I was hardly going to let my fervor evaporate so quickly. I was young, so I had a lot more patience to wait for my first crush, the man of my new homosexual dreams, to come to me of his own volition.