Opinion
3 min

It happened at The Cock (Part 1)

A late-night trip to New York’s groping bar

The bar was crammed with so many men that there was no other option but to grope one another — that’s what The Cock was famous for. Credit: Stockbyte/Thinkstock

After my trip to the Black Party, I was back in New York. I’d arrived on an early morning flight and spent the day walking around the Chelsea and the West Village — all the sight seeing I didn’t get to do the last time I visited. I was a bit worn out, and decided to head back to my hotel for a well-deserved nap.

I had a dream about DH. He was living in a beautiful home with white painted bricks and black shutters. It sat up on a hill, somewhere away from the city and ordinary life. The house was full of elaborate paintings: walls of strange faces smiling blissfully and beautiful, naked, collared boys.  This place was DH’s destination in life. You could see the contentment on his face — this was where he was meant to be. I sat across from him in the living room while a television played nonsense in the background. “This is who you are,” he finally said to me, smiling.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Figure it out.” He grinned mischievously. He always did that.

“I’m not happy though.” I hesitated a moment. “I need to get out.”

“This is who you are,” he repeated.

“No, I have to leave,” I protested. He got upset — I could hardly stand it when he was cross with me. “You know that I’ll never abandon you. Never! We’re family. I need to get out though. If you need anything I’ll be back.” He didn’t say anything. “You’re my family. I love you, you know that.”

“Stop being so sentimental,” he said.

“I need to find myself again.”

“You can’t run away from who you are.”

“I’m not!”

I woke up in a sweat.

I looked at the clock —it was approaching midnight.

. . . 
 

I ended up at The Cock in the Lower Eastside just after 1:30am. It was busier than I would’ve expected for a Thursday night. I’d downed three double shots of vodka before leaving my hotel. It felt as though nothing really mattered — not because I was drunk or because I was in New York, but because I knew that I’d be leaving Toronto in a matter of months. The plan was set and nobody could stop it.

Many of the men at The Cock were there on their own, all smiles and eyes, cruising one another. As minutes passed, more people rushed into the bar until the corners were crammed with so many men that there was no other option but to grope one another — that’s what The Cock was famous for. As I wandered through the alcove at the back of the bar I found guys giving each other handjobs and blowjobs. Some were on their knees amongst the larger groups, risking being trampled on in service to the mass. It was so full of people that I couldn’t even get to the back.

Some guy started talking to me, whispering in my ear, telling me how his boyfriend was out of town, how he likes to be pissed on, and that there’s a piss party that happens every Sunday. “I think it’s called Golden Boys USA. Look it up,” he told me. I listened, only half interested, and watched the go-go dancers in jockstraps out of the corner of my eye. One of them was bouncing on the bar to the electro-funk beat, while the other sat by the DJ, swinging his legs.

This was the world without DH. He had always been there in the background, guiding me and giving advice. But after two years, and even though he’ll always be Daddy H to me, it was time to sort things out on my own.

I looked back over at the go-go dancers who were now up on the bar, being forced back by the crowd that was overflowing onto the dancefloor. The dancer on the left suddenly began doing push ups. After a few, he started humping the bar, flexing his bare ass with each pump. An older gentleman shoved a 20 dollar bill into his jockstrap, then proceeded to finger his ass . . .

 
 
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