Quiet Sunnyside

The 7 train stopped running the other night after it entered Queens. We sat there and listened to the speakers in our car. We couldn't understand a word. After a few minutes we still weren't moving, the train was empty, and the doors were still open. My short, fat, gay, Indian companion stood and threw one end of his scarf over his shoulder in a flounce. "Let's blow," he said. We were in Sunnyside.

It was quiet on the Highway of Death, and we couldn't find a cab. But my companion almost managed to get hit by a stopping bus. The driver regarded us from his open door. I dragged on my cigarette. "No way," I said. The bus pulled away. I don't trust busses in Queens. Who knows where you might end up?

It was cold, though, and soon my cigarette hand was red raw. Switching hands didn't help. I knew I needed gloves. My companion said the next best thing to gloves was stopping in at Gallagher's 2000, the gentleman's club. I hadn't realized we were so close. It was off of Queens Boulevard, a little to the north. No streetlamps. No parked cars. No sign. Before I knew what was happening, we were at the security post.

On Sundays there's no cover at Gallagher's 2000, but bag check is compulsory. The lighting in the entryway is harsh and fluorescent. It feels like a post office. Linoleum on the floor and acoustic tiles on the drop-down ceiling. Four large gentlemen stand by an airport walk-through metal detector. They're nice enough, but one still cupped my balls. My companion giggled. I told the security guys it was okay, he wasn't Indian like that. And we were through.

Sunday is a slow night, and the big room was closed. Large armchairs were stacked in a corner by the stage, as though Gallagher's 2000 was about to move out. On our way in we passed a hot dog rolling machine. "It's Free Hot Dog Night at Gallagher's," said my companion. How would he know that? "Please," he said. We sat at the bar. There were maybe six other guys there. It was a large rectangular bar with a long narrow stage in the middle. Three poles. A lady was dancing, wearing white stockings and a matching thong, a sultry look on her face. My companion said she looked constipated. He went to get us some hot dogs. I ordered us whiskey and beer: it was cold outside. The bartender told me that water was the best thing to keep warm. She'd learned it in the service. I told her I didn't know what she was talking about. And I wanted ice in my whiskey.

The hot dogs were delicious. Our sultry white-thonged lady approached us after her featured dance. "Hey boys," she said. "How's your wieners?" "Delicious," said my companion, "now get out of here." She did look constipated.

The night pressed on. One woman or two at a time would dance for two songs, then make the short round through the room, soliciting private shows. I almost bought one for my companion at one point, but thought better of it. He's missing his husband. They had Hancock Reserve bourbon. Appropriate. We blew through maybe a bottle, and plenty of Budweiser. This is why I won't ever subscribe to a porno site or buy dvds: the length. By the end of the night the stage shows had become repetitive and drawn out. I lived in Amsterdam for a while and one night attended a live sex show. Boring. Mechanical. This is why we watch clips: for a minute, maybe two of excitement and titillation, then we move on to the next. The Internet has given us clips, and we are grateful. My companion and I talked about filming sex. We both had tried it and decided that it's very hard to make it look good, and if it does look good, it's no fun. He said he likes it when a guy spits in his mouth. And who'd want to watch that? He's missing his husband.

It was late when we left Gallagher's 2000. I smoked cigarettes the entire way and didn't mind the hands. Water be damned. There were still no cabs. As we turned down the road we'd been heading to, a Main Street bound 7 train passed us overhead.