A DEFLATED COCK

Things just ain’t the same. I’m talking about my weekly Sunday nights at the Cock bar. Yes, the infamous east village bar is no more; and with it went it’s weekly Sperm Sunday parties. Yes, I know the bar moved a mile or so down the road, but it just isn’t the same. For starters, it was so convenient – the bar was kitty-corner from my apartment. In the dead of winter I could scoot across the street in a t-shirt without the hassle of a bulky coat. I loved when the British door gal would say in her half-drunk cockney accent, “Love, honey, where is your wrap?’ I’d hurry in the bar and order my trademark vodka and coke – a Black Bitch for those who don’t know and by the way, Miss Debbie Harry drinks them, too. I would sip my cocktail and take in the music and the crowd. The djs played a mixture of the latest happy house, old disco, punk and 80s new wave. I will never forget the gaggle of black queens singing perfect gospel backup over the loudspeakers to Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls”. I usually wouldn’t leave until the lights came on at 4 or 5 am. I’d sneak out the side door – or the door of shame as we called it.

The raunchy Saturday night party called Foxy was a worldwide sensation – written up in every hipster magazine in the world – and put the Cock on the map. Foxy was a freak show contest where contestants would take to the small stage and perform lewd acts for money to the cheering of the crowd. I am not even going to write what I saw take place on that stage – I might get my blog thrown off this site!!

And you never knew who you would see throwing back a cocktail – it could be Britney, Madonna, Lena Horne or Christina Aguilera. I will never forget the night Miss Eartha Kitt was sitting on the bar with a glass of dubious quality champagne in her hand while a totally nude go-go boy swung over her head on the trapeze. It was high life meeting low life and I am sure the ghosts of Andy Warhol, Capote and Halsten were huddled in the corner comparing notes.

This is the place where I caught a flame of mine canoodling in the back room. I shrieked in horror to the hum of some old Blondie melody and I ran from the bar – oh yes, drama was served up nightly at the Cock. To his credit, like any good boyfriend worth having, he at least had the decency to chase me out of the bar and across Avenue A screaming my name and begging my forgiveness. And yes, I took him back – the Cock had a way of making good boys do bad things.

This is the bar where I first heard my two favorite songs…”Lola’s Theme” by the Shapeshifters and “A Higher Place” by Peyton.

My Monday clients more often than not were my family at Modern Salon magazine, who loved to hear about my night at the Cock. Miss Maggie, the beauty editor, loved to shock the hairdressers by calling out, “David, did you have fun at Sperm last night?”

My best pal Peter aka Miss Tina broke his 10-year dry spell with a somewhat cute Asian boy. Well, almost – no batons were tossed in the air, but there was touching. “Honey, you know Miss Tina doesn’t do egg roll.”

That same night we saw Rupert Everet canoodling with a man in the back room. As I said, you never knew whom you would run into at the Cock.

Yes, an era has ended. If you doubt me, google Cock Bar NYC and find out for yourself.