Fourth of July on Bourbon Street, hot muggy and so crowded you couldn’t move on the street or in the bar. I squeezed my way into Lafitte’s past the doorman checking ID’s and stood a minute by Steve Wiley, our manager who was surveying the door and the crowd. “It’s nuts, been like this all day.” I could tell. The floor of the bar was a mess and the music was pumpin’. Steve was a guy who weighed 350 lbs. He was huge and it wasn’t all muscle. He was sitting on a stool sweating. He used to tell me about trying to exercise, he had a pair of gravity boots. He’d hang upside down. I always wanted to take a picture of me next to him holding a fishing pole like I’d caught the big one.
Gananoque, Ontario (2015)—It was my last day in Canada before returning to the United States. Driving south on the Queen Elizabeth Way, past the flat farmlands along the Saint Lawrence Seaway, I was approaching Gananoque, a small and vibrant tourist community just south of the Thousand Islands Bridge, which leads to the States. I was anxious to get to my destination, the Colonial Inn on King Street, check in, have some dinner and relax for the evening.
If you or anyone you know will be in Tel Aviv this coming Monday, please come to the “meet-up” BAMMER.co hosted by co-founder Mike Balaban at that city’s only remaining gay bar, Sphagat (it’s such a gay friendly city that LGBTQers now feel welcome in almost every bar).
We’d love to have you / them join us and learn about our effort to create global LGBTQ community while documenting our stories and images.
Istanbul/Berlin, 2008-2019 – I don’t have a fond memory of the first time I had sex with another man. One night in 2008, hornier than ever, I took a chance and propositioned a taxi driver who I regularly called to take me home from work, after I’d noticed him checking out my butt and crotch for the umpteenth time. He was willing, but drove us more than 200 kilometers outside of Istanbul, so that no one either of us knew might witness our liaison. I expected a romantic interlude, but he just wanted to get off. What a letdown
When someone says gay community in NYC we think of Greenwich Village in the 70s and Chelsea in the 90s, but Brooklyn in the 1800s? “On the (Queer) Waterfront: the Factories, Freaks, Sailors, and Sex Workers of Brooklyn,” explores the Victorian queer culture of Brooklyn through relics that include a never-before exhibited scrapbook of a lesbian living in 19th-century Brooklyn.
Brooklyn Historical Society (128 Pierrepont St. between Clinton and Henry streets in Brooklyn Heights, www.brooklynhistory.org). Opening reception March 5; 6:30–8:30 pm. Free. Exhibit open through July 7, Wed–Sun; noon–5 pm. $10 suggested donation ($6 seniors, students free).
Welcome to my world! I’m Nigerian, 33, Christian born and bred in the city of Lagos, where life is comfortable, at least for the rich or average straight person. My parents were not rich, but we five kids were given the best in life, in terms of education, food, and shelter.I didn’t lack for anything…except LOVE.
When I was coming out in the late ‘70s, I was part of a large community that included men of different ages, races, ethnicities and sexual proclivities, along with lesbians and others of varying sexual and gender identities. The unifying force was that we all considered ourselves societal outsiders.
Stories about my adventures bartending in New Orleans in the late ’70s and early ’80s. To read them all, click here.
Working in the bars in New Orleans, I learned one thing very quickly about myself—my type of man was Cajun. Cajuns typically were dark-haired, with pale skin and green eyes. They came from an area outside of New Orleans and spoke an archaic version of French. Cajun Country started along the Mississippi River around Baton Rouge and went west along Interstate 10 across the whole southern part of Louisiana. I’d heard stories about the Cajuns—Cajuns who, during the Mardi Gras Season, would hold parties around a bonfire somewhere near Ville Platte and bring their horses. They could hold their liquor. As they partied, a few of them would usually end up stripped naked on horseback, standing on top of their horses, racing around the bonfire. I always wanted to go to one of those parties.
We’re excited to announce that we’ll be hosting a memoir-writing workshop in Puglia, Italy, on August 24-31. The event will take place at a 500-year-old villa near the town of Terlizzi on the Appian Way in the “heel of Italy,” which was purchased by an American couple we know and turned into a boutique hotel.