Dumbo's Lusty Loft

“I remember a dick being sucked there, ... all the sex that has happened in that room,” Sienna Horton explains, pointing to one of the rooms nearby. “There are so many stories. I’m collecting the stories so when this place is gone …”

“You’d meet interesting people you’d want to fuck,” Rashaad Newsome says with a laugh, describing DUMBA parties and gatherings. “It’s hard to find people you want to fuck.”

Horton and Newsome are both members and residents of DUMBA, a live-in, queer artist collective located in the Dumbo area of Brooklyn. The loose-knit group has flourished for the past 10 years in the 5,000-square-foot space on Jay Street that’s dedicated to art exhibitions, political activism, music performances and uninhibited sex parties. Founded by Stephen Kent Jusick in the mid-’90s, the space grew to be known amongst a certain in-crowd for artsy gatherings and the “Lusty Loft” parties—where girl-on-girl, boy-on-boy action and everything in between took place freely and openly.

“I remember this straight couple who stopped by with their child [during a party]. They handed their baby to a friend who also has a kid and offered to take care of him,” explains Newsome. “She babysat while they had fun.”

It’s this reputation of sexual freedom and, as described in their mission statement, the ability to “promote the genital welfare and secure the blessing of libidos” that made it an ideal location for John Cameron Mitchell’s Shortbus. Mitchell, who frequented events at DUMBA over the years, was partly inspired by the “Sex Not Bombs” parties and other activities that often progressed to group sex later in the evening. Most of the orgies and salon scenes in Shortbus were shot at DUMBA.

“It captured the space really well,” says Horton of the film. “It’s not as racially diverse as DUMBA is currently, but it’s a good document of a time, a nice ending, a good send-off.”

Over the past five years, Horton estimates she’s probably lived with 30 or so people, ages three to 44, in the rambling warehouse space that’s carved out of a former photography studio. Vestiges of its former use remain: the hulking steel beams and camera mechanisms in one area—currently the bedroom of a young photographer—surface from dry wall like an archaeological find. Collage paintings lean against other walls, stuffed corners overflow with paper, beads and dusty machinery, colorful scraps and stained jars. A pink bathroom decorated with streamers and decoupaged photos feels like a funky college dorm room.

Four of its current residents—including Horton (a painter), Newsome (a video artist), Jasper James (a musician) and Pamela Giaroli (a photographer)—struggle to remain positive about their future, but their exasperation and defeat is palpable. The pleasure of seeing their home on the big screen, its potential to inspire an audience, is tempered by the fact that in a couple of months, they’ll all be homeless.

Dumbo is now a neighborhood packed with expensive strollers, gourmet grocery stores and high-end furniture outlets. With the influx of new residents snatching up the million-dollar views of Manhattan, it seems there’s no longer room for the groping, sucking and fucking that used to take place here. Neighbors called in noise complaints during DUMBA’s parties and suspected it of being a sex club during the Shortbus shooting due to its constant influx of drag queens, naked bodies and fabulous folk. When their lease ended this year, their landlord decided to seek new commercial tenants since he can potentially earn 10 times more in rent than the DUMBA crew pays.

Beyond the genderbending and sexual opportunities, the space also serves as a refuge for a creative community seeking to make their way in the world. Horton describes the path of poets and artists that have camped out in rooms and worries. “It’s a perfect moment to stay here,” she explains. “We have strong international connections; it’s a way for a lot of artists to be able to afford to come to New York. I had hoped it would keep going.”

At the moment the group is slowly digging through materials and personal items previous members left over the years. None of them are sure what the next step will be. Horton isn’t confident that New York City is the place for a space like DUMBA. “I think it’s an old dream; it doesn’t fit anymore. Being in the city is unnecessary.”

At the Art Under the Bridge Festival two weeks ago, it was obvious what she meant when she went on to describe “the city as the new suburbs.” Well-dressed couples window shopped, perusing trendy merchants’ wares. DUMBA’s doors were open, its walls covered with photos and relics of its current production and odes to their past vitality. One day soon the space would be renovated—maybe to be a bright, shiny new bank branch or another children’s clothing shop. And all of those enthusiastic orgasms, uninhibited ejaculations will be a vague memory, replaced by the squeals of capitalist glee.