I visited Paul Short’s Friday party “Mooseknuckles,” and Saturday’s “Rocket,” run by Ashton Anders and Ryan Smith (the lanky Morgan bartends next to his sexy muscled employees). The idea for running a gay bar—Morgan is straight but, as a longtime East Village denizen, knows his way around the gays—came from the success of Spit, Short’s monthly party, which ran for two years at Uncle Ming’s.
Once inside, the décor is simple: rubberhose curtains divide the room in several places, while fake-flame chandeliers compliment posters of 1950s gay-pulp paperbacks and almost identical black-and-white photos of the same naked, well-endowed man (the model’s cock is twice as long in the second photo as the first). I couldn’t wait to start drinking.
The room was a crowded mishmash of mostly white East Villagers of all sizes, wearing funky glasses and sporting smatterings of facial and chest hair. Dancing on the bar was Israeli go-go boy Shay, who gave me a wink and a nod as I deposited a dollar on his person in an effort to support local artists.
Still, there was something off with the vibe—people were chatty, but not dancing. There were cute guys everywhere but no cruising.
“Girl, this is the most watered-down drink I’ve ever had in my life!” my cohort screamed, and I agreed. Usually polite, he spattered on while inhaling her cranberry juice: “People are never going to make new friends at this rate!” By 10:30 the next evening, however, there was already a line out the door. Inside DJ Ron Like Hell spun disco and deep house for the crowd. In the dark back area, totally deserted the previous night, the smell of cigarettes and hippie lettuce awoke my senses from the cold. The bar area being very crowded, I squeezed up against a lovely, delicate woman only to discover that it was Shortbus star Justin Bond,
also of Kiki and Herb fame. A new fan of The Hose, Bond’s introduction
to the bar was at an intermittent party called Judy (the next one is
Feb. 5). “It’s good to have a new East Village gay space,” he
explained, “with high ceilings and it’s not awfully claustrophobic.” I
agreed, as two art fags mashed up on either side of me. “One thing
though,” I shouted above the din, “it’s not very cruisy and nobody has
felt me up all night!” I swear I was just making a point, but he
immediately put his hand on my ass. “I can’t believe Justin Bond
touched my ass; you just made my night!” I told him. “Me too!” he
said.What a dream.
The rest of the night was a whirlwind of
local freaks and celebrities, like party organizer Jonny McGovern and
his posse. Having a great time, they were supposed to be on an East
Village bar crawl but didn’t leave until wee hours.
Much later
I was stumbling into a cab, and I looked back at the unmarked door
feeling very fulfilled. I believe that this fledging party house, with
a few minor kinks to iron out, has a whole lot of crazy (and dirty)
potential.
The Hose, 225 Ave. B (betw. E. 13th & E. 14th Sts.), 212-979-8506, www.thehosenyc.com
