Hairy Chests, Fangs, and Bondage? Oh My!

A Crash Course into the Twin Cities’ Offering of Queer Watering Holes (Besides the Gay 90’s)

BY JAY WALKER

The Gay 90’s is truly the villain of the week this time around, with its rogues gallery of comic book henchmen masquerading as security guards, eager to ensure you know your place as a pest. Throwin’ trans folk out of bathrooms and barking in your face, they sure know how to treat a customer the ‘Mpls PD’ way! Due to the constant supply of hetero-horrors that feed the machine, the 90’s will remain the big bully on the block because they can afford to be with their name recognition alone. So it begs the question: “What’s a queer fella got to do to find a decent watering hole in this town?” Luckily, such a fella is not without options.

The 19, One of Minneapolis’ Oldest Gay Bars

Founded in 1952, The 19, situated in the Nicollet Mall side of the woods, is a charming place to unwind, especially in the back patio, where an altercation broke out while I was there between a group and a barkeep, which proved a great source of laughs to many whilst bummin’ a drag off of someone’s cig. For the sporting types, there are plenty of wagers to be settled between the pool tables and the men’s room, which is nothing more than a couple of urinals, perfect for a good ole-fashioned patriotic pissin’ contest. As for the “shy bladder” crowd, have no fear! There is a ladies room that is a single unit restroom where one can excrete the fluids and muck without those peering, invasive, bloodshot stares. Just be ready to wait in line. On the liquor-front, the long island some gent bought me did its job thoroughly and ensured I could not drive home that night without imitating a game of bumper cars on I-35.

Black Hart... The Obligatory St. Paul Inclusion

Whilst this joint caters to gay booze hounds, it also aims to please... *nervous gulp* soccer fanatics! I shudder thinking about it. If you can muster to stand the atrocity, the respectable dance floor area and frequent drag shows are enough to win over even the most callous of squares. The place has got everything a growin’ alcoholic needs, on a budget! Although cheap, the tequila sunrise ($5) and margarita ($4) I inhaled were heavily poured. In so few words, they hastily sent me into a trance-like state where I felt as though I was a broken metronome, swaying side to side, crashing into every patron, helpless barstool, and drag queen alike. Oddly enough, the barkeep even tried buying the shirt off of my back. I didn’t know how else to mention the reasonable $7 cover. So there! Mr. Walker’s got you covered.

The Saloon... A Real Hoot and A Holler!

The Saloon: the rowdiest place in town for a rip- roarin’ time. After coughin’ up ten smackeroos to get in, I had showed up in time for a treat: a drag show starring some of the best and brightest of the local drag scene. After which, the dance floor opened up, as did the glorious ‘shower.’ It was a steamy chamber, consisting of glass walls, and a nude man packed with glistening muscles and carpeted in curly hairs, basking in the stares from onlookers under the scalding water pouring down. Anyone laying witness couldn’t help but wish to treat those low hanging fruits to a round of boxing, like a speed bag. Perhaps that was the screwdriver doing the writing for me.

Ground Zero

On the way in, I watched a security guard pummel some poor twinks to death for being a dollar short of the lofty, $15 cover charge. Setting aside the clawing and chewing it takes to get in, Ground Zero is the place where all of the ghastly ghouls and black-acrylic acolytes go to be subjected to every torment short of the guillotine. In tandem with it being a lair to the gothic subculture in these parts, Ground Zero tends to also attract the homos like a fly to a bug zapper. They go hand-in-hand, in a manner of speaking. The rows of church pews are packed often with gleeful spectators who regularly break into hysterics with each swift whipping, beating, and electrocution that each bound, pain-starved fiend volunteers to be subjected to by some dominatrix dame. It became clear that the house of gothic groove was stocked with some exotic giggle juice as I sampled a crimson elixir dubbed ‘The Vampire’ (Stoli Blueberry, Cranberry, Chambord, $7), which wielded a taste of dreadful sweetness, as well as the murky-green, sour ‘Cthulhu’ (Cuervo, Peach, Club Soda, SweetSour, OJ, $7). On the way out, it was unclear whether I was merely plagued by drunken lunacy or if I really did spot some poor sap’s lost fangs lying on the ground of the dance floor. I could believe either outcome, but being the betting man that I am, I’d put down ten on the fangs being real after all...