One of the bars I frequented the most early in my New York City days was this place called Eastern Bloc, at East 6th St. and Avenue A, in the East Village. It’s not there anymore — it’s now a cabaret club owned and operated by Alan Cumming, Club Cumming — but when I was living in Manhattan, it was a small, Soviet-themed gay bar, packed to the rafters on Friday and Saturday nights.
Eastern Bloc was a tiny, narrow place, with a bar on the right, a D.J. booth in the back, a dance floor in the middle, and a long banquette on the left. It was dark, with vintage gay porn playing on a few retro televisions, some Tom of Finland–type art, and a jukebox.
I first started going there because I heard the guy who owned it, Ben Maisani, was dating Anderson Cooper. I figured that probably meant it was a hot place to see-and-be-seen-being-gay. It was really more of a dive bar, though A.C. 360 did come in every once in a while. It was before he had publicly come out, and I remember one night giving him a long list of reasons why he should.
Anyway, I liked the atmosphere of the place, and the guys were hot. So, I made it my regular weekend haunt.
I would always go there alone. People often compliment me for my ability to do things alone, and tell me they wish they could do it themselves. I’ve always thought settling for inferior company for fear of being alone, or staying housebound because all your friends are busy, to be much worse alternatives than maybe experiencing a little bit of self-consciousness going out alone. And that self-consciousness fades over the years as you get used to it.
Plus, when I went to a gay bar, I was on the hunt. I didn’t need a wingman, and I didn’t need the baggage of a group. I’d done a lot of work on my body and invested heavily in my wardrobe in the year before I moved to New York, and I felt hot. I would play Queen’s “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” on my way downtown, psyching myself up, filled with anticipation for the evening’s hunt.
Sitting at the bar, drinking a Stella Artois, or a gin and tonic with lime, or a double vodka Red Bull, whatever it was on a particular evening, it wasn’t long before I would home in on a hot guy sitting nearby or on the dance floor and make my move.
In the few years that I had been out of the closet, I had gotten used to being the pursuer. I would see a hot guy, I would go after him, he would submit to my charms, hopefully. Rinse, repeat. So, it always felt a little strange when a guy approached me. I typically didn’t like it, because the guys who approached me were usually not my type, and it’s always awkward turning people down. Some guys won’t leave you alone, either.
One night, though, sitting alone at the bar, drinking, texting people on my iPhone, waiting for the evening to develop, I started to hear a couple of guys at the other end of the bar have a conversation that sounded like it was about … me.
“Did you see that guy in the grey Irish sweater?”
“Yeah. Hot.”
“Why do you think he’s here by himself?”
“Maybe he got stood up?”
People always think they’re talking quietly enough not to be heard, that people can’t hear them — but people can hear them. And there was only one guy wearing a grey Irish sweater in the bar, and that was me.
So, they thought I was hot. I wondered what they looked like. I couldn’t look over at them without being obvious, so I was planning on moving seats to get a better angle. Before I could, though, the shorter of the two guys was right over my shoulder.
“Hi, I’m Andrew,” he said. He was about 5’9”, with dark brown eyes, neat auburn hair, and a five o’clock shadow. White, looked kinda Irish, maybe Jewish. Cute.
“I’m Charlie.”
“Are you here by yourself?”
“I am!”
“Why’s that?”
“I always go out by myself.”
He asked me if I wanted to join him and his boyfriend, Colin, at the other end of the bar.
Now that I was able to get a good look at Colin, I saw that he was quite hot — tall, muscular, ginger. Gingers are not my type, but Colin was very much pulling it off.
“I’d love to join you guys.”
Andrew introduced us, and Colin said hello. He had a lovely English accent.
“Are you from London?”
“I am.”
I don’t remember much of the rest of the conversation from that night. Andrew and Colin were curious about me, so I told them a little bit about myself and what I had been doing for my first few months in New York. Andrew was a lawyer who had grown up in Beverly Hills, and Colin was a graphic designer for a free city newspaper who was working on a green card. They lived together in Union Square.
Andrew insisted they give me a tour of Manhattan’s gay bars. I was game. They took me all around the Village and Hell’s Kitchen, to places like Marie’s Crisis, the Duplex, Industry, and Therapy. I had a great time, a blurry one by the end of it, and shortly after 4 a.m., Andrew asked me for my number. I gave it to him, and then kissed the boys goodnight and headed back to my apartment, between Central Park West and Lincoln Center.
When I woke up in the morning, I had a text from Andrew, apologizing if he had embarrassed himself the night before.
“Why would you think that?”
“I dunno … dragging you around to all those bars. Were you even having fun?”
“Of course I was; it was great!”
I can be adorably naïve sometimes, and I honestly didn’t realize Andrew was embarrassed because he had a crush on me. My first few months in New York were filled with dinners and drinks and meet-and-greets and lots of new people, and there were lots of enthusiastic invitations being made, so he hadn’t come across as thirsty at all the night we met.
But as the weeks went by, and his invitations to hang out again began to pile up, I started to get the idea. I put him off the first few times, being busy with law school, my friends, and the dozens of other guys I was planning on having sex with.
Right around Halloween, though, Andrew invited me to a Halloween party he and Colin were throwing at their apartment. A bunch of their friends from this photography app called Instagram were coming. I hadn’t heard of the app (yes, there was a time when Instagram was new and indie and cool!), but agreed to drop by.
I showed up in a charcoal-colored suit and black shirt. I’m like a chick in that I don’t do costumes unless I can also look hot, so I was “charcoal” that night. I could tell that Andrew was pleased that he had finally gotten me over to their place, and that he thought I looked hot. Colin was always more taciturn, but he was obviously happy, too.
I stayed for an hour or so and chatted with the Instagrammers, most of whom were from Scandinavia. I could feel Andrew’s eyes on me, and I wanted to stay and see if the evening was going to narrow down to just the three of us. But I also had plenty of other friends, and it was Halloween, and F.O.M.O. was slowly starting to creep in along with their cascading texts, so I said goodbye shortly after midnight. I could tell that the boys were disappointed I was going so soon, but I knew I’d see them again.
A few weeks later, Andrew and Colin invited me over to dinner, just the three of us. They lit candles and poured delicious wine. We ate something yummy that they cooked — the boys were both gourmands — and talked about our holiday plans. Colin talked about hating his job, but feeling stuck because it was the only thing allowing him to stay with Andrew and live in the States.
But mostly, they flirted with me, and before long, I could feel both pairs of their feet rubbing up against mine.
I grinned. “I knew this is what you guys were planning.”
“We weren’t planning anything,” Andrew said, with his own grin.
Andrew was a lawyer and I was a lawyer-in-training, so Colin dropped some cheesy line, like, “Shall we adjourn to the bedroom, counselors?” And then we did.
I think we were all wearing cashmere. I remember tearing layer after layer of soft and expensive clothing off while the other two covered my lips and neck and chest and arms with kisses. I pulled Andrew on top of me and made dirty faces while I tweaked his nipples. He slid down to my cock and started sucking me off, and I stared into Colin’s green eyes before he kissed me, deeply.
We rolled around like that for a while, kissing and touching each other everywhere. I was truly intoxicated by how hot it was, totally present, completely lost in the moment.
When it got to the point where we were all ready to come (the agony) and wanted to come (the ecstasy), Andrew said he really wanted to watch me suck Colin off. I was so down for that. Colin was a strong, quiet guy, with a bit of an air of sadness and anger to him, and he had a big, beautiful uncut cock. I thought he was really fucking hot. Like, chafe-your-dick hot.
I got down in between his legs and kissed him in the spots between his legs and his balls. I slid my tongue down his balls, and then enveloped his cock with my mouth. I went slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. I swallowed the entire thing, feeling the head of his cock jam against the back of my throat. I made effective use of my hands. Andrew had a look of holy fuck, this is so hot on his face the whole time.
Before very long, Colin was ready to come, and he pushed me down on my back, and he and Andrew jerked off all over me while I jerked myself off.
Andrew’s face was right. It was so. fucking. hot.
Our romps continued over the next few months. Colin was planning on taking the U.S. citizenship test at some point, so one night, we played strip trivia on facts about the U.S. government and Constitution until we were completely naked and exploring each other’s bodies. Andrew always liked to end the evening watching me and Colin together. I didn’t know the word for it then, but he liked to be cucked.
We soon took our relationship outside the bedroom. I invited them to dinner downtown with a big group of my friends one night, after seeing Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson on Broadway. We met for late-night slices at Artichoke Basille’s Pizza. I got to know cute things about them, like how Andrew wanted to be a pop star when he was a kid, and had his parents rent out studio space so he could produce an album under the name Andrew Robert. #BeverlyHillsKid
Unfortunately, as the months wore on, it became clear Colin’s job and green card issues weren’t going away. And the one solution that might seem obvious today — getting married to Andrew — wasn’t an option. The battle for gay marriage was still raging across the land, and while two men could get married in New York, the Defense of Marriage Act — D.O.M.A. — was still in effect. That meant that even if the boys were married, Colin wouldn’t be eligible for any federal benefits or recognition — including a green card.
One night, we were hanging out with my English artist friend, Carla, who didn’t know about Colin’s immigration woes. She was ecstatic, as she’d finally gotten her U.S. citizenship, and when she merrily announced her good news, it was too rough for Colin to hear. I gave him and Andrew hugs and kissed them goodnight, watching them walk away sadly, into the night.
Witnessing the pain that D.O.M.A. caused the two of them anguished me. It tore at my heart and boiled my blood. But there was nothing I could do to help. Andrew had worked as a publicist before going to law school, and was able to get him and Colin on M.S.N.B.C. and in The Guardian, The New York Times, and a bunch of other media outlets, bringing attention to their plight. There was a pro-gay Democrat who read as bisexual in the White House, and a couple more liberals had been added to the Supreme Court, and it did look like the Court might overturn D.O.M.A. sometime in the future.
But not near enough for the boys. One afternoon late that winter, Andrew texted me. Colin couldn’t take it anymore at work; he was quitting his job, and Andrew was moving back to London with him. It was time for the three of us to say goodbye. One last night.
Our season had passed by so quickly, and although it had taken a while for me to match Andrew’s enthusiasm for the whole thing, I was really going to miss them. I was going to miss having our naked bodies splayed across each other and tasting their spit and come, but I was also going to miss their company. The brotherhood and camaraderie that went along with the sex. My first guest-starring arc.
On the day of our last night together, I went to see Martha Marcy May Marlene at the giant A.M.C. on the Upper West Side with my friends Lindsay and Krishna. One of them brought a flask, and we ended up getting really shitfaced. Like, fucked-up. The girls psyched me up for heading downtown.
I had this green T-shirt from Nantucket, with a smiling whale shooting water out of its spout, that Andrew really liked, so I had worn it to the gym the day before, so I could give it to him all sweaty and soaked in my musk. I gave them a little mixtape on a thumb drive, too. One of the songs was “Drive,” by the Cars. I don’t remember why that song was on there, but I do love the Cars, and it’s romantic. Andrew made “Who’s gonna drive you home tonight?” his Facebook status that night.
I really wished I could drive those boys home — make sure they were safe forever.
I was quite drunk for our last time together, so I don’t remember much of it. But I do remember that it was sloppy and sexy and bittersweet. I majorly got into Colin’s armpits, the one bit of territory I felt I hadn’t sufficiently explored. (I’m really into armpits. But who isn’t?)
As much fun as I was having in New York, a part of me really wanted to get on that plane to London with them. I had never felt so connected to two people in that way before.
Not too long after we said goodbye, Andrew and Colin headed to the United Kingdom. They made a life there, and eventually married in kilts in a beautiful wedding that Andrew called The Scottish Plunge.
The Supreme Court struck down D.O.M.A. in 2013, and two years later its landmark Obergefell v. Hodges ruling legalized gay marriage nationwide, but the boys have opted to stay in London. We’ve talked a few times over the years, but more or less lost touch.
I keep telling myself I’ll look them up the next time I’m in London, and maybe one of these days I really will. I’ve been in lots of ménages à trois since then, but not another throuple. And not anything nearly as special.
There’s nothing like the first time. ♦