That leaves me with Club Cafe, also known among my friends as Club Snub. I guess I could haunt the MBTA general manager's office over that. I heard that things got more intense after 1 a.m., but the subway stopped running at 12:30, so I never really found out. But the only action I experienced there was when a friend twisted one of my nipples, in kind of a pity grope. I did go to its infamous "back room" a few times, even complying with the shirts-off dress code. There's the Ramrod, which now refuses to use its leather-bar name and goes by its dance-club incarnation, Machine. It was a surrealist enough scene for Twin Peaks (or maybe American Horror Story), but not traumatic enough for me to want to haunt the place. Younger patrons (which included myself at the time) kept to the dance floor, fully clothed, while several older, flabby men in G-strings nursed their wine coolers at the bar. This meant that the most exposed patrons in the place were also the cheapest patrons. As I recall, the club waived the $10 cover charge for anyone willing to leave most of their clothes at the coat-check booth. I've been told that my yawns can be pretty disturbing still, I think I should aim higher than that.ĭownstairs at the Paradise is another option, thanks to its brief experiment with "underwear parties" in the '90s.
#OLD GAY BARS IN BOSTON PATCH#
I could haunt the Eagle, but really the worst thing that happened to me there was being told the significance of each and every flag, pennant, and motorcycle-club patch on the walls. It would be a waste to haunt whichever philistines how occupy the space. (At least my ghostly powers would enable me to discover whatever secret passageway he used.) Alas, the Napoleon Club met a fate worse than going straight: It was converted into condos. My preference would be to haunt the Napoleon Club, where the love of my life once excused himself to use the men's room and then somehow vanished from the building without my seeing him. A gay bar fits all the criteria: a place of unspeakable heartache and pain, where it always seems to be late at night and any pale, wrinkled figure will prompt shrieking among the occupants. Never one to overlook a productive way to spend a beautiful Sunday afternoon in New York, I naturally began the task of choosing a place to haunt after my untimely death. My good friend Peter Muise just wrote about the possible haunting of Boston's premier (and only) drag bar, Jacques, at his New England Folklore blog.