Oh, how the mighty have risen. Not even a year ago, a fancyboy
on the prowl had to set up camp at a straight bar and sit
patiently for that once a week booyah known as the Williamsburg
gay scene. Of course, there was the super-hyped Saturday night
at Luxx or drag-queen karaoke Tuesday at Blu Lounge to ply
the young things out of their lofts, but nary a place to call
their own. Enter Metropolitan-the neighborhood's first official
gay bar. And though it scarcely needs our endorsement, I gathered
up my merry band for one last hurrah-Carter, Michael &
newbie Mark P.-to see where the boys have come home to roost.
Carter gets a smooch
from a grizzly local boy
Okay, I'll bite-we're a wee bit late on the draw here. Metropolitan
opened up three months ago (practically a decade in fag years)
courtesy of the boys form the Abbey, home of the rollicking
good Sunday night twinkie-fest. That includes Troy, the super-savvy
bartendah-turned-owner and the yum-yum Photi, still slinging
sass behind the bar. So we decided to let the place get warmed
up a bit-work out the kinks and what have you. Not to mention
we feared the whole thing might be a lark-the bar's doomed
locale boasts a parade of failures, including Sweet Mama's,
The Backyard and Milo's. Nothing to fear, though-Metropolitan
is alive and well, and open every blessed night of the week.
Seated smack in the heart of Williamsburg's Italian district
(Fat Tony don't mind nuttin' as long as you keep that shit
indoors), Metropolitan touts a seedy look curbside, reminiscent
of an old gay speakeasy with it's mirrored windows and gloomy
awning. Once inside, though, the joint is undeniably first
class, reminiscent of a slightly worn-in ski lodge with cranberry-coated
walls and a roaring fireplace. The room-length bar seats plenty
and scattered booths and chairs are snuggled into U-formations
for lots of gooey eye-contact. There's a pool table nestled
in the corner with scads of wiry hipsters looming about, looking
terribly decent in their weather-worn hoodies and mustard-colored
cords. In fact, the diverse crowd is so good-looking we hold
a contest to find anyone at fault. Michael wins, nodding towards
a vest-clad patron in the corner, "I can't tell you how
much that outfit angers me." *
Bartenders Photi & Steven
We send Carter over to the jukebox with a couple of crumpled
ones and he comes bounding back breathless and hopping from
foot to foot, "They have Squeeze on there which really
excites me!" ** Minutes later, we're treated to the toe-tapping
pop favorite "Bootylicious" and Carter swears Fischerspooner
is up next. Photi comes sliding over with a round of Greyhounds
and I try to get a picture of him holding the grapefruit juice.
He gives me a velvety grin, "We're the only two fruits
you're getting tonight, honey." I swear that people really
do say these things. Honestly.
Amy, my official girl about town, isn't around tonight but
we question Troy on any possible girl-nights in the works.
He tells me they have DJ Finley from Luxx locked up for a
mixed night starting in February called Gags& Fykes, which
promises to bring in some of the local ladies. And the plans
don't end there-they aim to convert the old kitchen into a
lounge area and open up the backyard to host a weekend tea
when the weather warms. That's right, kids-crumpets and cakeboys.
You know how I love my Troys
These boys just might beat the location hex that saddles 559
Lorimer Street. The place has loads of promise-they've all
but moved the Sunday night ruckus over from The Abbey ("The
gay boys love their Sunday nights", Troy laughs, "Beats
me why.") and weekend nights find the bar packed with
locals tired of hiking across the bridge. Good thing, too-as
it stands, Metropolitan is more of a local hangout than a
pick-up spot. The crowd is friendly and unpretentious and
people tend to get lost in conversations with strangers for
hours on end. It really is that kind of place-where even a
nice, boring straight girl like me can hold court with a couple
boys for hours on end. Of course, I was promising impending
* Much to the horror of friends and family alike, long-time
smoker Michael stubbed out his final cigarette on January
1st of this year. While his general health and lung-capacity
have steadily improved since, many fear that the increase
in his bouts of grumpy behavior far outweigh any health
benefits he may have acquired from the move.
** Carter, however, still smokes.
Always gay-friendly, but Sunday night brings the boys
out in droves. Grab a cheap draft beer and hunker down
in a beaten-down booth with your buddies, or stick close
to the bar for the pick-up scene. Cozy, friendly, and
positively packed with hotties late-late night.
Time to get your geek on. Sunday nights nights boast
drag-queen karaoke, and it's freakish fun. Barbie-Q,
the Grand Madame, gets lazy hipsters off their brooding
stools and keeps the party moving all night long. Not
so gay a crowd, but-You can tell everybody this is your
song. It may be quite simple but…
Thursday night's spanking new Dyke Party pays homage
to all the local girls that carted their asses to the
city for years. Finally, you can booze and cruise in
the hood. Killer music, purty girls, and ample room
to kick back.
Colorful, stylish lounge that hosts Williamsburg Homosexual
Learning Center on Sunday nights. Art-cuties and they’re
admirers frolic to crowd-thumping DJ mixes and campy
films. Make goo-goo eyes at David, the finest bartender
Luxx suxx. On Saturday nights, anyways. But don't take
it from me-pay the cover charge, slap down $4 to the
coat-check punk, and get pushed around by the super-sceney
club brats. Or just go out in Manhattan, where at least
you'll get laid for your efforts.
Williamsburg's first authentic gay bar gets it on every
night of the week. This grungy ski-lodge look-a-like
has it all-a roaring fireplace, a pool table and a jukebox
crammed with cakeboy classics. Tell your friends on
the island you'll see them come May.
Loud, seedy and humming with s-e-x on Sunday nights.
Hit the dance floor or get naked for a free shot at
the bar—either way, you’ll have a killer hangover in
the morning. But then again, so will that hot indie
rock boy you took home with you.