The oldest gay bar in New York City is not the Stonewall at 53 Christopher Street, nor is the longest surviving queer watering hole Julius’ Bar in the West Village. The Big Apple’s hardest cider is found in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Most sissies are too frightened to travel to the ghetto for a taste of what a fabulous, gay-ghetto neighborhood hang-out is like. If one were to try finding the bar with a search engine, results would be minimal. Owners choose to keep this hot spot off the radar- gaydar of the city’s outrageous Chelsea circuit, where rich white fags control just about everything in the community. If Bed-Stuy was suddenly invaded by white, gay party fags; residents who live in nearby projects would likely bash the patrons of this well hidden place of worship. It’s okay that the business is there, just off of Atlantic Avenue. Most people on welfare in Bed-Stuy could give less than a fuck about what goes on inside. It’s just another bar in da hood to those who pass by, but cannot see inside the tiny windows covered with steel bars. It has always been known in Bed-Stuy, for more than thirty years, that queers hang out in there. That is why Langston’s has remained a best-kept secret in ‘Do or Die Bed-Stuy’.
The place is not too fancy, but it does have a dance floor. House music is the flava of the place. Hardcore house records from the early eighties are spun to the rhythm of dancing queens– real house music that got its repetitive roots in Gospel.
Soon after Shawn moved me to Bed-Stuy with him, he took me down there. He knew a bar tender from Los Angeles who worked there– the bald one with a big biceps.
“Do you want him to fuck you? He said he wants to fuck you. Do you wanna hang out after he gets off at five?”
“Alright, sure. Let’s do this,” I said while ordering my third bottle of spring water from the thug who worked at Langston’s.