There was a gay bar in Bay Ridge Brooklyn that served as a set for the movie “Saturday Nigh Fever”. I visited the bar several times while living in nearby Sunset Park, back in the early 1990’s.
I recall pulling just a handful of men from the bar to bring home to my bed– just a $10 taxi cab ride away. Italian men have never been my favorite of lovers, so my time at the bar was spent trying to recall exactly where, upon the dance floor that lit-up in an array of flashing pastel colors, John Travolta danced in the movie.
It does not shock me that three men who have earned a living rubbing backs for $300 an hour, have filed multi-million dollar law suits, claiming the movie star somehow molested them during moments of “release”.
What makes me sick is remembering how it was I was never turned on by John Travolta, or that movie, of which, I do not recall ever watching from start to finish.
There was a time when the entire nation watched in lust as John Travolta rose to stardom, playing a character that any of us would have permitted to grab us during a rub-down.
Just because one does not share bodily fluids during massage therapy sessions does not mean that the individual doing professional rub-downs is not a true whore.