Gay friendly bars rockland countyny

Though I acknowledged my sexual preference to myself at 12, lack of role models kept me from telling anyone else. I was 19, and a college sophomore in NYC, when I realized being gay and being myself were not mutually exclusive, and I came bar. Nyack, and Rockland more generally, was a fun, exciting place to be gay in those last couple of years before the AIDS crisis.

In many cities, clubs and bars were located down back alleys, in the backs of buildings or the most dangerous part of town. Anti-gay slurs were constantly used. I seldom heard slurs about lesbians, for if gay men were a friendly visible blotch on proper society, lesbians were completely invisible to them apparently.

I tried to disengage, tried to rockland away, but he persistently kept pushing me, all the while calling me the foulest of names, finally knocking me into the wall and SPITTING in my face. I was unaware that some of the bar patrons were now watching from the doorway and that thankfully someone summoned the police.

I was furious, and in short order he was missing two teeth and was nursing a broken nose from his prone position on the ground. All I could think was that the lesson he learned would be to pick on a smaller gay guy, or at least gay one from New York. What alternate universe had I slipped into? People I knew, had dated, had gone clubbing with or performed with began to die.

And in some cases, they hastened themselves along. I had met my first partner when we countyny together in that same show near Cincinnati. I was performing on a cruise ship in the Pacific in early when he got ill.

Nyack's gay club closes; will become bar & grill

The man I knew was already gone, though his body was still here. I became nursemaid, changing him, feeding him, giving him injections, cleaning house. But I was not permitted to sleep in the same room, nor show him any physical affection. His mother, seeking some explanation for this calamity, decided in her grief and anger that the blame could be squarely laid on me.

I was repeatedly told that I was the one who should be dying. My mail was read—with any money my family had sent me removed. My phone calls to my parents were listened in on, and ended with my parents being berated. After all, there will be nobody there for you when you die. Eventually, after being told I needed to start making money—all while still doing nursing duty and cooking all three meals and finding another place to sleep—I surrendered.

I left. If I stayed any longer, there would be nothing left of me but a shell. I tried to use their love to salve my wounds. Never having had to defend my lifestyle or justify my existence before, I was unprepared for the amount of antipathy that existed in certain places and certain hearts, and I almost let it crush me.