It is 1977. AIDS has not arrived and we are in our hedonistic prime. You take your perky white ass and pink lips to a club’s weekly dark room. “Tonight,” you tell a friend, “I’m gonna get me some Big Black Dick.” You have a few drinks and you stride in your ravishing whiteness into the dark room, which, as it happens, is the most racially integrated gay space in the city on these nights.
You get your dose of BBD and you leave the room without ever having to interact socially with the man himself. Yes, I know the point of dark rooms is anonymous sex, but sex is the playground of the psyche and coincidence does not explain the highly interracial makeup of those spaces in an era when doormen were demanding three pieces of identification from.
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