As I said before, The Post Bar is one of Philadelphia's oldest gay bars. It would probably be easier to figure out the exact age of the earth than to try and determine when this place actually opened but, if you were able to travel back through time, you'd probably witness George Washington and good ol' Benny F. doin' alittle ass banging in the service alley or maybe even William Penn doing his infamous snake dance in full Cleopatra drag.
I myself have been a regular in there for about six or seven years and let me tell you, this place and the stories within its walls can seriously make for a popular (if not campy) prime-time soap opera. I have seen relationships flourish and seen them fall apart. I've seen death and deception. I've seen fights and forgiveness. I've spent time there during the most trying times of my own personal life and I've spent time there during one of the most traumatic events to rock this nation in its history.
I guess you can say that The Post is like a second home for me and its patrons (both some of my best friends and my worst nightmares) are like a second family. Birthdays and holidays celebrated together and deaths and memorial services grieved together, with all the stories I wish to share within this newfound blog of mine, one thing is certain: all in all, the people who frequent The Post are some of the best mother fuckers to be around, in both good times and bad. Each person is unique in their own way and, before I begin a day-to-day blog of happenings and stories, each person deserves their own space and time. A space I'll reserve for later in a little section to be dubbed: "The Island of Misfit Drunks".
But, you won't understand many of the stories of the people until you understand a little bit more of the place. So, in a brief, but accurate description, welcome to The Post Bar...
How can one describe hell without actually experiencing it? Well, since I've been hanging out there for many years, I guess you can say experience it I have. The Post is a long narrow building separated into three good size rooms; the front bar, the "game room" and the back bar. Upon entering through the tiny vestibule, the first thing you notice would have to be the large oval bar in the center of the room, it's scratched and peeling surface illuminated by the soft glow of the blood red christmas lights dangling from the exposed beams of the unfinished ceiling. Actually, the whole effect of the ceiling was achieved using a simple home improvement technique--ignoring a leak for years until half of the ceiling comes down during heavy rains, then hiding the damage by painting it black and stringing the christmas lights around the room. Three television sets are suspended high up on the walls, two in the far corners and one immediately to your right as you walk in the door. The latter, I must warn, hangs slightly lower than the two across the bar, as evidenced by the corners of the shelf upon which it sits being wrapped in foam pipe insullation to protect the many drunkards who have slammed their heads into it. Running the length of the far wall is a mural created by the owner's other half. A series of naked, faceless men are featured flexing every muscle from every angle. It truly is an incredible display of talent (both for the artist and the apparent model). One example of these drawings can be found on the website.
Once you make it around the bar, you can find yourself standing at the entrance to the "game room". Nothing spectacular about this room. It's typical. Pool table, a few video machines, the bathrooms and a tiny kitchen concealed behind a black vinyl curtain, reminiscent of the Wizard of Oz (had the wizard suffered a feux leather fetish).
Beyond the Kitchen and bathrooms and through another doorway, you find yourself standing at the very entrance to Satan's playroom. The back bar is only open on weekends. Black walls, floor, bar, cocktail tables and chairs are reflected into the many mirrors that surround you. There's nothing better, in my opinion, than sitting at a bar and staring at yourself getting more and more drunk as the evening progresses... Unless, of course, you count sitting there and having one of the male dancers creep up behind you and begin rubbing their half-hard cock into the small of your back. Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against strippers, male or female. They're good to look at. In fact, there's one dancer in particular at The Post who is so fucking hot with such an incredibly massive body. But the dancers just aren't my thing. I'm shy to begin with and the idea of having to slip a dollar into the g-string of someone smiling at me and talking to me because that's what they're there for just doesn't sit with me. But more on the dancers later... That's another story altogether.
I'm kinda running out of things to say right now. Being my second post to this sight, I'm still trying to figure things out here. In fact, I still can't seem to locate the first one I did yesterday. So, if any of you see a log titled "From Riches to Rags" out there, please be sure and tell them that I'm looking for them.
Thank you.
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