By SCOTT STIFFLER | Outside the Rawhide, a sign above the water dish was bad news for thirsty dogs…and hungry men.
“Thank you for stopping by all these 33 years for a drink or some ice or even just a pat on the back. It has been a pleasure serving you and making sure your water was fresh and seeing all your faces every day, rain or shine.”
And with that, confirmation was given to the rumors that had been swirling for weeks in the darkened backrooms, so to speak, of cyberspace. Open since 1979 — when some of 2013’s most formidable barflies were mere pups, the Stable Mable of Chelsea gay bars (212 Eighth Avenue, at 21st Street) closed its doors for good on March 30. The culprit, in this case at least, wasn’t a declining customer base. A new landlord — and a subsequent increase in the monthly rent from $15,000 to $27,000 — did what the Internet and Grindr couldn’t accomplish.
“Unfortunately, we cannot stay in Chelsea any longer,” the sign explained to canines who, like straights, rarely entered the premises but would occasionally find themselves sniffing around the doorway. “Keep your tails wagging until we meet again,” concluded the note. Signed by “all your two-legged friends at Rawhide,” that final line gave some hope that the neighborhood institution would soon open again (although probably not in the immediate, overpriced area). That’s too bad — because with Rawhide gone, Eight Avenue loses yet another layer of queer appeal. GYM Sportsbar is the only gay man’s watering hole on the 14th to 23rd Street strip, a once-flaming patch of land that long ago reached a tipping point where the balance of power shifted from establishments like the Big Cup (Google it, young gays!) to banks, drugstores and Thai restaurants. Sure, there are 24-hour porn establishments like the The Blue Store and Rainbow Station — but without the loyal Rawhide customer base purchasing poppers and hitting the booths shortly after closing time, how long do these proud icons of classic gay life have left? And what about the Rawhide’s stable of “NYC’s Hottest Male Dancers, 8pm Every Night?” Who will stuff dollar bills in their G-strings and remove shot glasses so they can safely navigate the bar counter? Irreparable, unforgivable change has come to Chelsea.
Somebody’s getting hustled — and for once, it’s not me in the wee hours just before last call. That’s just as well. With my apartment a mere block away, I’ve made only a handful of trips to the Rawhide over the four years I’ve lived in this specific patch of Chelsea. Proximity to a gay bar with such robust hours, I quickly learned, can be a dangerous thing…unless you’re a social butterfly, a chronic drinker or a prolific cruiser — or, lord help you, a potent combination of all three. We in the gay community have a word for that. It’s called “popular.” I was popular…once. Not for as long as the Rawhide, though. Thirty-three years is a damn good run. But like one of the three men I admire most, demise at that particular age has a way of ensuring immortality.
