The Oyster was a rowdy gay bar frequented by queer daddies and bikers. White collar queers didn’t visit the place, but twinks did, just so they could experience some hardcore and rough s*x with an older, butch man. Beneath the bar sat a dungeon of sorts. Whips and chains against the wall. Three cages. A wall where young men could be handcuffed and spun on a wheel that offered s****l pleasure. A place where you wouldn’t tell your mother that you had strayed upon. Not a chance in hell of that happening.
The Thicks played there. And Matty Lavender, the band’s lead singer, sounded like Marilyn Manson, screaming more than anything. I saw him once or twice on the stage: assless chaps, leather vest, black eyeliner, and black hair spiked like a terrified porcupine. His n*****s were both pierced a
