Stella’s is more than a pool hall. It is a hustler bar where young men in New York City can go when Con Edison is threatening to cut off the electricity. Its patrons keep the lights on, year ‘round for hundreds of young men exploring their sexuality.

Despite the blemish it leaves on today’s adoptive gay community, the bar is one of the best watering holes in the Big Apple. Two drinks in the place will put even the most tolerant of alcoholics in the mood for cheap, fast love.

The place has a pool table and a jukebox filled with tunes ranging from Patti Labelle to George Michael.

Guys strut around in g-strings and ask customers, both gay and straight, male and female, to "touch it" for a mere dollar.

Mayor Gulliani toned the place down quite a bit. There was a time when Latino street thugs pulled eleven inch snakes from their cages for a mere dollar. The former mayor’s no tolerance approach to dealing with the trade without tax service industry has made things even more challenging and exciting in this unknown lavender light district.

The hustlers who play pool there have dicks like pool cues and screw girls when they don’t need cash. They’ll screw anything after a few beers and bucks.

Richard, a dude who had just broken up with a whore like lover went there for a drink one evening. He had no idea what went on in the place. He simply liked to play pool with real men, so the place seemed harmless and inviting.

Those who play pool at Stella’s do so to display their irresistible physical features to older and uglier bar patrons. They show off knocking balls into holes and spinning cue sticks not to win a fifteen number game but to prove their manhood to those who see nothing wrong with helping a few down- low gay men keep the lights on.

Richard needed not only a new apartment but a two month security deposit, new clothing and almost every commodity available to modern man. He lost his Gillette Mach Four razor blade set in his recent hostile gay divorce and he was out for blood.

"Who cares?" he thought. "Who am I trying to impress? They already told me I was going to Hell when I told them at thirteen that I was gay. This is an essential part of gay culture and I’m stuck behind the eight ball,." he assured himself.

When gentlemen at Stella’s starting buying him beers and telling him to keep the change from twenty dollar bills, he realized that as a homosexual, he had nothing to prove to civilization and decided to drink up and grab that stack of bills.

The rest of gay New York City who participated in the underground Velvet Maffia seemed to be having a blast and they welcomed him with bright smiles and lots of pats on the back.

He really loved Robert, his ex-boyfriend, and was hurt by being dumped. But the attention was undeniable from the place where nobody wants to know your name. Richard put on his wife- beater tank top and managed to earn enough cash for his new place and new "look" in only one weekend.

While playing pool at Stella’s, Richard felt like a drag queen diva pushing her way to center stage as he challenged Black and Latino hustlers at their game. He knew they were gay just like him, but had learned the secret of playing it straight, in a dog- eat- dog world.

Gay men, like the ones in Stella’s are the sexiest men alive. Society hasn’t learned to embrace them like those girls who spin around silver poles in heterosexual strip bars.

There were not many white boys in Stella’s who could pull off the role of ‘rough trade’ for a such a selective audience but Richard could.

Richard was as masculine as the ghetto dudes who ruled the joint. He was in the military and kept his hardcore image in New York and it worked well in Stella’s.

He met many friends in the bar who he never actually conducted business with but found charming and full of insight. They often insisted on buying him drinks, but Richard respectfully offered to buy the first round and discussed opera with real opera stars and business with men who ran some of the largest corporations in the Big Apple.

They played games of pool while sharing songs on a juke box.

When his dick grew hard at the pool table Richard’s name and number was passed around town like that of a good interior decorator.

He felt guilty by taking money from men who he secretly enjoyed having sex with, but they always insisted he take the money. "It will keep you honest," they said.

Gabriel, one of Richard’s most challenging pool table competitors finally broke down and begged Richard one night at Stella’s at closing time to turn a trick together. "Yo, you wanna do these two wit me? I can get you $500 for two hours," promised the handsome Spanish man with a scar across his face. The shark wore baggy clothing and adorned his neck with thick necklaces.

Richard knew the dude from the night he was locked up in central booking for shredding his lover’s clothing.

"Aight, but yo dude, I don’t get fucked. They can suck me off for $500 but after I bust my nut, I’m out," explained Richard while outlining the details of his contract with his jail buddy.

Gabriel and Richard traveled in a yellow cab with two middle aged white business men who rubbed their thighs all the way to the upper nineties and Broadway.

The two hustlers looked into each other’s eyes and wondered just how much would be expected of them in the company of such wealthy gay businessmen.

"Look guys, we are lovers. We have been together for twenty years and this is our anniversary. We have always had a fantasy of watching two guys like you get it on. We will gladly pay you $500 each, I only ask that you make our anniversary special," requested a very polite middle-aged gay white male.

Richard looked at Gabriel and rolled his eyes. Gabriel smiled, looked at Richard and grabbed his crotch.

The apartment was beautiful. Plush sofas covered oriental rugs and mahogany end tables were topped with lamps with satin shades and gold stands.

Richard and Gabriel fucked each other royally on their furniture and the patrons from Stella’s got every penny’s worth.