If ever you’ve found yourself yearning for the seedy XXX fleshpots of yesterday’s 42nd Street—or for the decadence of the Weimar Republic, then you were in luck this past weekend—provided you found yourself at Ric Sena’s Alegria XXXtreme. Held at Studio (once known as Crobar) on that far western strip of Chelsea which has replaced 42nd Street as Manhattan’s current alley of iniquity, the fourteen-hour party was perfectly located—and attended by every self-respecting heathen and well-buffed hedonist.

Given that the Monday of Black Party weekend is universally accepted as a major gay holiday, it should have been no surprise to find that even after sixteen hours of Black Party at Roseland, and a five-hour set by Junior at Pacha, and Susan’s Odyssey party at Element, the boyz packed into Alegria XXXtreme. And while the club’s recent management change has resulted in the loss of the Reed Room (now an ancillary dance floor, and more in keeping with the club’s stripped-down and bare bones Weimar aesthetic), once you stepped through the white tunnel and onto the main floor—

It was nothing less than a boiler room on full blast, steaming and smoking hot—and burning red. Red, red—bordello red. Red neon blinking XXX’s trussed the Alegria logo—while from the ceiling hung a red neon cage, complete with black leather sling spanning the corners. And at the room’s far end was the stage set with three connected booths sheathed in scrims, over which flashed three massive red X’s—and above it all, totally at home and in control, there was Abel: man of the hour, pimp daddy to the masses, making them werk to “I Can’t Take It No More.” Oh, but clearly, they could—take it, that is—and would, all night long and longer: boyz atop the bars and lining the stairs and all along the mezzanine and sardined on the floor.

Seven years strong, Alegria parties possess that rare combination of professionalism and delirium. You don’t see messes so much as you see people who play right—and hard. We were there with our Richie Rich II, a newbie of twenty-two. His first Alegria, he took it in with a huge breath and then grinning wide, he said, “Killer party.” Yes, exactly: intense and overwhelming and packed with such uncompromising beauty—and sometimes it’s easy to forget, to maybe take it for granted—until you find yourself at some charity event, as we did the next night, where you look around the room and wonder at the rest of the world’s lack of energy—and think again about what it is that Alegria bottles so well.

We slipped through the boyz and up the stairs to lean over the railing—and there it was: Alegria in motion, that beautiful pulsing mass. Ric’s spellbinding bartender boyz in nothing but red XXX-towels—and Abel werking them into a froth with Southern Brothers “Danzo,” the Alegria anthem of the moment, the one that goes “Ohhh way, ohhh way,” kinda like the palace guards at the Emerald City—and there went the VIP barboy racing down the stairs to break it out on the bar below: dipping and weaving in a state of heightened ecstasy. A circuit dervish, he whirled through a blizzard of napkins—as all around him, on the floor, boyz did the same.

Given the set design (with its implicit promise of sex), the suggested dress code was red—and there was Joe C., showcasing his twenty-second costume change of the weekend—in RED, of course. And even after the excesses of the night before, the air was sex-thick as Abel ripped into Maya Azucena’s “Make It Happen.” Repeat and stir, second time around—and twice as good. Intoxicatingly good—and we looked down and saw our newbie, Richie Rich II, dancing, hands in the air, smiling wide. “Everyone’s so nice,” he said when we caught him again. “Asking if I need anything.” Uh, huh, that kind of crowd: watching out for each other, you might say, as you might expect from any other good family. Because, as much as anything else, Alegria is a sort of second home for boyz from out of town—as well as, at least for this party, the circuit’s local Sunday night sex club.

For that’s how it went at Alegria XXXtreme, not unlike those theatres of long ago on 42nd Street with their flashing neon signs: SEX SHOWS—ALL NIGHT LONG. SEX SHOWS—ALL NIGHT LONG—and nothing less than the best. One went off to “Intoxication”—and it was exactly that. Purple scrims lifting to reveal men the likes of which are most often found in porn—fantasy men come alive, and boyz on leashes on their hands and knees as the door to the next booth opened—to reveal a dominatrix in full rubber. Glory holes and isolation chambers—while Abel threw down “Make Me Hard.” Sex shows blending seamlessly into the sex-laden night—one moment there they were: men writhing and pounding, full on hard to the bone—and then behind smoke, they disappeared.

In the lounge off the main floor, boyz melted into each other on banquettes. Rehashing the night before, sharing dirt, trading gossip. Who got plowed on the floor and who lost their ID and Joe and Bryan back together—and a woman named Holly with a very stylish whip she’d fashioned from a stick of Lucite and a black butt plug.

And there went Ric racing by, with a Brazilian contortionist sheathed in leather and a mane of black feathers. ALL NIGHT LONG—SEX SHOWS—ALL NIGHT LONG. And Abel werked Pet Shop Boyz “Minimal,” except it was everything but—minimal… More like maximal…

And later we were leaning against the railing, looking out across that packed floor just as a spot fixed on the booth—and there was Ric with a b’day cake, candles burning—for Abel. And the boyz cheered and yelled before we were off again, this time to Jennifer Carbonell’s “Time,” with its refrain, “All I need is time. The time to dance it all away…” Time for more: more music, more sex. More, more, more.

We know another Carioca, a man named Haroldo, who throws parties in Rio: massive, well-produced parties, attended by thousands. Maybe it’s in the water in Rio. Wherever it comes from, Alegria’s got it—and the boyz lap it up.

And so we wove our way onto the floor again—back into the fray. And there was Chris Legup and bf Dennis, and Michael Circuit Dancer. And Adam Song ID Man, and sweet Clay and his bf Jeff— Boyz we see mostly at parties, and particularly Alegria.

And when finally we left, the red XXX’s still flashing and steam hoses shooting into the crowd, and the floor still packed, we passed beneath a multi-colored neon sign that read “ENDURING AND BECOMING SOMEHOW.” And somehow that seemed a fitting coda, for that’s what our community does: we endure and become—sometimes without knowing exactly how. And there’s something about a party like Alegria that helps us on our way.