Just when you thought New York had lost its handle on dirt and sex—along comes the Saint-At-Large’s Black Party to reclaim smut for the masses. This year’s edition of the annual 16-hour marathon at Roseland bore the polarizing theme “Holy War,” and yet the theme’s execution was less divisive than democratic. The legions of leather-clad patrons were greeted at Roseland’s massive entryway with a junkyard pile of rubber tires and racecar detritus—as well as an oversized gun target. Inside, the dance floor (Manhattan’s largest) had been converted into something resembling a NASCAR track with walls lined with ads for the evening’s sponsors: Daring Queen, STD, FIST UNION, PNP, Rock Hard, Tina, and Dick in the Box. Life on the NASCAR circuit when the gays take over.

Combined with scaffolding and scrims (behind which werked boys in silhouette, wearing rubber and leather), the overall effect was industrial dank chic—or perhaps a preview of life post-oil-wealth. Think Eastern bloc after the collapse of Communism—and the ensuing Dionysian mayhem. Because there was also the matter of the suggestive Norman Douglas quote which encircled the room’s rim, albeit in pithy Jenny Holzer pieces: YOU CAN TELL – THE IDEALS – OF A NATION – BY ITS ADVERTISEMENTS. It got you thinking—and not just about sex.

This is how it went. It was just after four and Tony was on the boards. His first time at the Black Party controls—but this was a man who’d spent time on the Black Party floor in years past. He knew what the crowd wanted, and why they were there, and he gave it to them his way (which is always an issue for some—the notion of a right way to do Black). Accompanied by Tony’s galloping bass beat, sex workers in shadowy silhouette writhed behind white scrims, high above the packed floor—while NASCAR boyz werked the stage in front of another gun target. Wrestlers in leather singlets and post-apocalyptic warriors, all highlighted by the flash of pink and fuchsia lights as the scrims were razor-sliced and slashed—save for one scrim which remained intact, silhouetting a single interrogation chair.

Video screens around the scaffolding showed an ever-rapid repeating montage of oil fields and ads for the American Oil Company, as well as sex education newsreels and the word ejaculation scrawled over and over on a chalkboard, interspersed with photos of dick and dick and more dick. Subliminal seduction? As if the packed floor of sex addicts needed further provocation.

This was a celebration of the vernal equinox, after all. A reawakening of the libido—and if the Saint-At-Large (under the bold leadership of impresario Stephen Pevner) had anything to say about it, seeds would be scattered—all over da skate flo, as some might say. And as a matter of fact, we know one friend who was finally able to fulfill his long-held fantasy of schtupping his boyfriend amidst that crowded and notorious floor. We all have dreams—and for some of us, they come true at Roseland.

Because, let’s face it, we were dancing in the face of distress. Even if you didn’t know the Black Party theme this year, even if you only glimpsed pieces of the video footage—oil fields burning, climactic disasters mounting…. Even if you were basically clueless about the current state of the planet and our community’s often precarious place on it…. But there we were, nonetheless, dancing to “Everybody Needs Someone” with its insistent lyric “I can make you get down. I can make you…” while overhead flashed scores of green lasers. Not just six or a dozen, but literally scores of green lasers crisscrossing above the floor. Not unlike an electrical grid—and in this case, the grid of connection.

And then that single chair behind the last scrim— And the boyman straddling the chair, global ass high in the air—and the man in leather behind him— And then the fisting. Fisting for a cast of thousands. Karate chopping, double fisting. Fisting? No, make that elbowed. And batted, too—for how else to describe the entry of the implement most often used for baseball. A rather riveting performance, to say the least. And in fact, one person might have taken the concept of disembowelment a bit too far…. It became THE topic of conversation for WAY TOO LONG. Enough already, and in the future: Boyz, please—a little courtesy amidst the madness.

Fortunately, above it all, and all around us, Tony was werking it out, sending out Madonna’s plaintive wail, “Will it ever be the same?” No, Madge, no, it won’t—but never mind, we’ll survive, and maybe even thrive. Because gay men are like cats, prowling through the night—until we find what we need. And on the video screens, an ongoing pounding repetition of the words: IT’S---MORE---HUMAN. IT’S---MORE---HUMAN. Again and again, until the point got hammered home: the reason we were there. Dancing in the face of distress. Because this was more human. Dancing and love versus war and hate. Figure it out: we don’t have to be the sum of our nation’s advertisements.

And meanwhile, Tony kicked it up again, this time with his girl, Deborah, a splattering of “My House, My Home,” with its own connotations of belonging. The man was totally in control, in full gallop mode. And any lingering sense of discomfort or doubt, about the night or the politics, was dispelled in toto as Tony led the way. He made Xtina’s “Hurt” into something both mournful and yet joyous. The end of one season, or one way of life—leading into the embrace of something new. That marching beat. And all around was evidence of what the writer Barbara Ehrenreich has christened “collective joy,” her term for “the ritual, organized ways that people make each other…joyful, delirious, even ecstatic.” Buck Angel, for example, clearly in ecstasy as he werked that kitty onstage in a seemingly impromptu performance. And, for that matter, all around us were butt-sniffing, tea-bagging, ass-licking, mouth-filling performances. You werked it out the way you wanted. And then went off somewhere and changed your clothes—costume change in the wings—before coming back for more. We lost count after Joe Caro strolled by in costume number three: a full-body leather apron. Meanwhile Adam T. in backless chaps safeguarded his hole with a carefully positioned water bottle.

And amidst all this sexual delirium, there were newbies, youngsters fresh to the Black. There for the dance more than the shenanigans, they were ecstatic when Tony dropped “For Your Love” and also “Desert Rose.” And two adorables in matching NASCAR uniforms, complete with racing stripes, and unzipped to...the nethers. And even when there were food fights onstage and mishaps backstage, there was the ever-dedicated Saint-At-Large staff: always helpful, mostly smiling—beacons of calm in the midst of the maelstrom. Thanks be to them, all of them, both young and older.

And of course, the upstairs leather shop ran out of leashes. And Joe C. considered a quick run to the nearest Petsmart—in order to better train his nineteen-year-old bf. Meanwhile, Steve W., took time out to walk his pits, Precious and Killer—not once but twice—and still he might’ve won the Marathon Award for clocking in a full thirteen hours.

Downstairs, some of us lined up for photographs shot by Robert Zash in his tenth and final year of shooting pics of us nasty heathens. A $25 souvenir soon to arrive in the mail so you can say, “ACK! I WORE THAT?”

Oh, but everyone was there, in equally outlandish attire: Alan F. (who managed at least two costume changes) and Patti Razetto and Kat C. and Gael and Talley and Billy Porter and Christian and Eric and Rich Campbell and Matt Kalkhoff and that sly dawg, Jonny McGovern. And then it was “Where the Streets Have No Name” and from the scaffolding, paint cans were emptied over the crowd below. Was it paint or was it—

Around and around, we lapped the room; we circled the floor. On and on, it went: sensory overload. So much to see—and touch. And so much more to come… What a wonderful way to welcome spring: the scattering of the seed amongst our own.

And then, finally, walking home through the Park on a late Sunday morning, walking home amidst the “other” kinds of family, we slid back into that “other” world—but, for the moment, sated.

Happy Black, Happy Spring—what’s one without the other?