The following is an excerpt from the memoir Sodomy Gods by David Lauterstein, founder of the iconic global lifestyle brand Nasty Pig. The new audiobook edition is out August 18 and will be available wherever audiobooks are streamed
Raw, provocative, and unflinchingly honest, Sodomy Gods is the coming-of-age story of David Lauterstein, a young gay man finding his way in the dizzying world of 1990s New York City
From coming out amidst the devastation of the AIDS crisis, to falling in love and launching the iconic queer fashion brand Nasty Pig, David’s journey is one of self-discovery, resilience, and the revolutionary power of queer identity and community
David’s path takes readers across various subcultures, through moments of activist rage, and into today’s White House. The stories he shares comprise a time capsule of daunting challenges and unexpected triumphs
Nasty Pig is a love story
It all began in New York City on May 6, 1993 at The Break, one of the many bars and clubs in Chelsea, the consummate gay ghetto of the 90s. I was there that Thursday night to meet a guy named Steve for a date and to have a few of The Break’s infamous dollar margaritas. I was 23, just out of the closet, and ready to find a boyfriend and fall in love. I imagined my future man to be an upwardly mobile Wall Street guy with a six-figure salary, his own place in Manhattan, and a worked-out body. Someone acceptable to my straight friends and family. I just wanted to hang out with him in our underwear while we cuddled up on the couch in our high-rise apartment watching Friends. I’d talk to him about hip-hop while he talked to me about this new Internet thing that people were starting to invest in. I had it all figured out.
Except for this: You can’t figure out love. She just shows the f*ck up and your job is to be ready for her.
Although The Break wasn’t particularly large, the lure of margarita madness packed the place with local hotties every Thursday night. Making your way through the wall-to-wall crowd took quite a bit of effort. I knew Steve liked to hang out toward the back so I did my best to maneuver my way in as I set off to find him. I detoured to the bar to get myself a cocktail. The sheer number of people trying to get drinks at once made waiting for service something to be expected. Since coming out, however, I had become aware of this powerful set of secret weapons my dad had gifted me at conception that often got me what I wanted: my crazy pale eyes. I managed to carve out about 10 inches of space at the bar, and just as my favorite bartender looked in my direction, I took off my baseball cap and flashed him the greenish-gray windows to my soul. He went to the cash register to make change for another customer, and on his way back he put a drink down in front of me, on the house. I tipped him a five and left him a business card with my beeper number on it.
I grabbed my drink, and just as I was about to go find Steve, I noticed a guy across the bar staring in my direction. Guess my weapons were causing some collateral damage that night, because we locked eyes and he smiled at me. I smiled back and he giggled like a schoolgirl. There was something about his reaction that caught my attention. This guy felt different than all the other stand-offish guys hanging out and posing there. He felt warm.
I did my best to find Steve, but he wasn’t in his usual spot, and after about 20 minutes I figured I was being stood up. I decided to cut my losses early, leave the bar alone, and chalk the experience up to another failed attempt at meeting Mr. Right. On my way out, I bumped into the warm, giggling man, who introduced himself as Fred, a recent transplant from New Jersey. He had just moved to Chelsea a week ago.
He wasn’t exactly my type. He was on the lean side, not the jock I pictured myself with. And his style was way more Wyckoff than Wall Street. After a few minutes of small talk, I told him it was time for me to head out. He mentioned that he lived a block away and was ready to leave too, so I figured I’d walk him to his apartment. By the time we got there, I decided I might as well end the night with a bit of fun. I asked him if I could come up to use his bathroom before I headed home. So original of me, I know. His pouty lips parted with a “yes,” and I followed him into his building.
He opened the door to his apartment and the first thing I noticed were the walls. They were beautiful. I had never seen anything like them. The colors were all shades of what felt like fall leaves, and they blended to create an effect that was warm and dimensional. I mentioned to him how much I liked them and told him he was fortunate to have moved into a place that came with so much character. “Oh, I painted them myself,” he said, “but I’m not happy with how they came out. I’ll repaint them when I get a chance.”
The walls may have been the first thing to grab my attention, but as I looked around I noticed that pretty much everything in his place was incredibly beautiful and detailed. I asked more questions, all of which got the same response.
“Yeah, I took that photo but when I developed it the blacks didn’t come out rich enough and I need to do it again once I set up my darkroom.”
“I covered that couch and added the trim, but I don’t think it works so I’m going to get more fabric and make it better.”
“I found those cabinets at a garage sale and sanded them down and refinished them then added new drawer pulls. I don’t know if I like the final color that much, though.”
He had made everything in his place and was satisfied with none of it.
I checked my beeper for the time and realized it was getting late, so I stopped asking questions and decided to leave him satisfied with something. We made out. I went down on him. He blew his load on my face. The end.
As I was getting dressed to leave, the small talk turned to the quintessential New Yorker question: “So what do you do?”
He proceeded to tell me he was a pattern maker at a clothing manufacturer in Brooklyn, an okay job he’d had for eight years because he really liked the “world of fayashun.”
Maybe it was his lowbrow pronunciation of such a highbrow statement, but suddenly I became hyper aware of his New Jersey accent, which perfectly matched his high-waisted New Jersey jeans, and his very New Jersey choice of New Balance sneakers. At 32 years old, he was just moving into Manhattan for the first time in his life, and he was doing so in a converted one bedroom with a roommate who arrived there as I was putting on my shoes. This loud, flamboyant character stormed in wearing micro-denim Daisy Duke shorts and a tank top that was two sizes too small. I looked at Fred, who now embodied the opposite of that Wall Street white-collar jock dream man I had in mind, and I said goodbye and ran out of that New Jersey nightmare as quickly as my fly-ass Jordans could carry me.
That night I got home and wrote the following in my journal about the man I had met:
i talked to fred. back to his place. meaningless sex. fears about aids. the whole nine. during the walk of shame i questioned a lot of shit about my life. i think i need to experience some real emotion attached to sex. that hasn’t happened yet and it won’t happen with fred. that’s not to say that I didn’t have a good time. and he was hung like a motherf*cker. that’s a bonus.
Like I said . . . love just shows up when she’s ready. I didn’t know it yet, but there she was
Listen to the audiobook edition of this excerpt below
Excerpt from the new memoir Sodomy Gods by David Lauterstein, founder of the iconic global lifestyle brand Nasty Pig. Reprinted with permission.Audiobook edition out August 18
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