Black Party Recap: Butts, Butts, Coal & Butts

You know who I just discovered is kind of hot? Pretty much all of the Wichita State Shockers, the college basketball team that upset the heavily-favored Kansas Jayhawks yesterday. I’m definitely no expert when it comes to collegiate sports, but I caught a chunk of the game while drinking a two dollar beer in a divy bar on the Lower East Side while recovering from Hookies/Black Party madness.

“You like basketball?” the guy next to me asked. He was betting on Kansas.

“I like dudes,” I said. “I get distracted when there’s a lot of sweaty ones on TV at once.”

The bartender perked up and called me a horndog. (He would later accuse me of ogling the new Mission: Impossible trailer.)

“Oh, you think I’m a horndog right now?,” I said. “Well gather around everyone, and let me tell you the story of the 2015 Black Party…”

And then, like I was some kind of crusty old sailor, I launched into my tale.

[Cue flashback music]


Friday night. We’re at The Out NYC for the Hookies. While Dewitt’s front and center on the red carpet I’m wandering the crowd, seeing old friends and making some new ones. I remain a true professional and manage not to inappropriately touch anyone, not even gym coach Dewitt, despite the fact that his pants come off faster than you can say Drop And Give Me Twenty.

“See you tomorrow,” people say to me.

I say the same thing back to everybody. “Going to the Black Party? See you there!”

HAHAHAHAHA. What a naive little pumpkin I am, thinking I’d actually ever see anyone ever again.

Eli Lewis, Dakota Wolfe, Jack Fillmore, Max Cameron and Mike De Marko at the 2015 Black Party

Flash forward twenty-four hours, and we’re in a giant warehouse complex in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. People start lining up early, and the lines don’t really go away. There’s a strict privacy policy for attendees—it’s the Black Party, after all, and not the Blackmail Party—so cameras and cell phones are checked at the door. Luckily, we’re there as sponsors, so we get to photograph some porn stars with our phones against the Manhunt step and repeat.

Our table’s located in the vendors area when you first walk in, and we’ve got free Manhunt jockstraps, cum rags and various other essentials. Dozens of men come by to talk to us and a vast majority of them are wearing harnesses and jockstraps and nothing else. There are so many asses on display that I don’t know where to look first, and even Dewitt—clad in his #BUTTS t-shirt and actual pants—seems taken aback by the variety of asses on display. Also, we’re extra popular, because a lot of people seem to think we know where the bathrooms are.


To our right is the official Black Party photo station, and to our left are two really eye-catching poppers salesmen from Pjur USA.

In front of us is a large dance floor where men are getting sweaty to some thumpy music. (I am awful at identifying specific genres of dance music, so I won’t.) Off the dance floor is one of the stages where the live acts are happening. This year’s theme is coal mines, and while the concept sounds not-too-sexy to me beforehand, it makes sense once my favorite porn stars put on light-up helmets and start wrestling around in piles of coal.

Just past the dance floor is an area we dub Portapotty Village, since the warehouse isn’t naturally equipped for the plumbing needs of 3500 revelers. (Because it’s New York there are also Portapotty attendants, which I find hilarious.) Beyond the toilet shantytown is a second dance floor—one with hunky beardos DJing—and the dark room.

I’m mainly here to give away Manhunt swag, so I only make a handful of trips to that part of the party, and for purely journalistic reasons. I have pants on and a sweater so literally no one even notices me, and on my first visit, I’m reminded of an airport terminal where a lot of people hurry thither and yon and no one is stopping.

Walk of Shame Shades

I have a feeling people just haven’t found their groove yet and a second visit a little while later confirms that. By midnight there is plenty bumping and grinding, and I’m sure a lot more than that happening, but it’s very dark and so I don’t actually see that much.

On my third visit, this intrepid reporter counts guys packed nine or ten deep against the walls. It’s not for the faint of heart, germophobes or the claustrophobic, but these guys all seem to be having an awesome time sweating on (and god knows what else on) one another.

Porn Stars at the Black PartyPorn Stars at the Black PartyPorn Stars at the Black Party

Back at the Manhunt table we’re visited by a bunch of sexy fuckers like the wildly cheery Viktor Belmont and Israel Oka, the sooty Bravo Delta and the stylish Boomer Banks. Periodically, sexy coal-miner themed shenanigans happen in various parts of the room, featuring Adam Killian, Seth Fornea and Billy Santoro.

But after about five hours Dewitt and I reach our limit and head out, leaving the Manhunt table in the care of our better-rested compatriots. Our cabbie is amazed by the crowds, and it seems that after twenty-five years, the party still goes on well into the next afternoon for anyone with that much energy.




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