Larry’s Liquid Love
1165 Bedford Ave. (at Putnam Ave.)
Bed-Stuy, B’klyn
718-783-9129
Finger through a phone book, and I’ll bet you dollars to dumplings you won’t uncover an Astroglide Saloon. Naming a bar after a personal lubricant is transparently provocative, like a starlet neglecting to don panties. Then again, there is a certain élan to Larry’s Liquid Love.
For six years this alliteration has tempted me from its barren Bed-Stuy corner. “A sophisticated meeting place,” the sign read.
“For hookers,” my friend Andrew commented as we biked past Larry’s for the bazillionth time.
A flesh-trade player? “Psshaw,” said my neighborhood bodega owner. “It’s a dance club for middle-aged folks.”
As I’m neither 40-plus nor a dancer, I kept my Larry’s curiosity locked up. Then, one recent Friday, I attended a Bed-Stuy shindig eventually busted by cops. My posse craved a plan B.
“I know just the ticket,” I said.
“Where are we going?” asked one reveler.
“Larry’s Liquid Love,” I mumbled, leading us down Bedford Avenue like a pie-eyed Pied Piper. I walked quickly, keeping meddling questions out of earshot.
At the Triple L, barrel-chested bouncers gave our jeans and ratty sneakers the hairy eyeball. “You guys here to dance?” asked a bouncer whose neck was swallowed by his muscular shoulders.
Yes, yes, I lied, and he ushered us inside. We met an imposing woman wearing a black women’s power suit. She introduced herself as Miss Jackie.
“It’s $15 entry. Each.”
“Including drinks?”
“No.”
Readers, I was ready to click my heels and head home. But I recently spent a week in Beijing, haggling over the cost of knock-off New Balance sneakers (“Cheaper! The N is backward!”). I could certainly swing a deal.
“Look, we just wanna buy a drink.”
“Since it’s your first time,” Miss Jackie said, sighing, “come in for free. Welcome…to Liquid Love.”
I found my liquid love at the long bar topped with peanut jars. We ordered Bud longnecks ($6) and vodka tonics ($6) served in plastic cups. Highway robbery, yes, though one can’t quibble after gaining complimentary entry.
Cradling our drinks, we wound past empty tables, low lighting and solitary drinkers toward the party in the rear: The rear quarters contained booty-shaking, ’70s-era brilliance. Mirror-lined walls led to dual dark, living-room-size dance floors powered by the DJs’ pulsating, gut-jiggling reggae.
“I can feel my spleen vibrating,” said one pal, not unappreciatively.
On the floor, older men wearing shiny shoes and pressed pants broke it down with ladies shoehorned into slinky dresses and cling-wrap tops. But the vibe was festive, not lecherous, as couples—new and freshly minted—shook their rumps jovially. In the reverie, I unleashed the Electric Eel, whereupon I convulse as if I’m being stabbed.
“Looks like you’re…having fun,” said a man sipping cognac.
I responded with a spastic shoulder thrust and a smile. In more self-conscious environs (like Greenpoint or Williamsburg) I’d be mortified to gambol liberally. But Larry’s Liquid Love is a boogying refuge divorced from am-I-cool-enough? politics. Id, not overanalysis, rules. The night lasted, long and sweaty, until our dogs barked and our heads swam with overpriced booze.
We slumped toward the door, bidding Miss Jackie goodbye.
“Come back Sunday for karaoke,” she said. I cocked an eye.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s free.”
1165 Bedford Ave. (at Putnam Ave.)
Bed-Stuy, B’klyn
718-783-9129
Finger through a phone book, and I’ll bet you dollars to dumplings you won’t uncover an Astroglide Saloon. Naming a bar after a personal lubricant is transparently provocative, like a starlet neglecting to don panties. Then again, there is a certain élan to Larry’s Liquid Love.
For six years this alliteration has tempted me from its barren Bed-Stuy corner. “A sophisticated meeting place,” the sign read.
“For hookers,” my friend Andrew commented as we biked past Larry’s for the bazillionth time.
A flesh-trade player? “Psshaw,” said my neighborhood bodega owner. “It’s a dance club for middle-aged folks.”
As I’m neither 40-plus nor a dancer, I kept my Larry’s curiosity locked up. Then, one recent Friday, I attended a Bed-Stuy shindig eventually busted by cops. My posse craved a plan B.
“I know just the ticket,” I said.
“Where are we going?” asked one reveler.
“Larry’s Liquid Love,” I mumbled, leading us down Bedford Avenue like a pie-eyed Pied Piper. I walked quickly, keeping meddling questions out of earshot.
At the Triple L, barrel-chested bouncers gave our jeans and ratty sneakers the hairy eyeball. “You guys here to dance?” asked a bouncer whose neck was swallowed by his muscular shoulders.
Yes, yes, I lied, and he ushered us inside. We met an imposing woman wearing a black women’s power suit. She introduced herself as Miss Jackie.
“It’s $15 entry. Each.”
“Including drinks?”
“No.”
Readers, I was ready to click my heels and head home. But I recently spent a week in Beijing, haggling over the cost of knock-off New Balance sneakers (“Cheaper! The N is backward!”). I could certainly swing a deal.
“Look, we just wanna buy a drink.”
“Since it’s your first time,” Miss Jackie said, sighing, “come in for free. Welcome…to Liquid Love.”
I found my liquid love at the long bar topped with peanut jars. We ordered Bud longnecks ($6) and vodka tonics ($6) served in plastic cups. Highway robbery, yes, though one can’t quibble after gaining complimentary entry.
Cradling our drinks, we wound past empty tables, low lighting and solitary drinkers toward the party in the rear: The rear quarters contained booty-shaking, ’70s-era brilliance. Mirror-lined walls led to dual dark, living-room-size dance floors powered by the DJs’ pulsating, gut-jiggling reggae.
“I can feel my spleen vibrating,” said one pal, not unappreciatively.
On the floor, older men wearing shiny shoes and pressed pants broke it down with ladies shoehorned into slinky dresses and cling-wrap tops. But the vibe was festive, not lecherous, as couples—new and freshly minted—shook their rumps jovially. In the reverie, I unleashed the Electric Eel, whereupon I convulse as if I’m being stabbed.
“Looks like you’re…having fun,” said a man sipping cognac.
I responded with a spastic shoulder thrust and a smile. In more self-conscious environs (like Greenpoint or Williamsburg) I’d be mortified to gambol liberally. But Larry’s Liquid Love is a boogying refuge divorced from am-I-cool-enough? politics. Id, not overanalysis, rules. The night lasted, long and sweaty, until our dogs barked and our heads swam with overpriced booze.
We slumped toward the door, bidding Miss Jackie goodbye.
“Come back Sunday for karaoke,” she said. I cocked an eye.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s free.”
