Your Boyfriend Fucks Me, Too: A Sex Trilogy, Pt. 2

He’s already got his cock out.  It’s okay.  I can work with it.  He won’t open his belt, or unbutton the top of his jeans, so I have to suck him through his fly; something that is typically less than ideal.  I drop my stuff on the floor of the passenger side and assume the position.  There’s more room in the cab of his truck, so I don’t feel quite so awkward this time, on all fours in the well.  He’s grabbing for my junk.  I’m sucking on his.  In the back of my mind I’m already hoping for a quick ending. 

He’s grabbing my nips and pinching them slightly.  I return the favor and discover his are pierced.  He moans.  His bod is not in bad shape.  I like his fur.  Something about his moaning mouth makes me want to kiss him, and I do.  Smoker’s breath.  Ugh.  One of my least favorite things in the world.  A shame, too, because he’s an eager, generous kisser.  Mentally, I hold my nose and keep sucking face with him. 

Things escalate quickly.  As we kiss, he works his hand into the back of my jeans and fingers my hole.  Well, shades of twenty minutes ago, am I right?  I shuck down my jeans and resume my place in the well of the passenger seat with my naked ass in the air.  He wets an index finger with his mouth and drives his finger in me.  His dick is hard.  Hard to tell exactly how big it is, because of his jeans, but it’s enough to keep me busy.  His finger dives deep and something in me clicks. I want to get fucked.  I move in and deep kiss him again.  Without much beyond grunts and moans passing between us, we end up on the same wavelength.  He wants to fuck me, too.  And eat my ass.  Fine.  I untie my boots, shuck off my jeans and underwear.  This will allow me the spread and dexterity I will need to straddle him.  But first he wants to eat my ass. I turn it every which way I can, kneeling on the passenger seat, but the angle is all wrong and we abandon the idea.  I am just about to straddle him when… we see a white SUV approaching.  I plop back in the seat and grab my pants.  A quick glance up and I realize… It’s the PARK POLICE!

So, of course I can’t get back into my tight jeans quickly.  The black underwear I had on in wrapped around one of my ankles.  I struggle into the Jeans.  The space next to me is open and all the Park Police have to do is come up alongside us and they will catch me wiggling into my jeans. 

But they don’t.

They back into a space behind us.  WTF?  So they are watching us from a good six yards or so. I slip back into my pants and get my boots back on.  What to do?  Drive, I tell him.  Where? Just go.  We will leave and come back.  What if they stop us?  For what?  Sitting together in a car?  As we leave, I get the sinking feeling that I am leaving having left the doors of my car unlocked.

We leave the park.  They do not follow. We cross the freeway and move along a frontage road that mirrors the park.  The Park Police are still where we left them and something tells me they are watching our every move. We crawl along the frontage road and I tell him to pull into the parking lot of one of those multiple-business brick buildings.  We park.  By this point, I am pretty much put back together.  No coat and I wrestle my underwear from around my ankle and hold it in my hand.  We laugh.  Just a bit.  We’re still not out of the woods. 

We don’t stay put long.  We crawl along the parking lot, parallel to the park.  They’re gone.  Yay.  Sigh of relief.  We chat as we drive back.  Just as we’re crossing the freeway, entering the park, I spot the white SUV parked at the opposite end of the park.  My stomach sinks.  Time to abandon ship.  I tell him to drop me in the closest parking lot.  I get out and head down a hill, walking in the snow, headed toward a blacktop pathway.  No coat on, carrying my underwear in my hand.  I don’t look back… until.  “Hey, you!  Stop right there.”

It’s one of the officers.  It’s the big fat one who likes to run through the underbrush in summer, huffing and puffing and not fooling anybody.  This dude is the worst cop ever.  He asks what I’m doing.  I tell him I’m walking back to my car.  I stay weirdly cool… like mean cool.  Like come too close and I will bite you Mr. Mall Cop cool.  He tells me they have me on their cam pulling on my pants.  I tell him I very much doubt that, as I was doing no such thing.  Weirdly, he does not order me back up the hill, he tells me to walk over to my car and he will meet me there.  He wants to see an I.D.  Fine. 

I head back to my car, glancing over my shoulder to gage just how quickly they are going to get to my car.  They don’t seem to be in any hurry.  They’ve detained the dude in the red pick-up.  I make a dash for my car.  Stupid me.  Not only is the driver side unlocked, so is the passenger side.  And, to top it all off, my front seat is littered with all my sex kit stuff.  Talk about incriminating.  All those officers needed to do was walk up and look in my car and they would have known the score.  I cram all that stuff - plus my black underwear, which, surprisingly, the cop never asked me about - back in my bag and zip it.  I get my I.D. and just in time, because here they are.  They pull up, but don’t park.  I have the driver’s door open and offer up the I.D.

The cop gets out and says, “Hey, I’m gonna make this easy on you and easy on me.  We’re gonna drop the whole thing.”

Huh?

Then, no lecture, no warning, nothing.  He and his bud get back in their vehicle and head back to the parking lot where the red pick-up (which is now nowhere in sight) dropped me off.  I take note that the bud is a real hot cop.  Damn… I wouldn’t mind being interrogated by him for a while.   In a daze, I pull myself back together quickly and get the hell out of there. 

I am elated.  Beyond elated.  I feel like I just cheated death.  I go over it in my head again and again and can’t make sense of it.  Unless… whatever cam he thought he had evidence on malfunctioned, was non-existent, or didn’t show what he thought it would.  Whatever.  I berate myself for taking such a stupid risk – especially with a dude I was not that into.  But, hey… I  got away with it.  All is good. The rush of the experience stays with me long after I get home.

I feed my dogs and continue to thank my lucky stars.  Then I hit the net.  I still want something.  Hell, now I feel like I deserve it.  It’s one of those rare days where my desires are aligned with the cosmos, for the moment I open A4A, a real hot dude hits on me. He’s a bit younger than me, thin, muscular, full of tats, handsome and versatile.  He wants to fuck my ass.  Within four messages back and forth, I have an address.  He lives in an area of the city that has been very lucky for me lately – as in – I have about five dudes I play with all living within two blocks of each other. 

I clean up, and then tell him I am on my way…

- End of Part 2 -

Your Boyfriend Fucks Me, Too: A Sex Trilogy Part 1

Friday.  In a mood.  Had been a good boy all week, avoiding temptation, keeping my nose to the grindstone.  That should count for something, shouldn’t it?  In the big picture, don’t we get credit for abstaining; for controlling our compulsive needs and wants?  Maybe.  Certainly not always.  My mind felt fractured.  Things at work, not good.  Not typical.  I’m a creature of habit and my rut has recently been flattened and crushed.  Leaving work, I know just what to do.  I know just where to go.

Sitting in my car, in the parking lot of my favorite cruising park.  It’s winter, but the sun is out today and I am hopeful.  I don’t wait long.  A black BMW pulls beside me.  He has a blue glass dolphin hanging from his rear view mirror.  I recognize it.  He’s on his phone, blah, blah blah; stealing furtive glances in my direction.  I’m sure, but not sure.  I wait.  Finally he gets off the phone.  The lot has emptied out, so I nod my head and he nods in response.  He’s fiddling with something in his lap and soon I hope to be fiddling with it, too. 

Making my way to his car, I bring along some cock rings and poppers, just in case, though I’m pretty sure it’s not my cock that will be getting all the attention.  At least ten years my junior, he’s kind of hot.  In good shape.  Bald head, quarter-inch full bead.  I like the shape of his head.   And his mouth.  He’s got his cock out.  Eight inches.  Reasonably fat.  I slide in and put my mouth on that baby immediately.  Why bother with small talk; we both know what I’m there for.  

It’s a meat and potatoes blow job, only, no dessert.  Cars start drifting in.  He gets nervous, questioning me whether I know this one or that one.  I don’t.  I haven’t been playing the parking lot game the way I used to, so I am out of touch.  Hunkered down in the passenger’s seat well, I am essentially on all fours.  It’s a challenge, at this angle, but I manage to make it work.  But then a car comes in and he freaks, zips up, and I have to be good and return to my seated, upright, position.  More questions to which I have no answers. 

He asks to see my cock.  Sure, what the hell.  I shuck my jeans (skinny, too tight), down to my ankles and let it all hang out.  He gets all handsy with it and unfurls his own in the process.  I take this as my cue to get back to work, and I do.  He’s hard and making the occasional noise, which is always a good sign.  I want to get him there and get out.  The suit he’s wearing is black and I worry that I will stain it with my saliva or his pre-cum; the fabric seems the type that is unforgiving and shows the tiniest infraction.   But is that really something to concern myself with?  Only if I want a second shot.  If I remember correctly, this dude only appears once in a blue moon, so, other than I have the time to think it, not sure why this occurs to me.  I take his balls and tug and fondle them.   I’ve found that if I rub a dude’s balls just right, I can get them to contract up, which is a sign that they are close to shooting.  His balls follow suit, and he’s making lovely little noises.  I think I’ve got him where I want him. 

My technique?  Really good, despite the weird angle.  He reaches over my back and starts playing with my hole, because my bare ass, as I am on all fours in the passenger’s side well with my jeans around my ankles, is sticking up there for all the world to see.  I make noises of approval and he starts working my hole with his fingers.  I would love to get fucked, but something tells me that is not going to happen.  He’s too nervous.  But not so skittish as to not do an excellent job, finger fucking my hole.  It’s clean, so I let him at it.

Out of the blue, he tells me he’s too nervous.  Pants are zipped and I… I go with the flow - sure I understand, blah, blah, blah.  I reseat myself and hike up my jeans.  As I’m doing this he tells me that he was really close to cumming.  Really?  Then why didn’t he?  You know why not?  Because he’s one of those that saves it, like pennies in a piggy bank.  Thing is, cum replenishes itself, so this makes no sense to me.  I hang around just long enough to make sure that his dick is not going to make another appearance.  Giving his crotch a nice pat, I exit the vehicle.  There are five other vehicles in the lot.  They all know what I’ve been up to… and I don’t give a fuck.

Dolphin man drives off.  Soon everybody else follows suit. I check the time.  I check out Grindr.  I check out Scruff.  I unlock my passenger door and exit my vehicle.  I have to pee.  I always leave my passenger door unlocked just in case I get locked out of my car.  I stand near the rear of my vehicle, on the opposite side from the entrance to the parking lot and the road that runs along the edge of the park.  Cars drive by, but they don’t know what I’m doing.  I get back in the car.  I take all my sex kit out of my bag and lay it out on my passenger seat.  Condoms, lube, cock rings, poppers, etc.   It’s early.  I still have time to score something.

In drives a red pick-up.  He parks one space down from my vehicle, so there is a space between us.  If he was truly interested he’d park right next to me.  We play the steal-a-glance game for a bit.  What do I think of him? He’s probably my age, but looks older, with shoulder length salt and pepper hair.  The couple days growth on his chin doesn’t exactly help him in the age department.  He has a small, thick gold hoop in his ear.  It’s not bad . Kind of granola.  Kind of a gamble.  It’s always dicey this way; his vehicle is much higher than mine and I can’t see much of him.  Is he fat?  Could be.  Will I go find out?  Probably.

The lot is clear of other vehicles.  Finally, he smiles and nods his head.  I grab my cock rings and a bottle of poppers and exit my vehicle.   Like the board game says, it’s time to open the door and meet my next mystery date…

- End Part One -

Acquired Tastes, XXXI: The Village People

Introduction:

Last week, while researching the previous chapter of the Acquired Tastes series (Gay Erotic Illustrations, XXXIV), I happened on an image that inspired this week’s topic.  The Google search had to do with ‘gay erotic cartoons’, and up popped an image of The Village People.  It was a cute cartoon version that presented the group members as ‘little people’, like something that ABC TV would have picked up for a Saturday morning cartoon show (can you imagine!).  The image spoke to me. One of the facets of The Village People is their image.  It’s iconic and originated as a visual representation of the people who populated the then relatively ‘unknown’ (by the general populace) underground gay club scene. 

The first album cover literally featured people from the street.  The group itself was formed after the first album had been released and only because it had struck a commercial cord right out of the box.  It was an image that launched a very (briefly) successful enterprise that continues to this day and whose impact regarding the acceptance of gay men and the gay lifestyle is still being sociologically quantified to this day.  Love them or hate them, their legacy is undeniable.

So, let’s look beyond the cheesy tired beats, the frequently lame lyrics, the clownish attire, the glitz, the glamour, the shtick, the kitsch, and examine the enduring appeal, historical relevance, and sociological impact of…

The Village People

Scope of Activity:

An appreciation for the music and cultural impact of this iconic music group; a group with strong ties to the gay community and the disco movement. 

The Official Line:

I was going to include the entry from Allmusic.com, but found it dismissive, poorly written, and inaccurate.  Instead:

From Wikipedia

The group was the creation of Jacques Morali, a French musical composer. He had written a few dance tunes (The Ritchie Family) when he was given a demo tape recorded by singer/actor Victor Willis. Morali approached Willis and told him, “I had a dream that you sang lead on my album and it went very, very big”. Willis agreed to sing on the first album, Village People.

It was a success, and demand for live appearances soon followed. Morali and his business partner, Henri Belolo (under the collaboration Can't Stop Productions) hastily built a group of dancers around Willis to perform in clubs and on Dick Clark's American Bandstand. As Village People's popularity grew, Morali, Belolo, and Willis saw the need for a permanent group. They took out an ad in a music trade magazine which read: ‘Macho Types Wanted: Must Dance And Have A Moustache.’

Morali met the first recruit, Felipe Rose (Native American), on the streets of Greenwich Village. Rose was a bartender who wore jingle bells on his boots. He was invited to take part in the sessions for the first album. Alex Briley (who started as an athlete, but eventually took on the soldier persona) was Willis's friend. The others, Mark Mussler (construction worker), Dave Forrest (cowboy), Lee Mouton (leather man) and Peter Whitehead (one of the group's early songwriters) appeared on American Bandstand and in the video for the group's first hit, ‘San Francisco (You Got Me)’. They were later replaced by David Hodo, Randy Jones and Glenn Hughes, who all had more experience as actors/singers/dancers. Hughes had first been spotted as a toll collector at the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.

Because Morali could not speak English, songwriters Phil Hurtt and Peter Whitehead were brought in to write the lyrics for the first album. However, Willis wrote the lyrics to the group's biggest hits, including ‘Y.M.C.A.’, ‘Macho Man,’ ‘Go West’, and ‘In the Navy,’ and for other Can't Stop Productions acts such as Ritchie Family and Patrick Juvet. Likewise, Gypsy Lane (the Village People band) and their conductor, Horace Ott, provided much of the musical arrangements for Morali, who did not play any instruments.

The band's name refers to New York City's Greenwich Village, at the time known for its large gay population. Morali and Belolo decided to create a group of stereotypes based on the gay men of Greenwich Village, who often dressed in fantasy attire.

‘Macho Man’ brought them mainstream attention, and their 1978 recording ‘Y.M.C.A.’ became one of the most popular hits of the 1970s.

In 1979, the United States Navy decided to use ‘In the Navy’ in a television and radio recruiting campaign. Belolo offered them the rights for free if the Navy would help them film the music video. The Navy provided them access to the San Diego Navy base, where the USS Reasoner (FF-1063), several aircraft, and the crew of the ship would be used. The Navy canceled the campaign after a short time.

The group's fame peaked in 1979, when Village People made several appearances on The Merv Griffin Show and travelled with Bob Hope to entertain U.S. troops. They were also featured on the cover of Rolling Stone, Vol. 289, April 19, 1979. Willis left the group at the end of an international tour in 1979, and a decline in popularity followed.

Ray Simpson, brother of Valerie Simpson (of Ashford & Simpson), replaced Willis for the group's highly anticipated 1980 feature film Can't Stop the Music, directed by Nancy Walker, written by Allan Carr and Bronte Woodard, music and lyrics by Jacques Morali (although Willis penned the lyrics to ‘Milkshake’ and ‘Magic Night’) and starred Steve Guttenberg, Valerie Perrine, Jean-Claude Billmaer, Bruce Jenner, and Village People. By the time it was released, however, disco had waned and the movie won the Worst Picture and Worst Screenplay prizes at the 1980 Golden Raspberry Awards in March 1981 and was nominated in almost all the other categories. The movie itself has since become a cult favorite, developing a worldwide fan base.

The group was one of the featured guests on a November 22, 1980 episode of Love Boat, (7th episode of season 4), entitled ‘Secretary to the Stars/Julie's Decision/The Horse Lover/Gopher and Isaac Buy a Horse’. At the end of 1980, cowboy Randy Jones left the group and was replaced by Jeff Olson.

In 1981, with the popularity of disco having faded and New Wave music on the rise, Village People replaced its on-stage costumes with a new look inspired by the New Romantic movement, and released the New Wave album Renaissance. It only attracted minor, mostly negative attention and produced no hits.

Victor Willis returned to the group briefly in late 1981 for the album Fox on the Box, which was released in 1982 only in Europe but did have limited release in the United States in 1983 under the title In the Street. Miles Jaye had briefly taken over for Ray Simpson as lead singer by 1983 and contributed an extra track to In the Street. Mark Lee replaced David Hodo in 1982.

Their last album containing new material, the 1985 dance/Hi-NRG release Sex Over the Phone, was not a huge commercial success. The title track, when released as a single, was banned by the BBC because of its content.  In recent years, ‘Sex Over the Phone’ has become a cult classic. Recently, an Associated Press declared ‘Sex Over the Phone’ to be the “Citizen Kane of music videos.”  The album featured yet another new lead singer, Ray Stephens (of The Great Space Coaster fame).

In 1985, the group took a hiatus, but reunited in 1987 with the line-up of Randy Jones, David Hodo, Felipe Rose, Glenn Hughes, Alex Briley and Ray Simpson.

Psychological Aspects:

In the days before The Village People, gay people were simply not talked about all that much or acknowledged except in the large metropolitan areas - such as San Francisco, Greenwich Village, and the like.  In those locales, gay people existed in numbers large enough to be able to organize, mobilize, and have their voices heard.  But for Middle America, gay people remained an anomaly. Middle America viewed gay people on the coasts as ‘other’.  They also categorized them as a fringe population full of deviants. 

Sex, to this day, remains a powerful divider.  People are uncomfortable with it and particularly the notion of gay sex.  Gay sex is inexorably intertwined and identified with gay people. When people reject gay people, it’s not necessarily because of the gay person, but because of the sex associated with the concept of ‘being gay’.  This is why we continue to have issues with gaining acceptance for gay marriage.  When people who are not gay consider the issue, they focus on the sexual aspects and the possible implicit validation of such sexual practices.  They do not focus on the people, their capacity to love, or their need for societal validation.  Their fear of the sexual component cancels out their ability to be fair.

So, maybe it’s time The Village People make a comeback in a big way.

Well, think about it: if you want to take the fear out of something, boil that something down and create a cartoon version that is easily digestible.  The Village People accomplished just that back in the late ‘70’s.  The sloganism in their music helped further that cause.  It was simple, inoffensive, easily digestible music that was not in the slightest way, scary.   In a way, they were the perfect propaganda machine to invade the airwaves and homes of America; which is exactly what they did.

What Stonewall accomplished locally?  In a way, The Village People were able to do globally.

That’s the power of image.  And that is at the heart of the legacy of The Village People.

My Experience:

My youngest sister, two years my junior, had a copy of the third album; the one with ‘Y.M.C.A.’  She was fascinated by them and eventually would incorporate the concept of them while playing with her Barbie dolls.  Ken was the construction worker.  Action Jackson (mine) was the leather dude.  Johnny West (mine) was, of course, the cowboy (Jane, his rather mannish wife, did not approve).  Johnny’s friend, Geronimo (mine) was, of course, the Native American and my Allan doll, which I had given her quite some time ago, was the lead singer.

To put the state of her musical tastes at that time into perspective, the other ‘loves’ of her life included Sean Cassidy and Barry Manilow.  In a way, I had a healthy respect for all three musical entities (success = respect), but kept my distance.  While I appreciated the pop appeal of what all three were doing, and the songwriting of Barry Manilow, in particular, it was not the sort of thing that I could admit to liking.  My musical life at the time was all about The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, David Bowie’s ‘Low’ and ‘Heroes’, Robert Fripp, Peter Gabriel, Rufus and Chaka Khan, and whatever else my musically adventurous best friend happened to suggest.

At the time, not only was I in a ‘rock band’, but I was also DJing high school dances. For middle schoolers, I would dig into my two youngest sister’s collections, and ‘Y.M.C.A’ was always a dance floor filler. 

I didn’t realize there was such a thing as a gay community until I saw the Village People’s first album cover.  Sad as the thought is, I didn’t learn about Stonewall until I gained unlimited access to the internet.  It wasn’t taught in school as a part of history.  Women studies?  Yes. But nothing about the liberation of gay people or the existence of a community.

 

I remember the first time I saw a Village People’s album.  It was their first album and if I remember correctly it was while going through the racks at J.C. Penny – a ritual I performed at every store I entered.  While fascinated by the image, I also knew I couldn’t be seen actually looking at it.  It felt like porn, something I was also fairly unfamiliar with at the time, but could properly identify when the opportunity arose. 

Growing up in the Midwest, I lived in a community where the word ‘gay’ was only hurled as an insult.  ‘Those people’ all lived elsewhere and were never talked about. And I know this is hard to believe, but when discussing The Village People and their music, I don’t recall anyone – ever - talking about them in terms of being ‘gay’. Not even on television. They were entertainers.  Flamboyant. Costumed characters as harmless as comic book heroes.  You see, in my community’s collective mind and way of thinking, one could not be a successful entertainer and be homosexual; the latter canceled out the former.  Being a homosexual was a one-way-ticket to failure.  This was brought home to me repeatedly by the head of my school’s drama department.  If I wanted to be taken seriously as an actor, I couldn’t be ‘like that’. 

Somehow that translated to: The Village People are not really gay.  They are actors.  They are performers.  So, it was okay to listen to them and do that stupid ‘Y.M.C.A.’ dance.  Participating in this group activity was good, clean fun: the polar opposite of ‘gay’.  I mean, they were on American Bandstand, for chriss sake!  If Dick Clark’s sanitized seal of approval did not mean they were wholesome enough for mass consumption, then I don’t know what country we were living in. 

Yep, The Village People were consumed in the Midwest without any acknowledgement of what they really represented. We collectively turned a blind eye to the founding ideals at the core of the group and what they represented.  We enjoyed them as the novelty act we assumed they were.  I think that same attitude is true, in general, when examining the acceptance of disco in Middle America.  We appreciated the energy, the beats, and, ignorant of its true origins, saw it as nothing more than a harmless fad. Considering the ‘not-on-the-radar’ attitude toward gay people adopted by most of the people I came in contact with, that is not surprising.  Yes, gay people existed, but not in the Midwest.  And not on television.  Or in the movies. 

So, it’s not surprising that whenever The Village People and their music came into focus, I died a little inside.  Guilt by association, I guess.  And also, simple embarrassment.  While I was attracted by the flaunting of their sexual selves, it also made me cringe.  It struck me as crude and cartoonish.  If this was what being gay was then I wanted no part of it.  And yet, the image on that first album, remained alluring seductive, worming its way into my adolescent psyche. Something about it, beyond its potent sexuality, resonated.  Perhaps it was the sense of community that was at the heart of Jacques’ original vision that spoke to me.

As the group grew in popularity, they became less threatening and more cartoon-like.  The gay icons simply became accepted stereotypes, sanitized and homogenized for mass consumption.  Gay underground warriors reduced to show biz bullshit.  It was sad, but hardly surprising.  Did anyone really buy David Hodo as a construction worker?  And while Randy Jone’s mustache was right on the mark, was he really the gay cowboy of anybody’s dreams? And Alex Briley, tall and thin, was not what sprung to my mind when it came to ‘military might’.  Even Glenn Hughes was reduced to cuddly teddy bear, rather than the menacing dominant leather man he was meant to represent.  Only Felipe Rose’s Native American seemed remotely sexual, and that was only due to his skimpy costume and bountiful show of skin.

I reviewed some videos of the group at their peak.  There’s something grotesquely amateurish about the choreography, both in its design and execution.  But, hey, this is the ‘70’s we’re talking about.  Leisure suits were a recent thing.  Polyester (the kind that didn’t breathe) was still king.  Smarmy (Burt Reynolds) was considered ‘hot’.  So razor sharp perfection and execution was not a given, hell, it wasn’t expected at all. That said, the choreography is pretty lame, especially considering this is what these dudes did for a living.  But maybe it was designed that way on purpose; kept simple so everyone could be a village person!

It’s that same amateurishness that sank their swansong, Can’t Stop the Music.  Not only was disco on the wane and being forced underground once more, but adding to the film’s problems is its home movie like quality and poor editing.  I realize that Nancy Walker was a first time director.  I’ve heard the rumors about the set being a cocaine-fueled romp.  And I know the script and music were ‘slight’, to say the least.  I place this film in the same bin that ‘Xanadu’ goes in… a bad idea whose time had come and gone before its release date arrived.  

Oh, these boys were so NOT ‘Ready for the 80’s’

Take The Village People’s attempt at rebirth: 1981’s Renaissance.  I bought a copy for a dollar out of a cut-out bin at Woolworth’s in 1984.  I immediately became enamored with the would-be single, ‘5 O’Clock in The Morning’.  I still think it’s a great song.  I believe the dude from Toto had a hand in that track, which helps explain the song’s relative sophistication, especially when compared to the rest of the album.  The rest of the album?  I would go so far as to declare tracks like ‘Big Mac’, ‘Diet’, ‘Food Fight’, and the like - dire.   

• Interesting Fact: Not all the members were gay.
• Interesting Fact: Group members still insist that their music is not gay. (Really.)
• Fun Fact:  Bruce Villanche wrote most of the lyrics for The V.P.’s album, Sex Over the Phone. I have never heard it but am curious as hell.  I’d also like to hear all of their post-success releases.

Yes, they released a few more albums after Renaissance.  They even toured as Cher’s opening act on her ‘Farewell’ tour But for all intents and purposes by the end of 1979, the bloom was off the Rose (get it), and The Village People were reduced to one-hit wonder status (despite having had three major hits).

I went so far as to buy a greatest hits collection in the early 2000’s.   I’ll be honest, the music’s appeal still escapes me and I am a HUGE fan of disco.  But then, sloganism, which I think is a category most of their music fits into, has never appealed to me.  I think that’s why I like ‘5 O’Clock in the Morning’; it had atmosphere, a couple hooks, and a story - a description that pretty much sums up the career of the Village People themselves as well.  Yes, they had atmosphere, a couple of hooks, and a story. 

And a purpose; one they accomplished quite well.

My Conclusion:

So maybe their music didn’t have all that much impact on the music world.  Maybe it can be easily dismissed as inconsequential fluff.   But the same certainly cannot be said of their impact on society as a whole. 

Yes, love them or hate them… we must give credit where credit is due.  To this day, The Village People continue to serve as ambassadors for the gay community.

Keep that in mind at the next high school reunion or wedding dance you attend, and realize that when the DJ breaks out ‘Y.M.C.A.’, hackneyed as it may seem – all those fools out there dancing? 

They’re dancing a dance that truly spells: gay liberation!

In the Navy

Y.M.C.A.

Macho Man

Sex Over the Phone

Go West

Movie Trailer for 'Can't Stop The Music'