Nik Vandiver
Google
Pony is the kind of place you wind up when you’ve given up on being aspirational. It’s not where you meet the love of your life, it’s where you meet the person who ruins the rest of your week, maybe the rest of your month, maybe even your life but at least it won’t be boring. Anything but boring. The air is thick with sweat, despair, and joy. The walls feels like it’s seen something illegal, and still has the fingerprints to prove it. It’s all bad decisions and good intentions. A place so small you can’t help but rub against strangers, which is the point, isn’t it? You can call it a gay dive bar, but really it’s a queer confessional booth with alcoholic beverages. Everyone is either too cool or not cool enough but everyone is beautiful in that wrecked, unfixable way. The drinks are good, they’re strong, not cheap. The music is always right, but exactly wrong in a way that keeps you there and coming back. Pony is like an ex you should block on every platform but don’t, because some part of you thrives on humiliation, on spectacle, on waking up with hope and vomit dried stuck to your pillowcase.
If most gay bars are trying to be someone you could take home to your mother, Pony is the one you meet in the bathroom and leave without knowing their name. It’s not romance, it’s relapse. It’s not catharsis, it’s collapse. But it’s honest. And sometimes, when the world feels like it’s killing you slowly, honesty is the only libation worth paying for.