The men are lined up for 30 yards, two across, starting at the entrance of a bar on a North Halsted corner and heading down the sidewalk. Inside, the line continues, snaking along the wall from the front door all the way to the back, where it widens into a pool of men, all in various stages of undress. They double over to pull off their pants, or lean against the wall to put their shoes back on. The closer you get to the front of the line, the closer the men in it are to wearing nothing but their skivvies. One guy in Bears boxers helps his friend in flannel shorts lace on a leather armband.
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The bar’s weekend dress code involves leather, but this is an Underparty, a semiregular event, and patrons aren’t allowed into the two back rooms unless they lose their trousers first. The bottleneck in the corner is at the coat check, where people are handing over their clothes to be stored in plastic grocery bags on hangers. Some people, apparently familiar with the routine, come prepared to bypass the line. They wear jackets over underwear that can pass for shorts in the street. And some are savvier than others about the logistical dilemmas posed by passing an evening in undies. A shortish middle-aged man asks a taller guy with gray hair and glasses, “What do you do with your cigarettes?”
He doesn’t finish the thought.
One person who doesn’t pass muster is a big-haired woman who comes in wearing an olive blazer over black bra, panties, and pantyhose. Apparently pantyhose don’t qualify; she strips them off on the spot and the leather check lets her through.
It’s noticeably warmer in here, and more humid, and reminiscent of a 1970s disco. People are dancing and sweating, jostled by other dancers and people circulating. Around the edges of the dance floor couples grope, pressing their flies tightly together. In the far corner, a blonde guy with hairy shoulders wearing white briefs is kissing a guy with glasses in green briefs. In the corner farthest from the entrance, a man shakes a tambourine nonstop.
