The northwest suburbs were a lonely place when Hunter was a gay teenager there. “When people ask me who comes here,” says owner Mark Hunter, “I say we’ve got one of everything.” No one pays much attention when a caricature of a 1950s bombshell in platinum wig, white fur stole, and XXL white gown pays the $4 cover and flounces to the bar. On the other side, a lone muscled man-boy in tank top, baseball cap, and jeans gyrates to “Dancing Queen.” A few singles and couples perch at the small tables lining the darkened dance floor, their eyes raised to the images flashing on a dozen video monitors–tarted-up no-talent kids lip-synching to bad music. There’s a mannerly array of mostly male customers around the big, cozily lit bar on one side of the L-shaped space.
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