SEXIS WRONG

it. Levenson had become a missionary of the missionary, a
crusader for couples in dire need of sexual experimentation.
Simply, Levenson, who had experienced the embarrassment
of being refused entry to Studio 54, refused to turn anyone
away, as long as they were well-behaved. At Levenson’s locale,
patrons left their pedigrees at the door, wallets in their
lockers. Cardiologists got down next to cab drivers, and so
on. Levenson thought he had created a level playing field,
where everything was equal, aboveboard, and honest.
One night, a well-dressed caterer from Brooklyn visited the
Kenmore’s basement. Frank Pernice stayed clothed, intent to
remain on the sidelines and watch. At Levenson’s, watching
was perfectly acceptable. But Pernice was no typical voyeur.
He was turned on—by the financial potential of Levenson’s
establishment. Eventually, he made Levenson an offer. “Right
now you have a grocery store,” Pernice declared in his Sicilian
accent during one visit. “I can turn it into a supermarket.”
Pernice made it quite clear that he had the contacts to make
good on his offer. Levenson, though, was not sold. At heart,
he was a small-time deli owner who wanted no part of Pernice
and his shady contacts. Although he liked having a few
bucks in his pocket, Levenson didn’t go into swinging as a
business. It was a labor of love, his passion, his religion. So
when Pernice left messages for him, Levenson did not get
back to him.
Eventually, though, Levenson was forced out of the Kenmore.
Reluctantly, he called the connected caterer. Pernice promptly
made a phone call to Hy Gordon, a restaurateur who knew the
Ansonia Hotel’s landlord. Built in 1904, the Ansonia, a heavily-ornamented,
17-story urban castle, had already attracted
its fair share of well-known tenants, including athletes Babe
Ruth and Jack Dempsey and composers Igor Stravinsky
and Gustav Mahler. A hundred of Paul Costellano’s laborers
swiftly went into action in the majestic Ansonia’s basement,
the former home of the Continental Baths, a gay bathhouse
where Bette Midler and a young pianist by the name of Barry
Manilow used to perform. In mere months, gloryholes were
plugged, and it was transformed into the prototypical palace
for the public-sex phenomenon.
From the start, Plato’s Retreat was a smash success, especially
after New York Magazine featured the club in a cover
story. It succeeded mostly because of the relaxed atmosphere.
“I always used to say there’s more pressure at a singles’
bar than at Plato’s Retreat,” recalls Smith. “There was
so much, so available, so why pressure anyone?”
As Plato’s maître d’, Levenson welcomed his guests with the
playfulness of a kid in a sandbox, providing tours of the unair-conditioned
premises: the ample hot-and-cold buffet, the
clothing-optional dancefloor, the sixty-person Jacuzzi, the
labyrinth of thinly-walled, no-ceiling private rooms, and the
cushioned orgy room. Levenson was having the time of his
life and wanted everyone else to, as well.
“He added a friendly touch to the place,” says Smith, a nonswinger.
“He always used to tell couples: If your marriage is
in trouble, this won’t solve it. This is fun. This is extra. He told
me, ‘I don’t want to fuck up anyone’s life.’“
Meanwhile, Mary played host, too. In addition to putting together
the Plato’s newsletter, she often ensured that special
guests experienced the full Plato’s sensual experience. According
to Smith, Levenson offered Mary to him on several
occasions. Smith declined. While she was a devoted swinger,
Mary saved her heart for Levenson. “I intend to spend the
rest of my life with Larry, whether he likes it or not,” she told
one television interviewer.
Of course, not everyone was thrilled with Plato’s. Smith often
escorted eager friends to the club, but some of them would
leave, disgusted, shortly thereafter. After receiving a standing
ovation from the Jacuzzi crowd, DJ Wolfman Jack blanched
and didn’t speak for the rest of the night. City officials were
not amused either, hampering the high jinks by banning Plato’s
from distributing alcohol. If patrons wanted to drink, they
would have to bring it themselves.
There was also the issue of the single men who were desperate
to enter this new sexual frontier. To gain entry, they
would garner a female, either a friend or a working girl. Invariably,
their “date” would leave almost immediately, leaving an
inordinate number of men and an uncomfortable, tense, testosterone-fueled
vibe. In response, Levenson mandated that
all exiting women must depart with their male counterparts.
This seemed to do the trick—for the time being.
Plato’s became the perfect alternative to the starfuckin’
scene at Studio 54, which had opened five months earlier.
Plato’s embraced outer-borough punch-the-clockers like Rick
“The Prick,” a Queens desk slave who was armed with canteens
of rum and Coke; Wally “The Cop,” who supplied the
scotch; and Vance “The Lance,” who sold just about anything.
Then there were the gals, ladies like the statuesque
Sparkles, who gallivanted in only glitter; Candy, who dressed
up as a nurse; and some spaced-out chick known only as
“Wipe Out.” Committed couples like Fred and Mary, Don and
Jo Jo, and Mike and Anita were Plato’s heart and soul. Ultimately,
all were welcome.
“Plato’s was welcome to anybody as long as you were a
couple and you behaved yourself. We had 80-year-old people
coming to Plato’s as couples,” said Levenson. “I had people
weighing 600 pounds. If you could waddle through that door,
INSIDE THE CAVE 73