Seattle Nightlife Report: Pony

Mid-winter Friday night. Early but already so dark. The days are getting longer but 6 PM is still pitch black.

“Firepit!”

You declare things after just a few seconds of solemn thought – not a request or suggestion, not a demand. Last week you walked around saying, “Hot tub?” to anyone who would listen. Or one afternoon you pointed at two men holding hands as they crossed 12th Avenue, looked me in the eyes and said, “Boyfriends.”

And I always find a way to give you what you want. Luckily, this time of year there’s only one place to start an evening out. Yeah man, we’re going to Pony.

The boat-shaped sliver on Madison next to the G stop (one of my buddies calls that RapidRide Bus the Pony Express) is known for its welcoming atmosphere, unabashed queerness, and divey grime. The sign on the door declares that this is a very gay bar. There’s usually someone smoking on the corner before heading back in, nodding to the doorman who’s usually reading a book.

A few years ago I went there two days after Christmas, three weeks after a man told me no for the first time, a year and a half too late. His answer to the question I didn’t ask, “I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” Then, “But you’re my only friend.” Man, I just wanted him to actually be there for me, no expectations. Sometimes we don’t know how to hold each other. I coped by reading Elizabeth Ellen: Poems in public.

December is always a hard time, every year getting harder but somehow we always get what we need. When I went to Pony I was alone until I wasn’t. Inside the almost empty bar I saw an old friend and fellow artist who was dating the bartender. Outside on the patio only one man – a photographer visiting from London. He made me smile and took photographs of me, reminding me I had a body. A few hours of connection, being seen. My old pal left their strips in the photobooth for him, their partner, me, or anyone.

We sit in the corner next to the photobooth, stare into space. Sometimes this is a place to be quiet together. I’m nosy so I pick the black and white checkered decal covering the old images; I want to know who has been here before. Of course, we’re in direct eyeline of the fur coat-clad bouncer so they come over and tell me no, no. Not mean but stern, commanding. I respect their authority and the space. I obey.

We sat in the corner when we were still getting to know each other, giddy off what might come to be. Isn’t that something? To own a corner in a bar for a few minutes while the DJ plays music and people dance but nothing could take our attention off each other? Before we knew each other really, and before we tried to rely on each other. To sneak away into the bathroom until the bouncer knocks. No. I obey.

I didn’t really start hanging out with gay men until I was twenty-nine, so I didn’t really know how to act for a few years. A new friend, someone who seemed knew everything, brought me to Pony. We hung outside on the patio, meeting everyone and chatting ecstatically. We gave that special honeymoon feeling away to the packed crowd, filling the space with care and laughter. It was electric, easy as we stood back to back weaving in and out of conversations, learning about everyone around us. When I go to Pony I try to harness that energy again. I want bring joy to someone.

Tonight a kid at the bar does card tricks, though he claims he doesn’t know how it works. He’s with his boyfriend while I wait to order, shows the Four of Spades to the bartender. “Is this your card?” And it was. Then he turns to me, does it again while the boyfriend films him flash my Four of Clubs. They’re twenty-two and this is the first bar they’ve ever been to on the Hill.

“I want to get a group of us together and have someone older show us around!” I smile and nod. Maybe. But something tells me Pony is the right place for them to be.

I head outside, carrying both of our drinks. You're looking around, watching everyone in your quiet way. I don't know when we'll see each other again, but we have today. Thank you for waiting for me by the firepit.

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Joe Nasta is a foodie and poet vibing in Seattle. He has whispered five books of poetry into the world: I want you to feel ugly, too (2021); agony: love pomes (2022); blur/screenshot memories of platonic lust (2023); salt-water poems (2024); and (friendship poems) (2025). He is the author of Halve It (2025), a collection of short stories available wherever books are sold. Ze is an associate editor for Hobart Pulp. You could probably find him hanging out somewhere on Capitol Hill, Seattle.