Monday, December 27, 2010

Ho Ho Homo.

After a delightfully morose Christmas day, I went to work, expecting little in terms of excitement.  Little did I know that I was about to witness a Christmas miracle. 
There was little activity for most of the night, and the usual suspects came in at the usual times.  Overall, I wasn’t impressed with the evening—Santa didn’t bring me Orlando Bloom or David Beckham like he promised he would, and there wasn’t an Italian villa or Costa Rican summer home under the tree like I had requested, so I certainly wasn’t expecting a glorious evening after that level of disappointment (side note, Dear Santa—you suck.)
And then the Hustler arrived. 
Yes, he was so impressive, he gets a capital “H.”  Homeboy was running around, working his way around the crowd of, shall we say, impressionable older men.  He openly professed to any and all that would listen that he was in fact straight (which is hustler lingo for “power bottom”).  Three days earlier, I had told him that I didn’t like people hustling, and I didn’t really want him in the bar—but, as of yet, he hadn’t done anything to really warrant being kicked out, and most of the homo’s thought he was entertaining, so I let it be.
But tonight was different.  He saw me working, and it was as if he had seen an angel—his words, not mine.  For the rest of the night, he was enraptured with me.  He couldn’t stop watching me, he couldn’t stop professing his love for me (at one point I told him he wasn’t allowed to say “I love you” until he truly understood what that meant, which made little impression, but needed to be said).  He’d never seen anything like me before, he said.  I have his terribly misspelled love notes on my refrigerator door.  I was extremely flattered, but even more confused.  After all, I was the one who told him I didn’t want him in my bar anymore.  And yet, he stood there, and told me how he had been attracted to women until very recently, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to make of me, and lost out on many a client because of his infatuation with little ol’ me. 
The more he drank, the more aggressive he got with his advances.  Never once did he get dirty or rude, which was incredibly refreshing (I worked today and talked to a customer for less than 2 minutes before he was asking me how large my penis was).  He begged me to give him a chance, he told me he would change his ways and be a better man.  He gave him every bartender excuse I had in my book as to why I wouldn’t date him, but still he begged. 
Was I witnessing a true Christmas miracle?  Did my magical gay powers have the ability to turn a straight hustler into an upstanding homosexual citizen?  Did Santa just have a wicked sense of humor, and send me a blessing in disguise?
Well, no.  He ended up getting so drunk that he started screaming about how his father abused his sister, how he was a horrible fucked up person for being the hustler he was, and proceeded to try to take his clothes off and spill drinks all over people in the process.  At which point, I told him it was probably time for him to go.  And, after all of that, what did he say to me? 
He wasn’t concerned if he got kicked out for good.
He wasn’t concerned if the police were coming.
He was concerned if I was mad at him. 
I thought that was very sweet.  I told him I wasn’t mad, but he probably shouldn’t come in for a while.  And finally he left.
What impressed me most about this boy was his bravery, his honesty.  He laid his feelings (however contrived, manipulative or fake they were) on the table with no cowardice.  And that earned a lot of respect in my book, because as I looked around at many of the men in my bar, they were mocking him.  They were laughing at him, they were completely lacking even an iota of compassion for someone who was scared, confused and in pain. 
I think we could all learn a thing or two from this young (ok, he wasn’t so young) man.  He wasn’t afraid to tell it like it was, even if those feelings were fleeting and surface—whereas most people I meet are so scared of the unknown that they won’t even come close to risking rejection, instead choosing to mock and scorn those of us who are still full of vitality. 
I remember the first tingling of real, tangible sexual attraction towards another man. I remember the first time my heart yearned, the first time my soul genuinely connected with another.  Do any of you?  Do any of you still vibrate with giddiness at the anticipation of another’s touch? 
Someone once told me that anticipation was half of the fun.  It seems to me, even letting yourself anticipate something exciting is an act of bravery that so few are willing to risk. 
I don’t expect that hustler to ever get his life together—I certainly hope he does, but I am a pragmatic individual.  But he did help me remember that first tingle I got when I found something I knew, at the time, I couldn’t live without. 
Can you remember?
Lord, I need a drink. 

Monday, December 13, 2010

In The Air Tonight.

I’ve always considered myself a fairly jaded person, but the longer I’m around all these old fags, the more I realize how much optimism I actually have.  And despite the fact that I’m sitting here with a $7 bottle of White Zinfandel wine and a very large amount of food from Pizza Hut, I still have hope that my life will turn out just fine.
So many of my customers (and close friends, actually) seem to have given up on love, and I don’t understand why.  I don’t usually call myself a romantic (I spend too much money on lube and too much time on sexual fantasies for that to be the case), but the world seems like a pretty sad place when you’ve given up on love.  Success, money, power, fame, a large penis—all seem futile if you don’t have love and joy and passion to go along with it. 
And, granted, most of my customers have years upon years of failure and disappointment that I have yet to attain—after all, my heart has only been broken a couple times, and my prostate is still healthy and I can still maintain an erection.  Hell, one of my co-workers has been bartending longer than I have been alive.  So, obviously I’m still young in comparison, and have many STD tests and prostate exams ahead of me before I become bitter and cold (just how I like my tequila). 
Still, it’d be pretty interesting to take a poll of everyone I talk to, and see if they could pin point the exact moment that they gave up and caved into the cynicism and ennui of the world.  When they stopped believing in love, and hope, and kindness. 
I may not know what love is (although I think I have a pretty good idea), but I’m going to try my hardest to never give up on it.  It’s simultaneously the most painful and most rewarding thing in the world.  It takes a lot of bravery, and one thing I am not is a coward.  Everything seems hollow without it some kind of love, without some kind of magic. 
I overheard one of my customers say “I don’t believe in miracles anymore,” which made me want to cry.  I didn’t, because I prefer to do that in the shower, alone, listening to Sarah McLachlan, like any other respectable homo.  Still, I know I’m young, but given the job I have, I’ve seen a whole lot of horrible shit go down—and I still believe, that if I put enough energy and magic into myself, that maybe one day I’ll be able to fly like Peter Pan.
Maybe it’s just that time of the year (you know the time, when you get horrible stomach cramps from all the eggnog you drink, and you have to resist strangling those people from Salvation Army that won’t stop ringing their bells at the entrance to every store you go into).  Christmas.  Nevertheless, I turned to my oh-so-jaded customer, puffed up my chest like there was some authority behind what I was about to say, and said “the world is an awfully boring (and scary) place if you don’t believe in at least a little magic.” 
Never stop believing in miracles, in love, in fairy tales.  I see magic everyday—sometimes it’s just a little hard to find. 
But it’s there.  You just have to look, and believe. 
Lord, I need a drink.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

An attempt at a slightly anthropological study of the gay bar scene in NY, finale.

And by anthropological study, I mean I went out and had quite a few tasty cocktails, and decided to write about it.
Final Night.
After a few underwhelming days in New York, I decided to give my last day in this city another shot.  And while most of my day had virtually nothing to do with the gay scene (until the end, which I will get to), my faith in this city was restored.  I still don’t hold any glamorous views of what this city is—it’s just a big city with a lot to do.  But I most definitely had fun doing it.
I started my day off with shopping.  A lot.  I bought shoes.  A lot.  And I bought clothes.  A lot.  And then, when I was done shopping, I went shopping again.  And just when I thought I was done, I decided to shop again.  It was glorious, decadent, opulent.  And lots of fun.
After a full day of shopping—we’re talking 9am to 5pm (seriously, no joke)—I met up with my eccentric and wonderful younger cousin.  We decided to go to a gay bar (Stonewall Inn) for a beer.  She’d never gone, and I was thirsty.  So off we went.  It was during this little excursion that I realized I might not have given the gay community enough credit.  I ran into a friend from LA before we even got to the bar.  While at the bar, we were greeted by a homo or two who I had met at some point during my stay.  And as we were leaving, we ran into yet another person who was familiar with my homoland.
All of this was a little surprising to my wonderful cousin—after all, I had just been complaining about the lack of community within the gay New York scene.  As she noted, I had been recognized and greeted by more people in a 30 minute period of walking around the West Village, then she gets greeted in any neighborhood she belongs to.  And she lives here!  So, perhaps, I was wrong.  I’m not entirely sure.  But I’m willing to compromise, and suggest that maybe the gay community is just like a New Yorker—hard on the outside, but once you stop them and make them notice you, they are really quite kind, compassionate and helpful.
As a side note, after we left the bar, my cousin invited a complete stranger to eat dinner with us because he looked lost and she thought he was following us.  This embarrassingly shy and awkward 18 year old happened to be Robin Wright’s nephew.  Yes, as in The Princess Bride.  As in one of my all-time favorite movies.  So thank you Nora, for lessoning the degrees of separation between me and that movie.  Keep being weird, girl.
My evening ended back at the Stonewall Inn, where I spent nearly 3 hours being immensely entertained by a show of truly epic proportions.  I will keep the hilarious details to myself, because they feel like special memories to cherish and keep to myself, but to give you a hint:  A drag queen dressed as Mary Poppins.  Spontaneous dance numbers and live singing that put Glee to shame.  And 3 hours where every single person had a smile on their face. 
You done good New York.  You done real good.    

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

An attempt at a slightly anthropological study of the gay bar scene in NY, part 2.

And by anthropological study, I mean I went out and had quite a few tasty cocktails, and decided to write about it.
Night 2.

I decided to learn from my mistakes from the previous evening and not venture out to a bar until a little later in the evening—which didn’t help me in the slightest.  In fact, by the time I made it back to my hotel, it was still only 1 am, and I was even more drunk than when I managed to stay out until 3 am.  But I digress.
My first night in New York, I checked out the West and East Villages.  This night, I decided to check out Chelsea, and see what the vibe was like.  Specifically, I wanted to see how the Eagle and Gym Bar compared to their counterparts in LA. 
Let me start with the Eagle.  The whole bear/leather/fetish movement was started as a way for people who felt or looked different to be accepted.  The outcasts, the overweight, the freaks created a sub-community that welcomed all who didn’t fit the “gay stereotype.”  They raised their inner freak flag proudly, so to speak. 
So, I found it incredibly disgusting that when I went to a place that was originally founded as a safe haven for those who felt like outcasts, I was treated like dirt.  Like I shouldn’t be allowed to step foot in their sacred temple of debauchery and raunch.  Because I’m not overweight, because I have a “cute” face, because I don’t smoke a cigar or have semen covering my face, I don’t belong.  The door guy couldn’t be bothered to get off his cell phone while he was checking my ID.  The first bartender (on floor 1) I went to acted like getting me a beer was, quite possibly, the most insulting thing I could have asked him.  And then, while I was still sitting at the bar (alone), he turned off all the lights—apparently that floor was now closed, and shame on me for not knowing.  As soon as I walked out onto the smoking patio (where they were apparently having a cigar party), I was greeted with silence and condescending smirks.  I managed to hold a conversation with one bartender on the 2nd floor for a minute, but I really, REALLY had to work at it.
And for the record, I didn’t sashay in wearing a pink top hat.  I had leather boots, a leather jacket, and leather gloves on.  I wasn’t parading around, flaunting my apparently abhorrent life choices (safe sex, no drugs, showering) –I was just trying to fit in.
Shame on you Eagle.  For a community that was originally founded by outcasts and those that didn’t belong, you have certainly created a level of discrimination that rivals a straight man’s fear of homosexuality. 
From the Eagle, I walked over to Rawhide.  There I was much more welcomed, despite the fact that it’s a fairly similar clientele.  I met a delicious bear of a man, and he and his friend were incredibly welcoming.  He described himself as a “glamour bear,” which I thought was fantastic.  We chatted about all sorts of stuff, and made me feel like I was accepted in this silly place.  They also agreed that there is a distinct level of segregation within the gay community in New York.  Because all the bars are spread so far apart, there isn’t a real sense of community like there is in LA. While there is a tenuous thread of continuity throughout Manhattan, there isn’t a real sense of “gay culture” here.  There is, however, a distinct “I am a New Yorker” culture, whereas in LA, you don’t get the same level of pride for the city itself. 
They also mentioned that there isn’t nearly as much social responsibility on the east coast as there is on the west coast.  I am leaning towards agreeing with them.
Gym Bar was by far the most crowded (and spacious) place that I went to, with maybe 20 people in there at the time.  Which, I guess was good for a Tuesday.  Unfortunately, I was too drunk to stay long, and didn’t see anything worth staying for. 
I believe night 3 will be spent away from the bars; my liver is trying to keep me in check.  But you never know, I might tell it to shut the hell up and deal.