One of my most dramatic outsider moments was in a gay bar. Now I have been going to gay bars for years. In fact, Georgie’s is one of my favorite places in St. Pete. This one was different.
The Eagle was part a local resort called Suncoast. Since torn down to be replaced by a never-constructed Home Depot, Suncoast was not only a ratty hotel, but a multifaceted venue which housed a plethora of shops and a cornucopia of bars to suit all different kinds of tastes. There was a dance bar where people could just hang in Florida casual attire, a posh nightclub to suit those of a more well-dressed persuasion, a lesbian club for lipsticks to butch and a leather bar, which I later learned was a “no girls allowed” establishment.
Usually gay bars don’t frown on hags tagging along with their fags, but the Eagle was different. My neighbors (two biker bears) convinced me to go with them one Saturday night and I dressed for the role in a vinyl corset, school girl plaid and knee-high boots. I left my hair down and flowing, and would have made Chrissy Hynde proud with my eyeliner application.
Dale, Dan, Max and I sashayed our way among the burly, leather-clad clientele and I noticed the distinction this did not share with the other clubs. There weren’t any women. In fact, instead of getting a smile or wink from gays who just can’t help but flirt with anyone, I was met with scowls and once-overs that hinged on hate. Later I would flash back to this moment when I went to my first tranny bar, but that’s another story.
We got our drinks, vodkas all around, and made our way around the close confines of the crowd. Max kept begging for me to protect him, which was humor in itself since he is about 6’6” and strong as an ox. The grinding forwardness of some of the men really had him acting nervous, though I knew this was all an act to seem virginal.
In the back room, I lost my bearings since it was incredibly dark with even darker corners and a few tables. Men in various states of disrobe lingered with their eyes upon my companions and used their hands for more meaningful self-gratifying exercises. Some were helping each other out and I couldn’t help but stare at such live porn. I told Dan I didn’t mean to stare and he said, “Honey that’s what they want you to do. Well maybe not you per se, but they want to be noticed for the next fuck.”
After getting an eye full, we went back to the main room where a little twink was doing his best to strip raw. He offered Dale the option of doing anything he wanted for a dollar. He really didn’t need another dollar since the bulge in his tighty whiteys revealed more than a bank roll, but I think he had the hots for Dale’s long mane. So Dale asked me what I wanted him to do for a dollar. The barely legal boy expect a demand for a quick peek at his package or maybe the disquieting reveal of other said anatomy pieces, but I decided on doing my dishes.
Not amused, the stripper gave me a dirty look and went back to dancing for the men more than three-times his size and twice as old. That’s OK, we got our laugh and went about exploring the outside options of the resort, finally ending up at the neighbors doing a West Side Story sing-a-long which annoyed the hell out of Dale, but that’s also another story.