At Closing Time, Some Things Are Universal.

[Last weekend our brother, Bald Knob, came to visit us in New York. On Saturday night, we took him to Barracuda, to see what happens when an extremely straight dude is exposed to outrageous faggotry. We asked him to blog about his experience. This is what he had to say.]

So I had quite the time in the Big Apple this past weekend, and one of the highlights had to be my first experience at a gay bar (well not the first, if you count one trip to Madrigals in Chicago, which if you know what I am talking about, you know that it definitely counts). After a nice cocktail party, Bigmouth, some friends, including a tall and handsome one, and myself all headed out to an innocent little place called Barracuda.

In addition to making far more eye contact than I ever have at a bar, I also learned quite a bit. For example, I learned what a twink is, what an otter is (even Bigmouth wasn’t so sure about that one, until I explained that his roommate is probably one), and how the flirting process works. “That guy just stepped on my foot!” “Oh, he was coming on to you- that’s how we do it.” Soon, I fit right in…. We made fun of the fag hags, who were dancing as one does only when one is certain nobody is watching- at least nobody that would touch a vagina with a 10 foot pole. But ultimately, the highlight of the night was when closing time drew near, and the desperation in many went from moderately obvious to blatantly overt.

It was a time when just a “casual” bumping in the back, spilling of beer on an arm, or stepping on a toe, were tactics abandoned- and an arm snaking around a stomach, a hand diving for a crotch, and unanticipated close whispers appeared. One man who was particularly drunk did all three, and much more, to each member of our group as we all turned, spinned, bobbed out of his way, which wasn’t particularly hard as he couldn’t stand straight. As we left, I told Bigmouth that “if this had been at a straight bar, and a guy had done that to girls, he would have been arrested,” but the group in general agreed that this wasn’t anything atypical for 4 AM Saturday night.

But as much as the standards of behavior I observed were more “forward” than at bars I was familiar with, ultimately, gay or straight, we’re all the same when we’re single, drunk, and out late on a Saturday night. A few days later at a dive bar in Boston, at 2 AM as the lights came back on, I couldn’t help but notice a drunk girl, a bit overweight and not fortunate enough to be able to offset it with large breasts. She had been running her hand down a handsome guy’s back, and as he turned away, she moved on to a shorter, sunburned guy wearing an ill-fitting suit coat. As he returned her glance and moved in closer, I could see the same predatory look I saw at Barracuda in her eyes. And I quickly realized a fundamental fact that straight women and gay men share (other than relationship drama, a fear of spiders, good fashion sense and the fact that they don’t fart in front of significant others):

When it’s late on a Saturday, and people start heading for the door- just keep trying, and leave nothing to the imagination. Because somewhere, someone has a penis that hasn’t been touched in a while, and is desperate enough to fuck your ugly ass.