Not gaydar, gayBAR!
I went gay barhopping with some of my girlfriends. It was one of their 30th birthdays, and because traditional clubbing seems so -- I don't know, cheap? Sad? Overrated? -- these days, we decided that the best way to see hot guys and not have to hit on them or vice versa, would be a gay bar. It was actually one of our better ideas; better, than say, when we decided that our friend Bhavana should try out to be one of the contestants on The Bachelor. "I don't fit the demographic!" she'd insisted...but Nancy made her put on a sexy dress and paraded her in front of the producers of the show. Obviously, she didn't make it. Most likely because she's a tall Indian girl and she really doesn't fit the demographic.
First of all, I don't go out-out as often I used to. By "out-out", I mean those events that I am obligated to meticulously apply my eye makeup, cover up any hideous imperfections on my complexion with an unspeakable amount of concealer, then shove my still-perky-and-beautiful breasts into their respective holsters in the most attractive way possible and try to display them as effortlessly as I can in some tasteful-yet-mysteriously-revealing top. This is a far cry from my current norm, which includes asking my friends things that are more along the lines of: "Is this event the kind where we don't use paper plates and have silverware?" and "Do you mind if I wear jeans and flip flops over? And I don't have makeup on."
Yes, it's probably come with age, for the most part...followed closely behind by the sudden and mostly tragic loss of girlfriends to go out-out with, due to marriage and childbirth...or worst of all, the sudden onset of being unable to function without a male counterpart.
I'm 31 now, and I don't want to be that 40-something woman that I saw dancing on the top of the bar at when I was in my prime -- which, in this case, I'm referring to as age 25. You know, when I was old enough to attend 21 and over clubs, but also old enough to know how much alcohol I could handle without puking out the car window on the way home.
You know -- as does everyone else -- this 40-something woman: her tanning booth skin gave away her age, along with her overdone, puffy hair...and her clothes all from the Macy's juniors' section. To top it off, she was able to afford coat-check AND all the alcohol necessary to catapult her into stardom -- to the top of the bar so everyone could watch her flash her hoo-hoo at all the horny guys eagerly awaiting to take her home.
(I always had to pick between alcohol and coat-check...and when you're buzzed enough, you don't even need to wear a sweater, so alcohol consistently won.)
I'm not complaining about the lack of camaraderie from my girlfriends because I seem to have replaced that void with other interests -- and alcohol, I've found, can be served at so many other events and in so many other situations OUTSIDE of an actual bar. Other than that, I can't say I'm made for weekly barhopping or the club scene anymore either, because I care about those seemingly trivial things...you know, like my overall health...not looking my age when I am my age...and even saving my money for premium denim and expensive, holistic dog food for my dog, Sophie.
All that said however, I have to say that I love gay barhopping. I could see myself doing this every weekend. I don't even feel the need to drink or get a buzz, either, which will probably help with those trivial things I mentioned earlier, if anything.
I love it! Nowhere else am I able to get in, get a drink from a hot half-naked bartender with a body few straight men could ever possess, ogle and dance with other hot, half-naked guys that are completely uninterested in me for other than dancing (especially one that makes them look even better than they would if they were dancing with another dude). Then I get to sit back, relax with my friends, and decide which of the half-naked go-go male dancers could be potentially straight as he dances around on a raised platform (the one dressed like a cowboy was, and I'll tell you how I figured that out another time).
If that weren't enough, I still get ogled at by these same incredible-looking men, and every single one in there tells me how beautiful and/or pretty I am. Who wouldn't like that? I don't know of any women that dislike being told how awesome they look. And even though I'll admit that I'll say I want to hear how wildly intelligent I am on that very rare occasion, I will admit here that I have been outright kidding. Flattery will get you everywhere, really. That, and spending loads of time in adoration of me. Those things carry you pretty far along...
Overall, it's a non-threatening kind of ego-stroking that I think I could get used to. Very used to.
I'm looking forward to my next experience, for sure. There was one thing a random guy named Bobbo told me before I left the gay bar, which still strikes me as ironically funny although it's been a few weeks since we've been. I think it's hilarious, mostly because it makes me think I remain true to my roots as a straight girl who can still surely appreciate a regular, straight bar or club teeming with horny straight men: "Honey, if you wanna see a gay bar where there are hot straight guys, you have to go to The Abbey -- that's where all the hot straight guys go to hang out with their one gay brother, cousin, or friend."
I wasn't aware of this, but I'm not the only one looking forward to it! I just received an email from one of my friends -- and it seems we have active plans to go to The Abbey next week.
In closing? I love the gays. And I can only hope they love me, too.
First of all, I don't go out-out as often I used to. By "out-out", I mean those events that I am obligated to meticulously apply my eye makeup, cover up any hideous imperfections on my complexion with an unspeakable amount of concealer, then shove my still-perky-and-beautiful breasts into their respective holsters in the most attractive way possible and try to display them as effortlessly as I can in some tasteful-yet-mysteriously-revealing top. This is a far cry from my current norm, which includes asking my friends things that are more along the lines of: "Is this event the kind where we don't use paper plates and have silverware?" and "Do you mind if I wear jeans and flip flops over? And I don't have makeup on."
Yes, it's probably come with age, for the most part...followed closely behind by the sudden and mostly tragic loss of girlfriends to go out-out with, due to marriage and childbirth...or worst of all, the sudden onset of being unable to function without a male counterpart.
I'm 31 now, and I don't want to be that 40-something woman that I saw dancing on the top of the bar at when I was in my prime -- which, in this case, I'm referring to as age 25. You know, when I was old enough to attend 21 and over clubs, but also old enough to know how much alcohol I could handle without puking out the car window on the way home.
You know -- as does everyone else -- this 40-something woman: her tanning booth skin gave away her age, along with her overdone, puffy hair...and her clothes all from the Macy's juniors' section. To top it off, she was able to afford coat-check AND all the alcohol necessary to catapult her into stardom -- to the top of the bar so everyone could watch her flash her hoo-hoo at all the horny guys eagerly awaiting to take her home.
(I always had to pick between alcohol and coat-check...and when you're buzzed enough, you don't even need to wear a sweater, so alcohol consistently won.)
I'm not complaining about the lack of camaraderie from my girlfriends because I seem to have replaced that void with other interests -- and alcohol, I've found, can be served at so many other events and in so many other situations OUTSIDE of an actual bar. Other than that, I can't say I'm made for weekly barhopping or the club scene anymore either, because I care about those seemingly trivial things...you know, like my overall health...not looking my age when I am my age...and even saving my money for premium denim and expensive, holistic dog food for my dog, Sophie.
All that said however, I have to say that I love gay barhopping. I could see myself doing this every weekend. I don't even feel the need to drink or get a buzz, either, which will probably help with those trivial things I mentioned earlier, if anything.
I love it! Nowhere else am I able to get in, get a drink from a hot half-naked bartender with a body few straight men could ever possess, ogle and dance with other hot, half-naked guys that are completely uninterested in me for other than dancing (especially one that makes them look even better than they would if they were dancing with another dude). Then I get to sit back, relax with my friends, and decide which of the half-naked go-go male dancers could be potentially straight as he dances around on a raised platform (the one dressed like a cowboy was, and I'll tell you how I figured that out another time).
If that weren't enough, I still get ogled at by these same incredible-looking men, and every single one in there tells me how beautiful and/or pretty I am. Who wouldn't like that? I don't know of any women that dislike being told how awesome they look. And even though I'll admit that I'll say I want to hear how wildly intelligent I am on that very rare occasion, I will admit here that I have been outright kidding. Flattery will get you everywhere, really. That, and spending loads of time in adoration of me. Those things carry you pretty far along...
Overall, it's a non-threatening kind of ego-stroking that I think I could get used to. Very used to.
I'm looking forward to my next experience, for sure. There was one thing a random guy named Bobbo told me before I left the gay bar, which still strikes me as ironically funny although it's been a few weeks since we've been. I think it's hilarious, mostly because it makes me think I remain true to my roots as a straight girl who can still surely appreciate a regular, straight bar or club teeming with horny straight men: "Honey, if you wanna see a gay bar where there are hot straight guys, you have to go to The Abbey -- that's where all the hot straight guys go to hang out with their one gay brother, cousin, or friend."
I wasn't aware of this, but I'm not the only one looking forward to it! I just received an email from one of my friends -- and it seems we have active plans to go to The Abbey next week.
In closing? I love the gays. And I can only hope they love me, too.