There's a gay bar in Louisville called Connections, and apparently gay-wise, it's a pretty big deal. Every homosexual male I've ever met from the South or lower-Midwest knows of Louisville not because of the Kentucky Derby or Muhammad Ali or baseball bats, but because of Connections. It's like the Studio 54 of gay bars, I suppose.
Despite living in the same city as this drag queen Mecca, I went most of my adult life without ever seriously considering walking through its doors. For one thing, it's a block away from the Pt's strip club. If I make the trek downtown to the corner of Piss-Stain Road and Drug Deal Avenue, I'm going to be rewarded by female nudity, not techno music and Judy Garland tributes. Also, I've always been so non-fashionable I doubted I would be granted admission.
But one February night my friend Sue wanted to go to Connections to celebrate her birthday. Sue was a bisexual who had recently been turned to full-on lesbianism by her douche ex-boyfriend. She wanted to party at Connections with her new girlfriend and her guy friends, all of whom, to my knowledge, are straight.
I assembled a rogue's gallery of people from work (my friends Wu, Kristen, and Tim), and invited my then-roomie Dave along for the ride. Dave and Tim were a little apprehensive about going to a gay bar, but I reminded them that the strip club was within walking distance, so they were okay for a while. Thanks to generous helpings of Maker's Mark bourbon, I was already half gassed by the time we got there.
As soon as I walked through the door, a large black arm made its way around my back, patting my right shoulder. I assumed it was Wu, being all drunkenly emotional. No, it was a strange man putting the clumsy, space-invading moves on me. I politely said, "I'm with them" and escaped his grasp, ending his fantasy of him playing "prison bully" to my "bitch who got traded for smokes". It didn't bother me because of any sort of homophobia, but it did piss me off that I used to go to regular bars all the time and in most cases women wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole, but I'm not in a gay bar five seconds and I set off someone's 'fresh meat' sensor.
I think Tim and Dave were there about twenty minutes before they bolted for the strip club. I stayed, but I couldn't figure out why Sue insisted on coming to this particular place. She and her girlfriend were the only lesbians in the whole bar. Most of the crowd were gay men and straight girls who wanted to be able to dance without a parade of douchebags coming up from behind and trying to fuck them through their clothes. Also, from looking around, I don't think this establishment enforced that whole pesky "Must be 21 to drink" law.
I just stood at the bar, buying Maker's one after the other, watching Sue grind with her girl on the dance floor, and eventually started talking to a lady. We talked for quite a long time and had a few laughs; then, out of the blue, she started making out with this guy. I wasn't even really interested in her, but it crushed me that she would find the only other straight man in the whole fucking place and hook up with him. The odds were low, but once again I lost.
After that, I really picked up the pace drinking-wise. I remember dancing with Sue, I remember getting into a car, I remember someone saying we were stopping for food. What I don't remember was sobbing uncontrollably at White Castle, to the point where one of the female workers tried to appease me with free Sara Lee baked goods. According to witnesses, that's what happened, but I don't recall any of it. That's one of the reasons I don't drink like that anymore.
But that's not the main reason. Sue let me crash at her place, and that night I had a vivid dream of Sue and her girlfriend really going at it; serious lesbianic eruptions, my friends. Only it wasn't a dream. IT WASN'T A DREAM. I was on the couch, near death, they were getttin' it on right next to me, and I was too drunk to realize it was actually happening! I obviously saw some of it, but I wasn't coherent enough to distinguish hot lesbo action from a damn dream. The next day, Sue said, "We put on a show for you to cheer you up (since I had apparently wept at the Castle), but you fell asleep."
"Alcohol: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems." - Homer Simpson
Despite living in the same city as this drag queen Mecca, I went most of my adult life without ever seriously considering walking through its doors. For one thing, it's a block away from the Pt's strip club. If I make the trek downtown to the corner of Piss-Stain Road and Drug Deal Avenue, I'm going to be rewarded by female nudity, not techno music and Judy Garland tributes. Also, I've always been so non-fashionable I doubted I would be granted admission.
But one February night my friend Sue wanted to go to Connections to celebrate her birthday. Sue was a bisexual who had recently been turned to full-on lesbianism by her douche ex-boyfriend. She wanted to party at Connections with her new girlfriend and her guy friends, all of whom, to my knowledge, are straight.
I assembled a rogue's gallery of people from work (my friends Wu, Kristen, and Tim), and invited my then-roomie Dave along for the ride. Dave and Tim were a little apprehensive about going to a gay bar, but I reminded them that the strip club was within walking distance, so they were okay for a while. Thanks to generous helpings of Maker's Mark bourbon, I was already half gassed by the time we got there.
As soon as I walked through the door, a large black arm made its way around my back, patting my right shoulder. I assumed it was Wu, being all drunkenly emotional. No, it was a strange man putting the clumsy, space-invading moves on me. I politely said, "I'm with them" and escaped his grasp, ending his fantasy of him playing "prison bully" to my "bitch who got traded for smokes". It didn't bother me because of any sort of homophobia, but it did piss me off that I used to go to regular bars all the time and in most cases women wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole, but I'm not in a gay bar five seconds and I set off someone's 'fresh meat' sensor.
I think Tim and Dave were there about twenty minutes before they bolted for the strip club. I stayed, but I couldn't figure out why Sue insisted on coming to this particular place. She and her girlfriend were the only lesbians in the whole bar. Most of the crowd were gay men and straight girls who wanted to be able to dance without a parade of douchebags coming up from behind and trying to fuck them through their clothes. Also, from looking around, I don't think this establishment enforced that whole pesky "Must be 21 to drink" law.
I just stood at the bar, buying Maker's one after the other, watching Sue grind with her girl on the dance floor, and eventually started talking to a lady. We talked for quite a long time and had a few laughs; then, out of the blue, she started making out with this guy. I wasn't even really interested in her, but it crushed me that she would find the only other straight man in the whole fucking place and hook up with him. The odds were low, but once again I lost.
After that, I really picked up the pace drinking-wise. I remember dancing with Sue, I remember getting into a car, I remember someone saying we were stopping for food. What I don't remember was sobbing uncontrollably at White Castle, to the point where one of the female workers tried to appease me with free Sara Lee baked goods. According to witnesses, that's what happened, but I don't recall any of it. That's one of the reasons I don't drink like that anymore.
But that's not the main reason. Sue let me crash at her place, and that night I had a vivid dream of Sue and her girlfriend really going at it; serious lesbianic eruptions, my friends. Only it wasn't a dream. IT WASN'T A DREAM. I was on the couch, near death, they were getttin' it on right next to me, and I was too drunk to realize it was actually happening! I obviously saw some of it, but I wasn't coherent enough to distinguish hot lesbo action from a damn dream. The next day, Sue said, "We put on a show for you to cheer you up (since I had apparently wept at the Castle), but you fell asleep."
"Alcohol: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems." - Homer Simpson
20 Comments:
Hmmm, well maybe for your next birthday hon, I can arrange something.
Lovin' you!
You poor bastard.
That's the absolute saddest story I've ever heard.
Sure, drunkenly drooling through hot girl-on-girl action is terrible, but to make it worse, you were drinking Maker's Mark.
The only thing I drink is Jack.
Seriously -- that's it.
I brush my teeth with it.
If it weren't so goddamn expensive, I'd bathe in it.
Wait ... let me correct my last post -- drunkenly unconsciously drooling through girl on girl action is bad.
If you're consciously drooling it is not bad ... it is, I would imagine, expected.
Oh yeah, even though I don't really drink liquor anymore, Maker's is definitely one of my favorites. I'm not sure how it happened, but I do enjoy bourbon.
I'm going to have to agree with Mcdougs..which sort of freaks me out. But it is the saddest thing I've ever heard happen to a horny healthy heterosexual man. Poor bastard.
That's all I agree with him about. Absolutely.
rachel,
arrange what? The hot lesbo action, or the weeping in a White Castle?
mcdougal,
Jack Daniels, which is now so watered down it's only eighty proof (down from ninety proof a decade ago) is a poor imitation of actual bourbon. But if you like it, who am I judge?
kat,
no, I moved on to other life-crushing disappointments.
wuneyed,
the last I heard, Sue was a stripper in Louisville. I never went to see her, though. I had my chance.
kath,
thanks. You are too damn generous, for real.
brooke,
I don't know why I consistently tell the truth on this fucking blog. I don't think anyone who reads this regularly would believe I scored a three way, but I could have gotten away with saying I got to watch. Jesus, I'm stupid.
It definitely wouldn't be the same to go seek it out. Next time you're back there, you just need to see if she wants to go to a gay bar with you.
Todd, you and I are a hopelessly honest. We seriously need to start making stuff up.
Did I ever tell you about the time I dated Viggo Mortensen?
oh,damn,Todd, that sucks. I've cried in a White Castle before, but mainly because I ate too many. I am certainly prone to very emotional displays when sober; apparently I'm even worse drunk. I've got a bottle o' Maker's with our name on it for Xmas.
First off, thanks for the heads up about the comment thing on my blog...Have you ever had a total dumb shit moment? I have had a lot of them lately it seems...I didnt even realize that I had 99.99999% of the free world blocked from commenting on my blog, then you came along...my knight in blogging armor...blah blah blah lol hahahhah...seriously though, I have been reading your archives, and you should be getting paid to be this damn funny!
Jude Law is totally on my list. I don't care if this post has nothing to do with nailing him.
Don't women like gay bars because they can avoid the creepy single straight guys that glare at them in odd ways? Is this the case women?
Todd, the hot lesbian action of course. I'm not a lesbian but I bet I could pretend for one night. Or if you prefer I could always hire out.
;)
I went to a gay bar in San Fran with a gay friend of mine and they didn't ask for ID on the door, but when we went to a "straight" bar they did. How strange. They were also showing hardcore gay porn on all the TV's which kinda put me off my beer.
Usually my straight friends get offended, after about twenty minutes or so, when no one has flirted with them or hit on them. They always want to know why, and have a hard time believing when I say everyone knows they are straight.
but way to hang in there....
wuneye,
I haven't seen her in four years. That ship has sailed.
brooke,
if I had to do it over again I wouldn't have revealed my real name or any personal information. Believe it or not, I hold back because of that.
steph,
I'm here for everyone's amusement. At least something good can come of the tragicomedy known as my life.
amie,
yeah, usually White Castle makes you cry the morning after.
wmy,
I am your knight in blogging armor. (Insert lame codpiece joke here)
egan,
does your wife know of your slightly disturbing Jude Law obsession?
rachel,
no, please don't hire out.
bob,
I don't think there were any gay pornos on the tv's. When I get put off my beer I switch to Bourbon.
bobby,
Maybe that's why my friends left.
Yes, because it's actually her slightly disturbing obsession.
Todd, I feel bad laughing at these stories.
Not bad enough to stop, but bad nonetheless.
Oh how I've lamented the watering down of Jack. But now I just drink it on the rocks. You don't need to add water.
Actually, Maker's is quite good. But being a Tennessee native, I am morally obliged to stick to Volunteer whiskeys.
egan,
that's slightly less disturbing.
Ubie,
I feel bad wishing you'd abandon your life in Chicago and join me in Vegas for a life of low-wage debauchery. Not bad enough to stop, but bad nonetheless.
kat,
there's no turning back now.
mcdougal,
I don't even drink Jack and it pisses me off that they rip off loyal consumers such as yourself all to make an extra buck. They're the number one whiskey in North America. Isn't that enough?
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