Straight Eye for the Queer Guys
The last girls' night out I went on was a jewellry party. We tried on rings and bracelets, ate delicious snacks and drank wine. Well, let me tell you, I have found something so much more entertaining! I had the best night out in years this week at a gay bar in Philadelphia.
Ok, the sharp intake of breath is audible. No, I am not coming out, it's just I have discovered the perfect place for the middle-aged woman to unwind. What could be better than a cocktail bar where you are greeted to show tunes around the piano as you enter and dancing, complete with disco ball, upstairs? At once I was 18 again.
And who'd have thought it? The reason why most men can't dance is because they are straight. You should see the gay ones go for it! Of course I'll never see the conga in the same light again, but at least they were having fun!
So, how does an ordinary English woman fresh off the boat end up so far from home? Well this week I am visiting my gay best friend Jack at his home in New Jersey, four miles out of Philadelphia. Every woman needs a gbf. He doesn't shout when I spend too much money (obviously because it isn't his), doesn't get ratty when I don't iron his shirts properly because he can do it better, and never cares if I have a headache (probably because he has an entire pharmacy of medicines in his house).
When the idea of going to a gay bar came up, I was, quite honestly, a little apprehensive. I hadn't brought any dressy clothes with me for one thing. Of course after thinking about it I realised it didn't matter what I wore because no one would give me a second glance anyway.
We went along on Friday night (sorry Rabbi), with Jack's delightful friend Bernie. He rides a motorcycle and can look quite threatening until he opens his mouth....
Anyway, as soon as we entered the bar, I realised on what I had been missing out on all these years. The room was dark and not yet full, but in the corner a piano player was singing show tunes as if he was auditioning for a leading role on Broadway. Everyone stood around joining in with various degrees of success. There were some more obvious choices like Oh, What a Beautiful Morning! from Oklahoma (or should that be homo?) but also more obscure songs from lesser known shows which amazingly everybody still knew.
Then it was upstairs to the dance floor. This too was fun, no doubt fuelled by the fact that I had knocked back a fairly strong Cosmopolitan by then.
Even through a slightly tipsy haze, it didn't take me long to realise I was the only woman on the floor. I couldn't have felt more conspicuous if I was stark naked. Fortunately, I then noticed a tall willowy girl in the corner.
"Typical," I thought. "Even with no competition (for what??) there was someone far more beautiful".
Of course as she twirled around I realised it was a man with a long wig and women's clothes. Why do men have better legs than women? Life really isn't fair.
Ok, the sharp intake of breath is audible. No, I am not coming out, it's just I have discovered the perfect place for the middle-aged woman to unwind. What could be better than a cocktail bar where you are greeted to show tunes around the piano as you enter and dancing, complete with disco ball, upstairs? At once I was 18 again.
And who'd have thought it? The reason why most men can't dance is because they are straight. You should see the gay ones go for it! Of course I'll never see the conga in the same light again, but at least they were having fun!
So, how does an ordinary English woman fresh off the boat end up so far from home? Well this week I am visiting my gay best friend Jack at his home in New Jersey, four miles out of Philadelphia. Every woman needs a gbf. He doesn't shout when I spend too much money (obviously because it isn't his), doesn't get ratty when I don't iron his shirts properly because he can do it better, and never cares if I have a headache (probably because he has an entire pharmacy of medicines in his house).
When the idea of going to a gay bar came up, I was, quite honestly, a little apprehensive. I hadn't brought any dressy clothes with me for one thing. Of course after thinking about it I realised it didn't matter what I wore because no one would give me a second glance anyway.
We went along on Friday night (sorry Rabbi), with Jack's delightful friend Bernie. He rides a motorcycle and can look quite threatening until he opens his mouth....
Anyway, as soon as we entered the bar, I realised on what I had been missing out on all these years. The room was dark and not yet full, but in the corner a piano player was singing show tunes as if he was auditioning for a leading role on Broadway. Everyone stood around joining in with various degrees of success. There were some more obvious choices like Oh, What a Beautiful Morning! from Oklahoma (or should that be homo?) but also more obscure songs from lesser known shows which amazingly everybody still knew.
Then it was upstairs to the dance floor. This too was fun, no doubt fuelled by the fact that I had knocked back a fairly strong Cosmopolitan by then.
Even through a slightly tipsy haze, it didn't take me long to realise I was the only woman on the floor. I couldn't have felt more conspicuous if I was stark naked. Fortunately, I then noticed a tall willowy girl in the corner.
"Typical," I thought. "Even with no competition (for what??) there was someone far more beautiful".
Of course as she twirled around I realised it was a man with a long wig and women's clothes. Why do men have better legs than women? Life really isn't fair.
posted by Hilary at
10:13 AM
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