Teddy #3
“Why didn’t you change, Teddy?” Ron asks.
“Nobody fucks with an old lesbian in a gay bar.”
He laughs. I survey the crowd.
The bar is packed to the gills inside and out, not an inch to move. A line snakes down Arenas.
“How’s your drink?” the bartender asks me as soon as I take my first sip. He knows the regulars.
“All vodka,” I say to him. “Just the way I like it. Just the way you like it so you’ll get a big tip at the end of the night.”
Mario winks. He has been hermetically sealed into a tank top, and his biceps could form their own government.
“I would never let Dorothy go thirsty.”
“Thank you, baby. You want a real tip, Mario?” I ask. “Don’t sleep with Barry. Ever.”
“Too late,” Barry says, leaning down the bar to salute me with his martini.
“Whatever happened to the art of conversation?” Ron asks us, shaking his head.
“Exactly!” Sid concurs. “Getting to know one another is still the hottest part of dating.”
“Says a man who hasn’t been on one since MacGyver was on TV,” Barry yells.
I can see Sid’s face fall.
“There’s no need to talk anymore,” Barry continues, not realizing he’s embarrassed Sid. “All it takes is a text and the right
photo. Bada bing bada boom.”
I listen to my friends verbally spar as they eye the hundreds of sweating men packed into the place like sardines.
There is nothing like a gay bar. It is our community’s Church of Mary.
This is the thing you need to know about a gay bar: It is our safe space.
It is communal, almost spiritual, a place where we can unashamedly, unabashedly be ourselves.
I hear even louder verbal sparring and turn my attention toward the door.
A group of gay men is barring the entrance of a bachelorette party.
The fact that bachelorette parties have overrun our gay bars is a huge bone of contention.
Palm Springs has become one of the most popular destinations for bachelorette parties; women arrive in droves, dressed in sashes and crowns, taking over our drag shows, gay bars, restaurants.
I get it: They like our music. They want to dance.
They want to be complimented on their too-short dresses.
They love our company. They desire our advice.
But the reality is, they can go anywhere and be welcomed.
We cannot. And so we have taken our community back.
Many gay bar owners in the area have let bachelorette parties know in not-so-subtle terms that they are no longer welcome.
Does that sound wrong to you? Discriminatory? Judgmental? I don’t care. Go to Tommy Bahama.
What would happen—may I ask you—if my gay bachelor party showed up at your local sports bar? Would the fellas there buy us
drinks and dance with us and treat us like we were the most special human beings in the entire world for doing something we
weren’t allowed to do until only a decade ago because we were denied the most basic of rights? If anyone would have the right
to celebrate our marriages, it would be us, right?
Uh-huh.
But there is a deeper reason: Gay bars have saved the lives of many a gay man seeking inclusion in a world that told him he
didn’t belong. Gay bars saved my life when I moved to Palm Springs. When you are exhausted from running from hatred, you need
a spot to rest and be accepted without any judgment.
I know that the four D’s usually come to mind when we think of gay bars (and I’m not even including the “Big D” in this analogy):
drinking, drugs, disease and debauchery. And, yes, it can be all of that. I’ve witnessed some bad scenes along Arenas, many
of which included movies from my own life, but there is something more that is found here: a common, united history.
I glance around the bar.
We fought to be here.
I look around this bar and suddenly think of Stonewall in Greenwich Village on a summer’s night in 1969. Some fifty years
later, these bars, you must understand, are still the places we gather as society continues to demonize us and take away our
rights.
Where can we go to forget the hate that surrounds us?
Here. And few other places.
Our beloved Streetbar was the first gay bar in Palm Springs, long before Arenas Road became the epicenter of gay culture and
fun in the city. It was originally called A Streetbar Named Desire.
I mean, c’mon. The gays are always the cleverest creatures, my dear.
I look out the windows that face the street. Arenas is packed. Every bar.
Today, Arenas is home to a block filled with every type of gay bar imaginable, from dance tunes and show tunes to strippers,
leather and lesbian. It is even filled with shopping, from upscale clothing to GayMart, a sort of Walmart for the gays.
Over the years, Streetbar and Arenas have become an oasis during our fight for equality, and today are a welcoming spot for
the LGBTQ+ community and their allies.
“Are you supposed to be Hillary Clinton?”
I turn my head as a very drunk man elbows his way to the bar.
“Yes,” I say. “And I was supposed to be president.”
He looks at me like I have two heads and orders a vodka Red Bull, the drink of choice for a generation that also likes espresso
martinis. By all means, let’s get hypercaffeinated and drunk.
I finally take a sip of my pink drink.
A Rose Kennedy is always the same: vodka, club soda and a splash of cran with a lemon wedge. Simple, refreshing, does the
trick, and even a moron could make it right in a busy bar. The cocktail got its name many moons ago in a DC gay bar called
Trumpets, and the drink contained only enough cranberry to make it subtly pink. We wanted to get drunker faster back in the
day.
PS: When a lime is used as garnish, it becomes an Ethel Kennedy.
I told you the gays are the cleverest creatures.
The man grabs his drink and, as he turns, attempts to focus on my appearance again.
“Who are you, then?”
“I told you,” I say. “Hilary Duff. I’ve aged a bit since Lizzie McGuire.”
He stumbles away.
I glance down the bar, wondering why my friends didn’t laugh. That’s when I see: One of the hottest men in the bar is standing
next to Barry, chatting him up.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask Ron, nudging him with my elbow. “What is it with Barry? I mean, every gay man gets a couple of
drinks in him and thinks he’s Hugh Jackman.”
Ron glances down the bar.
“That guy is actually talking to Sid.”
I do a spit take with my drink.
“What? Is he seeking legal counsel in Streetbar?”
“I have no idea, but just look at Barry,” Ron says with a laugh. “He’s apoplectic.”
I lean onto the bar and glance at Barry, who has puffed his chest like a rebuffed turkey. Ron is absolutely filled with delight.
The man talking to Sid is quite attractive, even by weekend bar standards, but there is something that makes him stand out
in the crowd: an old-school Hollywood look—a sort of modern-day Gregory Peck—squared shoulders, a look of ease and confidence,
as if he could care less what the world thought about him in a world like Streetbar where we only cared what everyone thought.
I glance at Barry and revel in his being overlooked for once.
“He’s coming unglued! Barry hasn’t received this little attention from a good-looking man since he got his facelift. Remember
how long that took to settle? He looked like Tootsie for a year.”
I laugh and glance down the bar again. I nudge Ron to look.
Barry slowly unbuttons his shirt, takes it off and tucks it into the back of his too-tight jeans. He presses closer to the
man talking to Barry and is essentially eye-fucking the back of the guy’s head. The man continues to remain fully focused
on Sid.
“Barry is going to lose it,” Ron says, giggling.
I lift my glass to take a sip when someone crashes directly into my back, causing me to spill my cocktail.
“Excuse you,” I say, turning.
A twink wearing a bridal crown and a sash reading Same Penis Forever elbows his way to the bar as if he owns it.
He ignores me and motions for Mario.
When Mario finally makes his way over, the kid deigns to look at me. “I’m getting married. You’re supposed to buy me a drink.”
He looks at Mario. “Cosmo. And you can put it on this lady’s tab.”
Mario holds his hands in the air. He already knows what is about to go down.
“I’m not buying you a drink,” I say.
“Why?” he pouts.
“Because you’re a disrespectful little shit. You don’t even know who I am, do you?”
“I know you’re old and ugly.”
“Touché, thou with the concave back and hideous highlights. May I suggest you google a TV show called The Golden Girls, sweetheart? It aired long before you were a mistake in your white trash mother’s beer-bloated womb and long before any of
us sitting at the bar had the right to marry.”
“The golden what?”
“The Golden Girls,” I say. “Just so you know, the show was so popular that most gay bars on a Saturday night just like this would dim the lights,
pause the music and dancing, and put the show on their screens so patrons could watch it together. The show and these bars
were about found family, community, respect and safety.” I shake my head at him. “We’ve gained so many rights but lost so
much of our history. It’s sad.”
“What’s sad is you,” he says. “You’re just angry because no one ever wanted to marry a nasty old drag queen. And now you’re
going to die all alone.”
My rage builds.
And then he pivots on his toes, reaches out and tweaks my nose. “Are we angry because no one ever wanted to marry a nasty,
old drag queen? And now you’re going to die all alone?”
I can hear my heart thump loudly in my ears, louder than the music playing in here. My thump is a soundtrack to our collective
history—the history of my marriage, of Stonewall, of Streetbar, of every gay man who went to war so this entitled twink could
get married—and it is now playing in sync with the disco music in the background.
Mario places a Cosmo on the bar.
I pick it up before the young man can and toss it into his face.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “For everything. And, yes, you can put that drink on my tab!”