On my way home from work tonight, I stopped at Market Center
on Hendersonville Road to pick up some Propel Fitness Water and a pack of the best chewing gum there is: Wrigley's Orbit
Wintermint. If you haven't tried the latter, I suggest you go out and buy some right now, because it's one of the great
marvels of our modern civilization. Sugarless and engineered to staunch bad breath, Orbit possesses magical powers beyond
those of toothpaste, mouthwash, and Altoids combined. You can eat a cat shit sandwich, wash it down with urine, and
nobody will be the wiser as long as you're chewing Orbit.
It's the perfect accessory to a night of drinking, guaranteed
to allow you to engage in cheek-to-cheek conversation with the opposite sex without fear of having butt breath.
Anyway, I pull up, go in, and walk back to the cooler to fetch
my water, only to stumble upon a pair of gay guys having it out right there in the convenience store. Lemme'
just say that while- yes, I'm as straight as a grizzly's dick- I have no aversion to homosexuals. Asheville's
a haven for alternate lifestyles, after all, and I'm somewhat jaded to it.
Twas not always so, but we'll get to that.
Both gentlemen were in their mid-twenties, and dressed to
the nines in crackerjack ensembles I only wish I had the style to emulate myself. Their haircuts were Hollywood
sheik above lean silhouettes that made me want to give up pizza and go immediately to the gym.
(That don't make me gay, does it?)
Anyway, since they were standing in front of the cooler, I
was forced to interrupt their hissing argument with a polite "Excuse me," so that I could open the clear glass door and get
my Propel.
They pause for a second to shuffle out of the way, and then
go right back to fighting.
Gay Guy 1: "You're such a cunt! You went home with Chad!
I know you went home with him, so stop lying, you cocksucking whore!"
Gay Guy 2: (obviously trying to disarm the situation) "I'm
not gonna do this here," he snarled under his breath, "We can talk about this at the apartment."
I hate to stereotype, but I knew these guys putted from
the ruff even before the above little exchange. They were FLAMING!!! -their back and forth diatribe so effeminate,
that either one of 'em could've put a lisp in the word "cracker".
Regardless, it was none of my business, so I got my water
and turned to leave, my nonchalant departure slowed by a rude and unwanted entreaty.
"Why?!?" Gay Guy 1 fired right back, "Why don't you
wanna talk about it here?!? You afraid someone'll hear?!? You afraid that guy (talking about me) will
hear?!? You afraid he'll find out what a cheatin', little-dicked bitch you are?!?"
At this, I busted out laughing, having barely contained myself
the first time when Gay Guy 1 had called Gay Guy 2 a cocksucking whore. I kept walking down the aisle though, but Gay
Guy 2 apparently took offense to my amusement.
"Something funny?" he called, "Hey! I'm talking to you,
Blondie Buzzcut!"
Suddenly, Gay Guy 2 had gone from passive peacemaker, to straight-man-hating fairy.
I hadn't done anything but laugh at their lack of public etiquette; and, for the record, my hair isn't "buzzcut". I
keep it short in the Caesar Style fashion because I grapple, but I don't consider it military by any stretch of the
imagination.
Stopping dead in my tracks and trying to bring my laughter
under control, I turned around and spread my hands apologetically.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I chuckled, "Don't bring me into
this. I just came in here for some water."
"You think this is funny?" Gay Guy 2 persisted, taking a step
forward and bowing up, "How'd you like to get your ass kicked?!?"
Keep in mind that each word out of either of these guy's mouths
is heavily laced with a Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy-esque lisp, and while I tried to keep a non-mocking expression, I couldn't
help but start laughing again. The idea of a fistfight in Market Center's candy aisle was absurd enough,
but neither one of 'em weighed more than a buck sixty soaking wet, and- unless they were secret kung fu masters-
I could've broken either or both in half with little more effort than it would've taken me to open a window after a rancid
dump.
Apparently enraged by my continuing amusement, Gay Guy 2 took
another step forward, his partner now rallying to oppose me as well.
"Let's go," he said, "Seriously! You want somma 'dis?!?"
I took a step back and shook my head, once again spreading
my hands apologetically.
"No, no... I definitely don't want, somma 'dat..."
then turning to exit the aisle. I heard Gay Guy 2 sneer something like, "Yeah, that's what I thought!", the taunt immediately
followed by Gay Guy 1 blubbering with admiration at his life-partner's courage.
I was still snickering as I paid for my gum and my water and
left the store, the encounter bringing back a funny story that happened to me the first time I went to a gay bar. As
such, I'm gonna tell that story now, yet I want to make it clear that tonight was the first time I've ever been "accosted"
by gay people that actually wanted to do me harm. Most of the time I get along with everybody- regardless of sexual
preference- and I have no wish to perpetuate a stereotype of Asskicking Gay Men in Asheville.
I'm gonna stick my manhood on the chopping block here and
admit that I actually feel MORE comfortable in gay bars than I do in regular bars, though I never really considered the reason
until recently. Upon just such an excursion a few months ago, (when I went dancing with a friend of mine named Danielle),
she gleaned that- because of my combative nature- gay bars present less of a threat to me. A homo-hangout is void of
all the usual macho grandstanding and toughguy tension; not to mention that a straight guy in a gay bar has a much higher
chance of "hooking up". I know a lot of hot straight girls that go to gay bars just to dance, and, therefore, NOT to
get hit on. There's an expected lack of male competition in said establishments, so naturally, the odds are
in the straight guy's favor.
Most straight guy's don't have the sexual security to glean
this wisdom- much less act on it- so I'm offering it up as a gift in this post. Hear me, embrace my genius, and thus
partake of the fruits of strategy...
It was summer of 1996, and I'd just graduated from Delta State
University in Cleveland, MS to resume my summer job. Said job was assistant lifeguard at YMCA Blue Ridge Assembly in
Black Mountain, NC, (a small town about twenty miles outside of Asheville). I've mentioned Blue Ridge in other stories,
but let me reiterate by saying that working at a conference center like that was similar to college without the classes.
The staff was composed of early twenties-aged guys and girls from all over the country, along with two dozen or so exchange
students from various places overseas.
At that time, Blue Ridge was my DREAM JOB, chiefly because
I was a veteran, (I'd worked there the previous summer), and because I'd already attained my bachelor's degree and thus had
no ties to anything. Plus, I was single, which made me fair game for the generally younger troop of female staffers.
Holla back youngin'!!!
The collegiate staff "dorm" was co-ed, which made sexual debauchery
even more accessible, and I was already sowing my wild oats two weeks into the summer. My then-bestfriend and partner
in crime was Rene Ramirez, (from the "If at first you don't succeed" story), and he was always present to lend his abilities
as both backup and wing man.
(Admittedly, Rene's little Mexican ass was and is better with
the ladies than I am, but we always played off each other marvelously- and to our mutual benefit.)
Anyway, one night a group of girls invite me, Rene, and a
few other Blue Ridge guys to go dancing with them in Asheville, and having gone to public school, (which instilled in me the
ability to get jiggy with it), I readily agreed. It wasn't until we pulled up at Scandals that I was informed
that it was a gay bar.
Mike: "What?!? Aw fuck that, man! I ain't gonna
hang out with a bunch of faggots! Ya'll take me home!"
Keep in mind that this was 1996, and that I still clung to
all the racial and homophobic bigotry that comes from growing up in the Mississippi Delta. I'm not proud of it, but
I was young and stupid and full of prejudice, and I had yet to understand the virtue of all peoples and cultures. In
short, I was a dumbass redneck, and I still had my thick southern accent to warn everybody else of that certainty.
It just goes to show that being smart and being wise are two
different things, and I was and am as vulnerable to ignorance as anybody else.
Anyway, my entourage had no intention of driving me all the
way back to Black Mountain, so I agreed to stay under the threat that, "If any of those queers try anything, I'm gonna beat
somebody's ass!!!"
Like most idiots, I harbored the ridiculous fear that homosexuality
was a disease that I could be infected with, and I loudly vowed to keep my butthole virginal by any means necessary.
Scandals is a basement-type dance club off of Grove Street,
its entrance hidden in an alley so that only those familiar with its location can find it. Even before we reached the
door, I could hear the bone-jarring thump of Techno music training out from the inside, and despite my homophobia, I noticed
my ass subtly swaying from side to side as I walked.
Apparently, Gloria Estefan was right. Sooner or later,
the rhythm IS gonna get ya.
(I stole that joke from Chandler on Friends, by the way.)
My compatriots and I go inside to find the club itself separated
by a narrow constricting hallway which forces would-be patrons to line up single file to have their ID's checked. The
ID checker is protected by a wall/counter of glass and wood with a little hole in it so money and driver's licenses
can be passed back and forth, (like an old school movie theater ticket booth).
While brilliant from a security standpoint, (the ID checker
has to buzz you through yet another door at the end of the hallway, so there's NO possibility whatsoever of someone sneaking
in), I thought it a bit excessive. It was almost as if the entrance had been designed to intimidate people, a pair
of enormous bouncers augmenting the Pentagon level of security.
"Are they gonna cavity search me?" I asked no one in particular,
but the music was so loud that nobody heard me.
One by one, the members of my entourage funnel through, and
I hang back in emotional turmoil, wondering if I really wanna enter this den of stool pushing decadence. Eventually,
I decide to stop being a pussy, and I go up to the counter and hand the ID checker my Mississippi driver's license and the
five dollar cover charge.
This was to be my first encounter with a guy I'm gonna call
"Dickhead", who was (and still is, as far as I know) the gatekeeper of Scandals. Dickhead is an "angry homosexual",
not unlike the two guys I ran into tonight at Market Center, and I'm pretty sure he hates EVERYBODY!!! Medium of height
and wand slim, Dickhead sports short brown hair, beady eyes, and a perpetually effeminate sneer, the latter expression conveying
condescension no matter how polite a patron is.
Now, after multiple trips to Scandals in the seven years since,
I can say with absolute certainty that my choice of character name is dead on. This guy is not only a dickhead, but
quite possibly the emperor/empress of the kingdom of bitchy assholes. If I knew his name, I'd post it here just to piss
him off, but I don't know it. Still, any Asheville native that's been to Scandals knows EXACTLY who I'm talking about,
and probably shares my opinion.
Dickhead's rudeness has generated a host of complaints, but
I'm pretty sure he's still working there. If the owners of Scandals ever read this, I hope you realize just how abysmally
fucking stupid you are for keeping this little punk on your staff.
Ah, but let's get back to 1996.
So I go up to the counter, and Dickhead makes a face like
he'd just taken a shot of warm cat piss, then looking me up and down in slow, panning malice.
Dickhead: "Uh, excuse me, Butch, but you know this
is a gay bar, right?"
Mike: "Yeah, I know. I'm here with my friends.
They just went in."
Dickhead: "I didn't see you with anybody."
Mike: "What?!? You JUST let 'em in! You know,
that big group of guys and girls?"
Dickhead: "Nope, sorry. This club is members only.
I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."
Mike: "I don't understand. You let my friends in."
Dickhead: "Soooorrrry!" he chimed in a high pitched and dismissive
taught, "I don't think sooo! Why don't ya try the pool hall down the street."
Already charged up because of my aversion to homosexuals,
I lost my shit at this point- party because I felt alone and frustrated and confused, and partly because this guy was intentionally
fucking with me.
"Motherfucker," I warned, "I will pull your skinny ass right
through that little hole!"
(The "hole" in question was a 3 x 6 inch rectangular
partition through which, again, cover charges and ID's were exchanged, so pulling him through it would've been quite
impressive even for me.)
"OH NO YOU DI 'INT!!!" Dickhead replied, prompting
a shouting match that drew the attention of the bouncers.
Luckily, one of the girls in my party (the only one that
actually WAS a member) appeared at that moment to smooth things over, and after some quick talking on her part, I was
admitted into the club.
By the way, I've had many such altercations with Dickhead
since, and if I ever see him out on the street, I'm gonna sew his ass to his face.
(I hope you read this someday, Dickhead, 'cause I'm
gonna catch up with you sooner or later.)
Rattled and wishing I'd stayed at home, I go right to the
bar and order a pair of bourbon and diet cokes, then downing both in an attempt to get drunk as quick as possible. Though
marginally more comfortable, Rene was power drinking as well, and I took solace in the fact that we'd soon be hammered.
Regardless, I again proclaimed my intention to stomp
a mudhole in the next queer that fucks with me, thus ascending to full "toughguy" mode, and silently daring someone
to enter my circle of destruction.
I would come to learn that I wasn't as "tough" as I thought
I was, but we'll get to that.
So after four or five bourbon and diet cokes, I start perusing
my surroundings, then to discover that while, yes, there were a lot of guys there, there were even more girls- most
of 'em super hot. The dark, smoky interior of Scandals was permeated by base-driven club music and pulsing strobe lights,
and a barrage of scantily clad vixens were shaking their asses on the dance floor.
'Yeah, I guess I can get into this',
I thought, my hips resuming their instinctive gyration.
At one point, the girls from our group came over and pulled
Rene and I out on the dance floor, and I started getting down. Since there were many more girls than guys,
I suddenly found myself the center of a hurricane of thrusting female pelvises, and the situation did a one-eighty.
Ah, yeaaah... I'm a pimplord...
Look at all my bitches!!!
And so it continued for several songs- until I glanced over
and saw one of the most disturbing things I'd ever witnessed in real life. Next to us on the dance floor, a slender,
well dressed white guy was bent over with his palms flat on the ground, a larger black guy in full drag queen attire savagely
pumping his ass from behind.
HOLY ANAL PENETRATION, BATMAN!!!
Now, I don't mean to imply that they were actually having
sex, (they were both fully clothed), but the veracity of this crotch-to-butt pounding rivaled Ned Beatty's "squeal like a
pig" scene in the movie Deliverance, and to make things worse, the enormous black drag queen was glaring at ME like
my own ass was next on the prison rape menu.
No shit, he was staring me down with a predatory scowl that
seemed to say, "Get a good look, little white boy!"
I know I say this a lot, but I almost crapped my pants...
literally!!!
Completely emasculated by Ebony Mary's personal version
of Shock-N-Awe, I muttered something about needing another drink to my circle of dance partners, and ran away like my small
intestine was on fire.
Forget about being "tough"... I was scared!!!
And my horror was just beginning.
Fighting my way through the undulating crowd, (during which
time I felt multiple hands on my ass), I came to a halt at the edge of the dance floor to spy Rene back at the bar proper,
apparently having tired of dancing before I did.
"Thank God..." I sighed, then negotiating my way over to him.
With a mere ten feet separating me from my then-bestfriend, this guy in a black and sleeveless, fishnet top stops me by putting
his hand on my chest, his fingers then sliding down to rub my stomach.
"Hey there..." he cooed seductively, "I'm Darien. What's
your name?"
Judging by my earlier vow to, stomp a mudhole in the
next queer that fucks with me, you might assume that I belted this guy right in the chops. That's what "toughguys"
do, right?
Wrong. Toughguys loose their testicles and utterly freak
out.
Mike: "Um... I'm, uh... I'm here with somebody!!!"
I blurted, then pushing past Captain Fishnet and latching onto Rene like a lamprey.
Rene: "What the- get off me, man! What's wrong
with you?!?"
Mike: "You're my bitch, understand?!?"
Rene: "Wha?"
Mike: "Just shut up and listen! For the rest of
the night, you're my bitch! We're together, and we don't cheat on each other. We have a very healthy and solid
relationship."
Rene: (shrugging my arm off his shoulder and flashing a mischievous
grin) "Bullshit..." he stated, "If anybody's anybody, YOU'RE the bitch in our relationship... Bitch!!!"
Mike: (still freaking out) "Okay, fine! Whatever!
I'm the bitch... Just stay close, alright?"
Rene laughed and proceeded to tease me mercilessly, but he
stayed by my side for the length of this harrowing ordeal, going so far as to play the part of my jealous gay boyfriend whenever
this guy or that tried to strike up a conversation.
Despite pride-driven shortcomings on both our parts, (one
of which ended our camaraderie a few years later), Rene was one of the best friends I've ever had, and from time to time,
I miss him terribly...
So the night drones on, and Rene and I re-join the girl members
of our group on the dance floor. All and all, I eventually started to have a really good time, and again, I can say
in present day retrospect that gay clubs are the best places for heterosexual guys to go dancing/hunting.
As last call approaches, (and after several hours of enduring
a full bladder), I break down and head for the bathroom, thus leaving the safety of my group and trudging off alone.
I'm shit-faced by this time, and far more able to deal
with homosexual advances, so I really didn't see how anything else could shock me. But not even "Drunk Mike" was prepared
for what happened in the bathroom.
The male lavatory at Scandals consists of a doorless hovel
with two equally doorless stalls and a penis-buffet-style urinal. Said urinal is pretty much in full view of anybody
who cares to look, and I wasn't about to offer my little white-guy dick up for scrutiny. As such, I hung back
and waited for one of the stalls to vacate, then using my ninja abilities to slide in ahead of the other people waiting to
pee.
Bam! I attain the safety of the stall and unzip my fly,
only to whip out Stanley and find that I'm unable to squeeze even a single drop. My bladder is about
to explode, but the intimidatingly small bathroom is PACKED with conversing gay guys, and I look up to see a poster above
the toilet which sports a threesome of buttpirates caught in mid-dance by a snapshot freezeframe. One guy is slightly
bent over with his ass thrust back against the crotch of a second dancer who was pulling his hair back. The third guy
in the picture was poised to accept a blow job, and all three were looking at me, (well, not me exactly, but the
shot was taken so that they were expectantly staring at anybody who glanced up at the poster).
The poster itself was an advertisement for a local Techno
DJ who calls himself, Strange Cat Thunderpussy, (or something similar), which would've cracked me up if I hadn't
been so uncomfortable. As it stood though, my penis had succumbed to stage fright, and I had no idea what to do.
I couldn't just leave, because everyone in the bathroom would've
known I didn't actually pee, (there would've been no sound of my piss hitting the toilet bowl water), and I didn't want to
be "the guy that was too shy to urinate in public".
As if that wasn't bad enough, after three or four minutes
of urethric impotence, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I glance back to see none other than the big black drag queen
from earlier.
"You okay?" he asked with a warm smile, and as if on cue,
a rocket blast of transparent yellow piss exploded from my penis.
No doubt inspired by some kind of fight or fight
reflex, my bladder purged itself with such viciousness that it felt like I was trying to hold on to a firehose.
I pissed everywhere... On the wall, on the Thunderpussy
poster, on the top of the toilet- basically dousing everything EXCEPT the water-filled bowl. Ebony Mary backs off and
starts laughing, and I desperately try to bring my urine cannon under control.
Despite the horror of my situation, the release was almost
euphoric, and I half sighed/half groaned in relief, then shaking off and returning my crank to its housing. Ebony Mary
was still standing there when I turned around, but his presence wasn't what sent me into a panic. What sent me into
a panic was the sight of two other gay guys a mere five feet away at the penis-buffet-urinal, one with his hands
perched on his hips as his partner held his dick. Apparently, homosexual guys require outside help to take a piss, and,
TO THIS DAY, I've never been able to get that visual scenario out of my head.
What did this Mississippi "toughguy" do? I ran...
Out the bathroom, through the lobby, and right into my still-dancing
entourage.
Mike: "We've gotta go!!! Right now!!! Please,
God!!! Take me home!!!"
Undoubtedly detecting the stark naked terror on my face, Rene
and the gang did as I asked, and during the drive back to Black Mountain, I told them all about my trials.
They thought it was funny. I didn't...
Through many subsequent trips to Scandals, (and other gay
bars), I've since overcome my irrational fear of homosexuals. But- like the loss of my virginity- I will never forget
the first time; and, ever-after, I've held a vehement respect for bathrooms with doors...
