The other day, one of the members of my international male harem was visiting from Sydney. We went out to dinner in the Mission neighborhood of San Francisco--a neighborhood that is known for its ubiquitous four-pound burritos, the open-air drug market, and ongoing gentrification. We dinner at a local trendy eatery, and then, despite the fact that it was a school night, decided to stop at a bar for a drink.
We walked past a few, and decided that although seedy, they weren’t quite up to our standards of seediness. As we approached another, I noticed a haggard woman in 5-inches heels standing outside. "There’s your girlfriend," I giggled and poked my companion in the manner of an awkward 14 year old. The outside was painted a garish purple, and a sign proclaimed, "Cocktails Dancing Live Entertainment." Before we could make it to the door the woman went inside, and we followed her in.
Despite the $4 cover charge, we proceeded in past a cubicle that contained a mustachioed man wearing a badge from a candy machine, and we bellied up to the bar. As we waited for our drinks, I looked above our heads, and saw a six foot painting that depicted, in the style of Frida Kahlo, a reclining man with large, flaccid penis. Confused, I looked around. Brawny Hispanic men in muscle tees crowded the dance floor. Cher was blaring. My chaperone, laughing hysterically, turned to me and said, "You’re the only woman in here." A quick survey proved him right. As I looked at the crowd, no white faces looked back at me. I fixed on what I thought were women, and quickly realized that they hadn’t been born that way. It slowly dawned on me; I was in a Hispanic transvestite bar.
Soon after my realization, the drag queens working the bar took the stage and appeared to introduce themselves in Spanish, although I didn’t understand what was being said, much like the rest of my day-to-day life. They left to circulate with the bar’s patrons, leaving one of their brethren onstage with a microphone.
I’ve had experience with drag queens before. More so than I would have liked, I lived across the street from a drag restaurant in the East Village for a few years. But in my long, pathetic life, I’d never seen drag queens as ugly as this. Their faces and accoutrements were that of Jewish grandmothers, and their legs were that of a baby grand.
The drag queen on stage was lip-syncing to a Cher song that she didn’t know the words to, and when she finished, she made an announcement in Spanish. I’m not sure what she said, but it may have been "look at the Gringos," because soon after, a man from Guatemala named Javier attempted to introduce himself to us. He shook my hand twice, and my associate’s thrice. The possessor of bad breath and English skills that matched mine in Spanish, our new friendship with Javier was doomed.
When he walked away, we tried to figure out if he was looking for friends, thought I was born a man, attempting to play hide-the-salami with my chum, or possibly all three. By the time we finished our drinks, I was ready to move in. A bar filled with non-threatening men, and I was the prettiest girl in the room. It was everything I’ve always been looking for, but sadly, I was dragged out in under an hour.
I called my mother the next morning and told her that I had been to a Hispanic transvestite bar. She sighed, deeply and loudly. When I didn’t respond, she clicked her tongue menacingly.
"What?" I whined. "It was fun!"
