March 2005 Archives

One morning, a number of years ago, I woke up with a sore throat. This, of course, was not completely unexpected, as most of my waking hours in recent weeks had been consumed with screaming matches and mentholated cigarettes. I went back to bed, and when I woke up again in the late afternoon, my throat was burning and dry. I grabbed wildly at the glass of water next to my bed, and brought it to my parched lips.

The pain was excruciating. It felt like I had, instead of drinking a slightly dusty glass of water as I planned, gulped down a mouthful of paint thinner which stripped the flesh from my throat in long, painful strips. I gathered my strength and went to the mirror, whereupon opening my mouth I saw a horrifying sight indeed. My throat was apparently the new gathering place for weeping open wounds--for there were dozens of them--frolicking gaily from my palate to my uvula.

I sat around the house complaining loudly and watching television in the hopes that my raw and inflamed sores would go away. Finally, I threw myself into some clothes, and slumped my way towards Sixteenth Street, to the �family clinic� I had chosen as my healthcare provider. By the time I got there, my mouth sores appeared to have joined forces and become one giant ulcer, and I was unable to drink, breathe or think.

I eventually made it to an examining room, and opened my mouth obediently for the doctor.

She looked at me condescendingly and said, �Miss, you have herpes.�

�What?� I squealed indignantly. �I do not!�

We went back and forth for a while, she trying to convince me of my herpes-positive status, and me defending my virtue to the teeth. Finally, she took a swab from my throat and left the room.

She left me there, paper clad and on a cold metal table for twenty long minutes, while I contemplated a future filled with internet dating sites aimed at those with STDS. Time passed interminably�as I sat there I began to worry about all of the other possible diseases I might have contracted during my many years of befriending sailors during Fleet Week.

The doctor finally came back in, with two lackeys trailing after her. They all examined my throat again, and after some whispers and nodding, the doctor announced that I did not, as previously assumed, have herpes.

I sat there, triumphant, as they quizzed me, trying to determine the cause of this strange and wonderful disease they decided that I had.

�Do you work at a daycare?� they asked.

�No,� I replied, firmly stating that I hadn�t spoken to anyone under thirty in at least six months.

The doctors then gave me my diagnosis�Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease�and claimed that she hadn�t recognized it as such because she hadn�t ever seen it in anyone over the age of two. Apparently my youthful charm and good looks had somehow left me susceptible to the maladies of childhood well into my own golden years.

It took another ten days for my mouth to return to its previous pristine state, and during this period I spent a significant amount of time reflecting on how I could have contracted this disgusting illness. Unfortunately, I had no specific children to blame, so I decided that it must have been the subway or from one of my petite, childlike friends. To this day it remains a mystery, and the story of how I was diagnosed with herpes has become standard first date dinner table conversation, much to the delight of all of my potential suitors.

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!"

My mother sighed again. "I’m just so... jealous."

I dismissed my grandmother’s idea at the time, but now, on my 26th birthday, I’m starting to reconsider. Sixteen was a good age for me, I think. I can’t remember most of it, but the pictures indicate that I smiled that year. Perhaps it is time to finally cede to her wishes and start getting younger instead of older.