From Bar Virgin to Bar Veteran

What gay man doesn’t remember the time he set foot in his first bar? For most gay men, it is our coming of age experience. Native American males had a vision quest. Gay men venture timidly into a dark, smoky bar, gawk at hunky men much more acquainted with the scene, dance awkwardly to some disco, and go home with the first thing to show them some attention. My, how times have changed.

The responses of gay men to their first bar encounter are as varied as our own personalities, but I know no one who walked in, drank and danced a few rounds, engaged in casual conversation, thanked his friends for a most pleasant evening, and toddled off for a good night’s sleep. Our pent-up sexual desire was too strong, our injured egos too fragile, for such an innocuous response. We loved and loathed ourselves all over that night, from the bar, to the dance floor, to the bathroom, to the hangover next morning. We fell in love a hundred times, and we may have fallen down the stairs on the way out. We embarked upon a long journey of self-discovery and self-esteem, self-indulgence and self-denial. Whatever you felt that night, it was anything but ambivalence. You had crossed a barrier in your mind, body, and spirit. And, true to any coming of age experience, you were reborn.

At a naïve, desperate, and horny seventeen, I was no exception to the rule. A group of lesbian acquaintances from my university’s GLBT student union first caught wind that I had never been to a bar. After much cajoling by Chris, the fiery leader of the lesbian pack, I agreed to accompany them to Woody’s in Philadelphia on a hot Wednesday night. In the long car ride to 13th and Locust, the butterflies in my stomach stepped it up a notch from sprint to marathon. Six little lesbians and one young, anxious queen in a Honda without air-conditioning doesn’t make for a pleasant forty-five minute ride, I can assure you, but we made it somehow. As we crossed the George C. Platt Memorial Bridge, I pondered the name of the bar-Woody’s. It made me feel seedy yet sexy, ashamed but alive.

My first impression of the bar was simple: dark, smoky, and full of men. Come to think of it, I’ve never stepped into a gay bar since and registered much of a different diagnosis. In my experience, I’ve found gay bars to be much darker than heterosexual watering holes. I’m a firm believer that the physical surroundings you inhabit reflect your own psyche, and gay men have been trained to hide and blend in. A friend assures me that the darkness simply lessens the lighting bill and takes years off your face. My perception of the smoke and the dark of the bar, however, quickly gave way to the veritable smorgasbord of men…available men. I couldn’t decide whether to be overcome by the electric in my heart, head, or stomach, and feeling all three at once was almost too much to bear. I felt giddy with excitement and freedom as a huge smile spread across my face.

My lesbian friends wanted to groove to the beat, but out of anxiety, curiosity, and a distinct lack of faith in my dancing abilities, I chose a spot by the speakers. Then I saw him-the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. His dark, wavy hair was slicked back with just enough gel, and the day’s worth of stubble on his face gave me goosebumps. Staring into his deep brown eyes, I couldn’t decide what he was looking at. Glancing to my left and right, I realized I was alone on that side of the room. Those less inhibited than a bar virgin, were shaking it on the dance floor. I glanced back, and he was still looking. I wondered if the wall behind me was on fire. With a furtive glance, I assured myself that it wasn’t. He must be looking at me!!!

For the first time that evening, I felt like vomiting.

But it would have been a very happy vomit, not like when you’re ten and you have the flu and you’re hugging the cold toilet bowl in the middle of the night. No, this would have been an up-chuck of celebration and much rejoicing. After a quick schizophrenic pep talk, I was able to raise my eyes again. My heart dropped to the floor where my eyes had rested only seconds before. He was gone. Maybe he had noticed how nervous and silly I looked. Just when I was ready to make a move to the bathroom, for purposes unrelated to vomiting, I spotted him again. Only this time, he had moved closer, and he was still staring. And smiling. Something told me he didn’t want a date, but my idyllic notions of romance were collapsing under the weight of his lusty looks. Gingerly, I made my way to the bathroom, knowing this handsome man with dark eyes and hair had made a tacit promise to be my forever beloved, and that he would wait for me until I came out of the bathroom and for all eternity. But he wasn’t there when I came out of the bathroom.

I learned a lot about the bars that night.

Today, at a wiser (and wearier) twenty-seven, I have a love-hate relationship with the bars. Often, I become bored, irritable, and uncomfortable after about an hour, or two drinks, whichever comes first. I walk away from gossipmongers and chatty Cathys. I stare in amazement at the naiveté and brazenness of “kids” just a few years my junior. I notice an ex-boyfriend’s emerging crow’s feet and expanding waistline, and squint into the mirror to reassure that my reflection is not aging before my eyes. I glance across the room at someone I used to know and wonder why I don’t know him anymore and if I ever really did. A sweat-soaked twenty-one year old blows across the dance floor like the lightest breeze, and, for a schizophrenic second, I think it’s me out there. Then my heart leaps with joy when my friends stroll into the bar and we sit down at a table to talk. The noise and drama around me fade into the background, and I wonder at how lucky I am to have made it through these tumultuous years and emerge with such good friends. I count my blessings, laugh silently at old times, and happily join in the good conversation and company at hand.

These days, that’s my kind of quality bar experience.

Eric can be reached at eric.a.morrison@verizon.net. Send him a message (and a Yuengling).