On Saturday night I told the only man who wanted to snog me, that I was a lesbian…it may not surprise you to hear that this made him all the more determined to invade my personal space.
We were after all, in a gay bar; every now and then I like to go somewhere where I have a pretty good chance of standing out. And in a gay bar any woman is a novelty. Even one who is wearing a blue bra, under a black off the shoulder t-shirt dress.
The night had started out innocently enough; well I have never known watermelon martinis to be involved in any serious crimes. Unless that is, you count bad dancing. I still thank God that said dancing is not punishable by incarceration, or I would have spent the last 20 years locked up in a place where I can’t even get my hands on a blue bra.
As we all know, the words of songs do tend to ringer louder in your ears after a watermelon martini (or two.) And on this night, it was the words of the modern day preacher Kylie; ‘your disco needs you.’ After three martinis I knew that I just couldn’t let my disco down, so a group of us headed out for a medicinal dance off.
The greatest thing about a male gay bar for women (am sure there are other perks if you are a bloke,) is that no one cares what you or wearing, or how badly you dance. It is like putting on an invisibility cloak, before you go off to party.
My cloak slipped off momentarily, when I managed to find the only straight men in the bar; which only goes to prove my theory you can meet men anywhere. In my case though, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the excuse he had have given, as to what he was doing there.
Anyway, as I said the best excuse I could come up with to ensure that he left me to my disco worshipping, was to say that I was a lesbian. I would have escaped, had his response not been ‘so am I.’ I did have to spend a few seconds trying to work out whether this was possible.
I mean after all, anything goes these days, regardless of what label you put on yourself. Maybe he was a lesbian? I found it hard to label many of the people I came across that night…and here I refer specifically to Camden High Street, let alone the bar itself. In the end, I decided it was unlikely that this guy was in fact a lesbian…I am sure there is a better label out there for him, I just don’t know what it is.
I must confess after several vats of vodka I don’t remember much else. I always think this is for the best on a night out…especially when one of the few memories you do have, involves you yelling ‘one more song, one more song’ as the lights come up.
I went home very much alone, and in the end the only person I kissed was a very old friend. I refer not to the fact that she is happily older than me (by two whole years,) but to the fact that I have known her since before I discovered the benefits of eyebrow plucking. It wasn’t an entirely helpful kiss; after all, we both would have preferred to have kissed George Clooney. And that’s one label that neither of us can carry off, even in the suspended disbelief of a gay bar.