In this installment of Nightvision, I continue the tradition established by this blog of being the #1 source for TMI in regards to my personal and social life. This week, I braved a night romping through West Hollywood’s gayest gay clubs in order to get in the good graces of my ex-girlfriend’s fabulous friends. Like any stylish woman-about-town, she has a joyously gay entourage. I’m hoping that if I impress them with my liberated attitudes towards the gay nightlife scene it will help me get back with her. That’s right, I have no problem bearing my soul and sharing my pathetic quest to win back the one that got away. At least I learned enough about gay bars to talk about them in between venting about my love life.
The night began innocently enough last Saturday at the world famous Improv in Hollywood. I performed stand-up comedy in which I alienated one particular table full of heckling Ed Hardy-wearing douchebags with their drunk douchette dates peering from under their overdone blonde extensions. I ended a joke by pointing out that the folks at this particular table probably had HPV. Ironically, it was the one joke they laughed at. Maybe it was nervous laughter. I should also mention that I followed a performance which featured the previous comedian’s friend hijacking the set to propose to his chick. I was hoping it was a gag. It wasn’t. What a downer.
In the audience that night were my ex-girlfriend, otherwise known as Pibbsie and her two fabulous gay pals, Dan the Silly Man and Adam Von Fierce. They were lively, and giddy, and color-coordinated, and they especially loved my joke about my life not going anywhere because I let “seasoned whores stick their fingers in my bum” (that may or may not be completely made up in the name of comedy). The rest of the audience was aghast at my disclosure, partly because it was Latino night, and there were many macho men in the crowd.
Speaking of macho men, in order to hang out with the Pibbs after my show I volunteered to tag along with her and the fabulousos to a place where the men are either not macho at all or so damn macho they’re busting out of their tiny t-shirts… WeHo.
There we were, Pibbsie, Dan the Silly Man, Adam Von Fierce, and myself skippity bopping down Santa Monica to Robertson. (We had to skippity bop because Dan the Silly Man swore on his brand new Diesel jeans that the West Hollywood Police would ticket us for “straight walking.”) Finally, we arrived at Here Lounge. I guess I was being eased into the gay bar scene by dipping my toes into a party that is only half gay men and the rest women who may or may not be competing for spots on the U.S. softball team. If you don’t catch my drift, this theme night called “Truck Stop” was targeting ladies and the ladies who love them. The party promotes itself as a place where you can find “hot, sassy, sexy glam rockin’ girls who aren’t afraid to throw down and have a good time” (just not with straight guys).
I can’t say it was bad. The bar was neat, all neoned out, with sleek tables and a throbbing dance floor. The only real issue I had with Here Lounge was the fact that the guy’s bathroom is one long horse trough urinal running along a hallway that is in no way constructed from the rest of the club. Wow. I really had to think about just how bad I had to go… not bad enough.
Next stop, we went next door to the world famous Abbey, which I can only describe as a sea of gay guys since we went in through the back door and I didn’t make it in very far. I didn’t fit (not that I’m bragging or anything), so we headed over to an establishment I was weary about after hearing the name… Mother Lode.
As I imagined, Mother Lode had a noticeable collection of bears – big, burly, bearded gay men often clad in tight leather. The rest were aspiring Ken dolls, along with a speckle of gals, each at the center of their own gay entourage. One of those gals was my ex, the Pibbs, who at this point was drunk thanks to my insistence she have another drink… and then another… and then another. I figured right around that time it was my cue to sashay up to her with my RuPaul two-step, compliment her new shoes (I’m picking up a thing or two from her friends) and then go in for the smooch.
“No dice,” she says. I guess we’re still just friends. To add insult to injury, after I begged her to come home with me, Adam Von Fierce stepped in and said, “Oh no, bitch, you gotta go through me.” I guess I wouldn’t be getting back with the Pibbs; but I won’t give up. I looked Adam Von Fierce right in his fake contacts and said, “You may have won the battle, but I’ll win the war.” Then I tried to dash off into the night gracefully, but I had to walk through the dance floor during a Lady Gaga song, so it was a stop and go thing as I dodged limp wrists flailing fervently in the air. I slept alone that night, with little action beyond the anonymous grabbing of my ass I endured on the way out of Mother Lode. Oh well, at least I know one thing: I’m welcome in WeHo anytime.
I can see you… but not like, in a stalker way or anything like that.
PS- Catch me talking shit on Gossip Queens, Monday Nights at 9pm/Midnight (EST) on LOGO.