“Toothbrush, moisturizer, cigarettes, lube…”
I’m in my bedroom, packing my overnight bag as my friends George and Slutty Mandy observe from the bed. My new fella, Preppy, has been staying over at my place consistently for the last few weeks, but I’ve yet to stay at his house. So tonight I’m having my first sleepover in Smyrna. It’s rare occurrence, me leaving the city limits, but Preppy wants me to meet his friends.
“You’re going to change, aren’t you?” asks George.
“What’s wrong? This shirt makes my arms look good.”
“Yes it does,” says Slutty Mandy. “At WetBar or Mary’s. But it’s a bit too overtly gay for the suburbs.”
“We’re going to his bar. He’s introducing me as the guy he’s dating. It’s not like I’m trying to fly under the radar here.”
“Darling,” says George. “We’re thinking of your safety. I’ve heard of these Outside-the-Perimeter types, seen them on the news. Don’t hold hands or kiss. In fact, you two should really be on opposite sides of the room.”
“Y’all, he’s not taking me to Petticoat Junction. It’s Smyrna. Julia Roberts is from there.”
“Yes,” says George. “But she left. Now put on something from The Gap.”
Apparently Preppy is the token gay in his group of friends. I was already anxious about making a good first impression, but now George and Slutty Mandy have me terrified. What if their reaction to me is similar to Middle America’s general response to gays? They like us witty and clean and completely devoid of all sexuality, like Ellen Degeneres or the guys from Queer Eye. The Smyrna friends might have been fine with having their one gay buddy, but when presented with firm evidence that he’s actually engaging in man-on-man action on a regular basis, would their heterosexual suburban values rebel? Would it all just be a bit too icky for their taste?
We’re waiting on the porch when Preppy arrives to collect me. George gives me a hug.
“Don’t hesitate to call if things get ugly,” he says.
We arrive at Preppy’s bar of choice, a standard-issue Applebee’s type place, anchoring the corner of a shopping center and filled with frat boys and their Express-clad blondes. We are instantly assaulted by a group of squealing women who end every sentence with an exclamation point.
“Oh my Gawd! You’re Topher! You’re so cute! I love you! Come do shots with us!”
We’re off to a good start. Everybody seems to be getting along great. After a few rounds of shots, Preppy puts his head on my shoulder, a sweet gesture. It’s a gesture that does not go unnoticed, as I spot a twentysomething with a buzz cut giving us the stink eye from across the room. Then Preppy leans in and kisses my neck, which launches the guy across the room out of his chair, making an irate beeline for us. I brace myself for the inevitable confrontation.
But before the Buzz Cut can complete his approach, a giant linebacker type intercepts, blocking him from reaching us.
“Dude,” says Linebacker. “You got a fuckin’ problem?”
I cannot hear the response to this question, but I can see that Buzz Cut is quickly being reduced to a quivering puddle of goo.
“Nobody else here has a problem,” says Linebacker, leaning in close. “I think YOU’RE the problem.”
Realizing that this exchange has drawn the attention of everyone in the vicinity, Buzz Cut gives us a final angry look before heading off to another part of the bar. Linebacker walks over to Preppy and me.
“It’s cool,” he says. “My brother’s gay. Anybody gives you shit, you come get us.”
And then he shakes my hand and rejoins his table of cheering frat boys and dishy blondes, who collectively are my new favorite people in the world. I turn back to Preppy and give him a real kiss, beginning to understand why he likes this place so much.
It’s always great to hang out at gay bars, among our own kind, and paw each other as much as we want. But there’s a true sense of pride that comes with showing affection at a random straight bar in the suburbs, and finding unexpected allies willing to defend our right to do it. Thanks, y’all.
I’m in my bedroom, packing my overnight bag as my friends George and Slutty Mandy observe from the bed. My new fella, Preppy, has been staying over at my place consistently for the last few weeks, but I’ve yet to stay at his house. So tonight I’m having my first sleepover in Smyrna. It’s rare occurrence, me leaving the city limits, but Preppy wants me to meet his friends.
“You’re going to change, aren’t you?” asks George.
“What’s wrong? This shirt makes my arms look good.”
“Yes it does,” says Slutty Mandy. “At WetBar or Mary’s. But it’s a bit too overtly gay for the suburbs.”
“We’re going to his bar. He’s introducing me as the guy he’s dating. It’s not like I’m trying to fly under the radar here.”
“Darling,” says George. “We’re thinking of your safety. I’ve heard of these Outside-the-Perimeter types, seen them on the news. Don’t hold hands or kiss. In fact, you two should really be on opposite sides of the room.”
“Y’all, he’s not taking me to Petticoat Junction. It’s Smyrna. Julia Roberts is from there.”
“Yes,” says George. “But she left. Now put on something from The Gap.”
Apparently Preppy is the token gay in his group of friends. I was already anxious about making a good first impression, but now George and Slutty Mandy have me terrified. What if their reaction to me is similar to Middle America’s general response to gays? They like us witty and clean and completely devoid of all sexuality, like Ellen Degeneres or the guys from Queer Eye. The Smyrna friends might have been fine with having their one gay buddy, but when presented with firm evidence that he’s actually engaging in man-on-man action on a regular basis, would their heterosexual suburban values rebel? Would it all just be a bit too icky for their taste?
We’re waiting on the porch when Preppy arrives to collect me. George gives me a hug.
“Don’t hesitate to call if things get ugly,” he says.
We arrive at Preppy’s bar of choice, a standard-issue Applebee’s type place, anchoring the corner of a shopping center and filled with frat boys and their Express-clad blondes. We are instantly assaulted by a group of squealing women who end every sentence with an exclamation point.
“Oh my Gawd! You’re Topher! You’re so cute! I love you! Come do shots with us!”
We’re off to a good start. Everybody seems to be getting along great. After a few rounds of shots, Preppy puts his head on my shoulder, a sweet gesture. It’s a gesture that does not go unnoticed, as I spot a twentysomething with a buzz cut giving us the stink eye from across the room. Then Preppy leans in and kisses my neck, which launches the guy across the room out of his chair, making an irate beeline for us. I brace myself for the inevitable confrontation.
But before the Buzz Cut can complete his approach, a giant linebacker type intercepts, blocking him from reaching us.
“Dude,” says Linebacker. “You got a fuckin’ problem?”
I cannot hear the response to this question, but I can see that Buzz Cut is quickly being reduced to a quivering puddle of goo.
“Nobody else here has a problem,” says Linebacker, leaning in close. “I think YOU’RE the problem.”
Realizing that this exchange has drawn the attention of everyone in the vicinity, Buzz Cut gives us a final angry look before heading off to another part of the bar. Linebacker walks over to Preppy and me.
“It’s cool,” he says. “My brother’s gay. Anybody gives you shit, you come get us.”
And then he shakes my hand and rejoins his table of cheering frat boys and dishy blondes, who collectively are my new favorite people in the world. I turn back to Preppy and give him a real kiss, beginning to understand why he likes this place so much.
It’s always great to hang out at gay bars, among our own kind, and paw each other as much as we want. But there’s a true sense of pride that comes with showing affection at a random straight bar in the suburbs, and finding unexpected allies willing to defend our right to do it. Thanks, y’all.
