Everybody loves a good show. There’s nothing quite like the anticipation that an audience member feels when the lights go down, the stage lights up, and the shadows of feet scurry behind a crimson curtain.
Over labor day weekend, two girlfriends and I went on a trip to visit my cousin for her 34th birthday. In celebration, my cousin took us out to a club called “Discovery”. We had no idea how appropriate that name would turn out to be. The night spent at this club was full of discoveries, some disturbing, some amusing, and some just downright terrifying. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
First, I should let you know that Discovery is a gay club. Those who choose to go to this club must first walk through “security”, which consists of two gnarly young men, who search your bags thoroughly for contraband. I’m not talking a simple flashlight shined into your purse. These men sifted through our belongings with their fingers, throwing things that looked questionable (including sunglasses, God knows why) into a cardboard box at their feet. After this was done, they ran their hands along our entire bodies in search of weapons.
So, needless to say, right off the bat my friends and I were “discovering” new things. Never before had I been to a club that literally frisked me at the door. But that was only the beginning of our adventure.
Once inside, our group walked through the club into a theater area, where we found a table and waited. A few of us meandered toward the bar and got drinks, but I sat in anticipation. This was to be my very first drag show experience. A minute before show time, I watched the shadows of feet move behind the curtain and I braced myself for what was to come.
The music swelled. The spotlights darted in a frenzy across the curtain. The crowd started cheering. Up went the curtain and there stood three men in drag, so padded, glittered, and feathered that any semblance of their manliness was impossible to find.
Later, I was told that my mouth hung open throughout the entire show. Between the outrageous costumes, fake cleavage and horrible lip synching I didn’t know whether I should laugh or cry (both from pure joy, of course). The most insane part of the night were the women who hurled themselves at the stage and offered up their dollars as if they were kneeling before gods. These drunken women literally laid themselves across the stage and waited for the drag queens to straddle them and caress their bodies…. talk about starved for sexual attention.
Almost as entertaining as the show itself, was a bearded young fellow in the front row, who constantly leapt from his chair, pranced across the room like a ballerina, and performed twirls on a whim. He wore a skin-tight black shirt with a dangerously deep V neckline. This man tipped every drag queen to grace the stage and often demanded the money be taken from between his teeth by the bedazzled queens. At one point, he literally hoisted a skinny jean clad leg around a pole in the room and performed his version of a pole dance.
Dear. God.
By the time the third drag queen had performed, my cousin had kicked back a few birthday drinks. The tall, dark and glamorous emcee emerged from the curtains and scanned the crowd for a victim to rub his fake bosom on. Naturally, my cousin grabbed his attention and he strutted toward our table to get to know us a little better. From up close, this queen’s makeup was so thick that I marveled at his ability to still move his facial muscles. His curves were flawless. His stomach was flat. His hair was silky and ran down his back. With a tinge of shame I realized that I was jealous of this man.
After the hefty blonde wearing sparkly blue lipstick and an orange boa wrapped up the night with the final routine, my friend and I ventured out into the club to get down on the dance floor. We thought that we shouldn’t have a problem with the threats that clubs usually impose (creepers, molesters, rapists, etc.). We figured that, since we were in a gay club, we wouldn’t have to worry about sweaty, mouth breather men rubbing up against us. We were so wrong.
As we casually walked onto the dance floor, staring about us in bewilderment at the pure insanity and chaos that meant “dancing” to these people, we felt the hungry stare of the predator. Apparently, Discovery is the only club that stays open past 1 a.m., so every rapist in the city shimmied on over there to continue their partying.
As my friend and I nervously swayed to the music, a belligerent sexual assailant named Justin made his way over to us, grabbed my friend inappropriately, and proceeded to sputter out that we were “hot” and declared that he was “no homosexual”, but we sure were a “hot couple”.
Double yikes.
All I could think was: Juuuustin…say it don’t spray it.
And: I think my hair is literally curling from the humidity that is radiating from this man’s sweat-drenched body.
In an attempt to escape from Justin, we ventured into another room called the “techno room” which flashed with blue lights, had a platform in the middle that people could dance/make out on, and cages up to the ceiling that clubbers could climb into and commence to blessing their peers with the sight of their gyrations. Needless to say, we got over that room real fast.
We ended up leaving the club after a few minutes of dancing, but I must confess that I did see an attractive man that night. He was the police officer arresting some schwastey ruffian outside of the club doors. I would have asked for his number, but he was too busy reaching for his gun and screaming. Oh well…maybe next time?
The shock of that night hit us so hard that we slept past noon the next day. And when I woke up…I wanted to do it again.
-V
Two Women. One Blog. Lots of Junk. 