The Saturday of this story begins with a rum and Coke. I call this my “upper”. Some nights I’m a bit tired to begin with. Rum and Coke serves as my caffeine. For more drastic resuscitations, there is Vodka and Red Bull. Drink in hand, I make a round through the bar, meandering from room to room, observing who is around.
There are the usual suspects, such as The Perfects. These are the guys who have every hair in place, really loud but clearly fashionable clothes. They generally are slim twinks. Sometimes they bring their equally, but non-threateningly, attractive girl friends. The Perfects tend to roam in packs and don’t acknowledge those outside their circle. They are more commonly gathered at Rehab. But once the Saturday night drag show is over, they migrate to Just John.
Then there are the Jocks. They range from toned young guys to muscle daddies. They dress more casually in tank tops and shorts, occasionally they wear backwards hats. They often have the loudest laughs and serious alpha vibes. I always get the impression that they just walked in straight from the gym.
The most entertaining group by far are the Straights. Sometimes they go with their gay friends. Mostly they go in couples. You can always tell when they are new. The guy leads the girl through the crowd. Her eyes are usually darting around like a scared doe in the woods. They either link arms or tightly hold hands, as if the boyfriend will be torn apart by gay men at any moment. And while there is always ridiculous behavior at gay bars, Straights manage to stand out in their drunken revelry.
One night, a friend and I watched a guy awkwardly dancing with a girl. He looked really uncomfortable. Later, he was lounging with a group of guys, his legs splayed over a guy’s lap. He looked at home. He switched between dancing with the girl and sitting with the guys throughout the night. Eventually, very late into the night, we walked past him making out with the girl. My friend stopped, rushed up to him, and whispered something to him. The guy swatted him away, appearing offended. When I asked my friend what he said, he told me it was, “don’t lead her on.” I went into hysterics over that and how bold he was, bluntly tell the guy that!
On another occasion, I was on the patio when I witnessed a woman twerking on her boyfriend. When I looked over to his reaction, he wasn’t even paying attention. He was loosely holding onto her while texting on his phone. She was absolutely working it for him and he couldn’t even fake interest! The Straights really take attention for granted.
Finally, there are the Free Agents. I consider myself one of this group. At our best, we can function within a group or go confidently on our own. Although, even when with a group, we keep an eye out. At worst, we will go alone but be extremely self conscious and skittish to interact. Some nights I’ve spent the whole time alone out of nerves or lack of confidence to approach someone. I’ve honestly experienced both ends of this dynamic.
We go alone to search for new connections, yet aren’t always willing to initiate these interactions. Some people think it is useless to go alone, being that most of the crowd at gay bars are friend groups who don’t socialize outside their own. Others have told me I am brave for going out alone. I don’t always like that attribution, either. I consider it more simple than that. It’s not a heroic quest, it’s simply that I believe I am not going to have experiences unless I put myself out there.
My approach as a Free Agent is to first make a circuit of the bar. This accomplishes two objectives. I’ll see if anyone I know is in attendance and signal to the crowd that I am alone, a Free Agent for the night. If I spot a potential Free Agent. I mentally tag them, but don’t immediately approach them. Sometimes they are waiting for friends to arrive. I’ll bide time by doing another lap around the bar. Sometimes they are easy to spot. I’ve noticed others roaming around the bar like forgotten Roombas.
On this night, I noticed a cute Latino guy enter the bar alone. He is short, shaved head, simply dressed in a sleeveless shirt and shorts. After all, it’s the middle of an August heat wave in Saint Louis. I noticed him in passing and kept on my path through the rooms, intending to investigate later on.
When later arrived, I was standing in the doorway to the main bar, observing the crowd. He happened to be nearby and dancing alone. He was at least smart about it. Dancing alone often signals “attention whore” to me. But he wasn’t on the dance floor. He was more discreetly dancing next to the wall. The good thing about people dancing alone is that it creates an easy ice breaker.
I walked up to him and told him he is a good dancer. While not totally certain of the validity of my compliment, it’s all I know to say to someone dancing alone. What else is there, ask if they need medical attention? He thanked me and then grabbed my hand to lead me in his rhythm. He said I was good too. He asked me where my boyfriend is. I told him I’m single and asked him in return. He said, “In Miami.” I was perplexed. He was dancing with me and making some flirty movements and looks, yet he just told me he has a boyfriend. Maybe it’s an open relationship? He’s visiting town from Miami? I tried my best to not seem unfazed and continued the conversation. I asked his name. Here we’ll call him Havana, as he is originally from Cuba.
Soon, the remix of Taylor Swift’s Fortnight played and I sang along with it. He asked if I like her music. I said yes, anticipating a judgmental comment to follow. He surprised me with, “you’re a romantic!” I replied, “Yes, I would say so.”
When the song ended, he asked if I wanted to go to La Calle. The minimal Spanish I retained from college made me think he was asking to go out to the street. I was confused, but agreed because I wanted to see where this would go. Once on the street, I looked ahead and realized that La Calle is the Mexican bar/restaurant across the street. I had always been curious about it, but hadn’t been inside. He then took my hand and we hustled over to it.
Once inside it was all strobe lighting and Latin pop music, which sounded like club music, only in another language. The other interesting detail was that almost no one was sitting in chairs or standing still. Most everyone was on the dance floor. Including us. We immediately went to the dance floor and Havana led me in the steps again. The atmosphere was vibrant and welcoming. It was exhilarating to be a part of it! After a while I was solely focused on him and I dancing, as if no one else was in the room. It felt like I was on an adventure. The flirtatious moves continued, eventually leading to kissing. Intuition told me the aforementioned boyfriend didn’t exist. After dancing for a while, I got tired and told him I wanted to go back outside. I was tired, but also just needed to take time to process the night’s escalation.
Back outside, we sat to finally have a conversation and learn more about each other. He doesn’t have a boyfriend, but recently broke up with one in Miami before moving to Saint Louis. He originally grew up in Cuba, but loves America and its culture. He told me he really appreciated me going to La Calle. He could tell I wasn’t familiar with any of the music, but it meant a lot to him that I danced with him there. I assured him I had a lot of fun dancing with him too, regardless of knowing the language. We exchanged numbers. More kissing ensued. The whole night seemed serendipitous, almost cinematic in its development. Until his next gesture.
He mimed giving oral and asked if I would suck him. I was stunned, only saying. “what?” I then stated I was not ready for that right now and tried to politely laugh it off. He said, “let’s go.” and grabbed my hand and led me down the street. I hoped we were going back to Just John. We turned into a vacant grassy lot between buildings. There was a bench with someone sleeping on it. Suddenly, the Rom Com movie had shifted into Horror territory. I planted my feet where I was and said I wasn’t comfortable with the situation. His lame attempt at persuasion was to tell me, “it’s just a difference in cultures.” As if declining sex is exclusively American of me? I told him it was getting late and I needed to get an Uber home. I returned to the street and did just that.
For some reason, this cosmic feeling washed over me, one that still lingers, that it wasn’t the last time I would encounter him. Despite my definitively ending the night, maybe the movie isn’t over. Roll credits, please.
Photo courtesy of Just John
A Poet's Perspective 