Walking a Mile in Her Heels

I’ve been negligent in reporting my last three trips to the lesbian karaoke bar; allow me to catch you up.

Before she fled California, Kirsten joined me for a wild night. She boozed, I drove. I sang “Slide” by the Goo Goo Dolls and acquired a rabid fan, let’s call her Roxanne, who loved the song. Roxanne was cute, conversed with me, and even gave me free tickets to her concert. Just as I was thinking there might be some romantic potential, I noticed that she kept referencing the fact that we are “family.” At first, I believed Roxanne was making adorable references to our instant bond, but soon realized that when she said “family” she meant “gay community.” So she wasn’t hitting on me. I’m the dumb one, however, thinking there’s potential at the lesbian bar. Sigh…

Last week, a few of us returned to the bar only to be blocked by emergency vehicles. Two buildings away, a warehouse was severely on fire, and the firefighters actually were pumping water out of the bar to help put out the blaze. Due to the commotion and smoke inhalation, our group decided to cancel our plans. The following day, Laura ran into a regular at the bar and asked whether she stayed during the action. The patron made light of the fact that the firefighters were trying to flirt with the women at the bar, commenting “as if that’s going to happen.” Heh.

We rescheduled our outing for last night. When we arrived, an alert Phoebe noted a pair of men staring in our direction and “being obvious about it.” I paid no mind, figuring they were sleazy dudes gawking at the women folk in our party, an unfortunately common occurrence. Ten minutes later, Phoebe brought them to my attention again, insisting that, actually, they were clearly staring at me. “Oh please,” I dismissed. “How can you tell?”

At some point, I proceeded toward the bathroom and noticed that one of the men Phoebe pointed out got up immediately as I passed him and started following me. I avoided eye contact and walked briskly into the restroom, locking the door behind me. That was a good move, since within ten seconds he tried to open the door. I can’t imagine what he thought would come of entering the restroom with me, or rather I don’t want to imagine that anyway. After urinating, I exited to see the man waiting just outside. “Kevin,” he said, extending a hand for me to shake. I was self-conscious since my hand was still wet after washing them because there were no paper towels, plus I wanted to know how he learned my name, but was too afraid to ask. He introduced himself and called me a “cutie patootie.” Although I know Rosie O’Donnell uses the word as a term of endearment, it’s nauseating coming from a creepy stranger. As he compliments me a bit, I nod and thank him and try to back away. While I make my exit, he points out where he’s been sitting and encourages me to stop by and see him. He’s sitting with his friend, which he stresses as friend so that I know they’re not dating. Taken by surprise, “Ohhh… okay” was the only response I could muster.

Later, I noticed him talking to the bartender and pointing toward me. I slumped over in my seat, afraid he might be trying to buy me a drink. Half an hour passed, though, and no drink was delivered, so I decided I was letting the first incident go to my head. When I went to order my next drink from the bar, the bartender handed me a beverage and would not accept payment, instead informing me that this drink had already been paid for by the gentleman with the glasses. Gah! Simultaneously, another stranger spoke to me about how much ey liked my performance of Eagle Eye Cherry's "Save Tonight," which drew jealous stares from my drink benefactor. Feeling uncomfortable, I quickly ended that conversation so I could chat with Stacy at the bar briefly to devise a plan before having to face my gentlemen caller. I thought it might be funny to make a comment about how I was glad to see he was just friends with his buddy, because there seemed to be a lot of gay people here. While this was amusing, it was not practical. Instead, Stacy fed me some no nonsense lines to deter him and finally I felt confident. Sort of confident, anyway.

I approached him, thanked him for the drink, and told him I was already dating someone. He blatantly ignored the "dating" comment and explained that I'm a "cutie patootie" again (shudder) and tried chatting me up. Since he did buy my drink, I indulged him a bit, giving him my real occupation but a fake area of residence and background. When I informed him that I taught high school, he told me he wishes he were back in high school. “Really? I don’t,” I commented. “That way you could put me on suspension,” he said like a true pervert. Then, uninvited, he began rubbing my back. I'm not sure how I resisted the urge to vomit in his face. Thoroughly skeeved out, I hastily thanked him again and retreated as quickly as possible.

In the meantime, our group mingled with Roxanne, who I mentioned meeting a month prior. It quickly became clear that Roxanne had a crush on a female in our party. They even exchanged phone numbers, so that’s awesome. If I’m not going to date her, someone I know should. In other circumstances, I might be jealous, but love was already blooming for me with that gross man. Speaking of which, my friends tried to encourage me to be flattered by the whole thing, but I called him “ancient.” I estimated him to be 50, but Phoebe insisted he can’t be older than 40, as if that made it any more appealing.

Phoebe was also approached outside the bathroom by a regular patron. She invited her to come join them for weekly Monday bowling, and then specifically mentioned that Phoebe bring me, “that cute boy who sings”, too. It’s hard having an adoring public. Although I do like bowling or even “bowing” as the flyer advertises (obviously, curtseying is just a little too femme for these gals), I’m not about to abandon Margarita Mondays. Besides, I view my periodic trips to this bar as a hobby, not a lifestyle.

Just when I thought he had taken the hint, it was the man’s turn for karaoke and he dedicated his song to me. I wanted to crawl into a ball under the table, even more so once I recognized the song: "I Will Remember You" by Sarah McLachlan, which is sappy and wholly inappropriate. Please, don't remember me. Please. I made it a point to keep my back turned to him the entire time so as not to encourage this behavior. After the song, he came up and told me how shy he is (could have fooled me!) and embarrassed he did that. Then he slipped me his number and said he'd appreciate if I called him. Once he walked away, I gave the number to Stacy instead. We think it'd be really funny if she called and said, "Kevin's not interested, but I am!"

If nothing else, my interactions with this man have been a learning experience. Though many times I’ve been in the company of my female friends while they’ve been relentlessly hit upon and made to feel uncomfortable, I’ve never recognized how truly unnerving it is. Previously, I could neither relate nor understand. Like my girl friends, all I did was exist in a common space and did nothing to provoke the attention; I did not like being objectified and pestered. Now I can see why some of my friends feel so anxious each time they go out socially, knowing it is likely they’ll be harassed and attract unwanted attention and comments. I used to think it was unfair that women so easily had drinks purchased for them, but I don’t believe it’s worth the trade off anymore. If this were something I regularly had to endure, I would probably never go out. I have a new appreciation for my friends who have to put up with shit in an attempt for everyone to have a good time.

Oh, but we are going back for my birthday celebration next Wednesday evening. If you are my friend in real life, please join us. If a sketchy person approaches me again, I do maintain the right to make out with you to ward them off – you know, birthday privilege.