When I was younger, I thought there would be nothing better than if I could one day live above a bar. I would walk down there in my slippers and a bathrobe for a quick nip. I could tell women I met there that I literally lived upstairs. And if I got too wasted and passed out on the bar, my kindly bartender friend would excuse himself for a minute and fireman carry me upstairs to tuck me in.
I currently live above a bar. And despite the sandwich-board advertised obscenely cheap drinks and quite raucous atmosphere, I’ve never been inside once. You see, I live above a gay bar.
Look, I obviously have no problem with gays or gay bars, in fact, one can quite accidentally wander into gay bars in NYC, missing the tiny rainbow decal on the front window, and find themselves drinking there and enjoying themselves for quite awhile before noticing that the clientele is 100% fabulous men save a fat fag hag or two. But this gay bar I live above is flamboyant gay. More like Elton John than Lance Bass. Blowjob-in-a-dark corner gay.
I sit in my bedroom drinking a bottle of Schell FireBrick as I prepare to go out. A hearty pour with a foamy head. Decent smell with a bit of skunk to it. A pretty good taste, an all matl Vienna-style lager, like a slightly worse Negra Modelo. I’ve been impressed with Schell’s offerings so far. My room abuts the bar’s patio and its already starting to get rowdy down there. I’m guessing they ain’t watching the South Florida/FIU game.
When I return tonight I will be greeted outside the bar stretching to in front of my building’s stoop by a herd of transvestites and transsexuals smoking Virginia Slims and cat-calling all the straight men that pass, trying to solicit them. Even though I know the score, returning drunk at 3 AM I will always see one of those gender-reassigned, DD-siliconed, shaved-down Adam’s apple, flowing blond hair extensions “women” from afar and think, “Goddamn, who is that piece of ass in front of my building?!,” getting closer only to realize it’s clearly a former man.
However, most of the bar patrons hanging out front are John Waters’s Divine-style drag queens. Personal performance artists not even trying to pretend they are female. 6′5″ with green wigs, stuffed to the gills bustiers, and sequined gowns. I’ve started to know some of the regulars. Nice gals and boy are they funny. On occasion I’ll even find myself chatting with the trannies late at night, only waking the next morning hungover thinking, “Why the fuck did I talk to ‘Jasmine’ for fifteen minutes last night?! What were we discussing?!” I wonder if these drag queens think I’ll fuck them one day. God I hope not.