London Pride

Soho, London

A week ago yesterday I went to London on a business trip. It was a particularly interesting and successful trip for me professionally, and a rather disastrous one emotionally.

I wasn't looking my best on the trip. It had been tiring preparing to leave work for a few days, and I hadn't had time to get a haircut before I left. Also I was up near my maximum weight (I hope that's my maximum weight!) and I had a stubborn, eerily glowing zit on my right cheek that I could minimize with makeup from head on, but from any other angle became an alp of a pustule.

Still, I had gotten my laundry and dry cleaning done (it was down to laundry or haircut on the last day before I left and fresh underwear won out) so at least I was dressed well for my business meetings.

Unfortunately, I should have stayed dressed in my slacks and blazer when I left my boss at the hotel in the evenings and went out to the London gay bars alone. The men were outfitted almost formally in the bars in Soho, all smoking cigarettes in fitted jackets and skinny trousers. They appeared quite stylish, really, and I felt shlumpy in the gray cable-knit sweater and jeans combo I was wearing. It had looked cute in the hotel mirror, my outfit, and would have been cute in a dark East Village bar, but with my overgrown bowl cut and zit and sweater draping badly over my stomach, I looked like an aging, derelict Beatles fanatic with something to hide.

That was Thursday night and I was horny but stood around awkwardly in a bar called Rupert Street, where none of my conversational gambits were met with any interest, and then I moved on to a place called Barcode, which was more of a rougher, older, craggier crowd. I was cuter there, but not interested in the only attention I got, which was from a beefy Brazilian with a weirdly thick neck who kept grabbing his crotch to show me how big his dick was. (It was probably quite big, given the lump his grab formed.) He gave me the heebies, especially after he clutched my neck with his fat grip. I hate when guys seize my neck in that possessive, dominant way. I become immediately mean when a guy makes that move and I shrug and twist to escape. He finally got the hint and left me alone, muttering in annoyance, "I hope you find what you're looking for." Which instantly made me want to succumb to my horny desperation and take him back to my hotel, but I stayed strong and picked what was behind Curtain #3.

I moved on to a club called The Shadow Lounge, which was a small, upscale club with a mid-80s VIP vibe. The guys were sleek and sexy there, and I was happy to be in that club, even after the bartender gave me attitude and I slunk into a skinny corner between a curtain and a full-length mirror to lurk there and glare out on the dance floor.

Eventually, after about an hour of standing alone, a hot, slightly older, Libran, American lawyer found me and hung out, along with his chunky Leo friend. The Libra dude was wearing a maroon t-shirt that accentuated his pecs and flat stomach. He was quite friendly and was having a good night, with guys hitting on him every few minutes. It was fun, being part of that small circle, chatting up the guys he lured in and scaring away the riffraff. When he offered me a small bag of something-something and told me to bring it to the loo, I took it and headed straight there.

In the men's room, an Asian-ish guy was queued up in front of me for the stalls, and when he leaned over to the mirror and started messing with his goatee, I asked, "Are you braiding that?"

twists and turns

"Are you braiding that?" he mimicked back, rather expertly imitating my nasal New York accent.

I laughed and he explained that he was indeed braiding his goatee, but that in the UK they called it plaiting. Also he told me that he was half English and half Hawaiian before two stalls opened up and we separated into them.

After peeing, I did a quick bump off the side of my hand and immediately felt rushy and queasy -- that shit was strong, especially on top of the five Southern Comforts and ginger ale I'd already imbibed. Whoo. I made my way back to the Libra and Leo and returned the baggie with my gratitude.

The something-something made me hornier, and I asked the Libra if he wanted to come back to my hotel with me. He seemed alarmed at my question, and demurred, saying that he had to get up early for work the next day.

We hung out a while longer, and it was fun, but not the same. Some nights you can just tell that the gods of sex are not smiling down on you and any inroads I made without their blessing would be unsatisfying, icky, and even dangerous.

So when I'd come down a bit, I took a taxi back to the hotel and did my best to sleep before my meetings on Friday morning.

After another honestly fascinating day working on Friday, I napped at the hotel, and then went out to a lovely restaurant with my boss, and the president of the UK company and his sister, the company's creative director. I had a glass of tart Riesling with dinner. The food was spectacular -- a ham and foie gras terrine for a delectable appetizer, followed by a succulent and airy slice of halibut, and finished with coconut tiramisu for dessert. The conversation was entirely adult and professional, but congenial, and I felt smart and lucky afterward.

At the restaurant, I'd been wearing a dark blue shirt and dark purple slacks with a black corduroy blazer that has a rich tone and a fine, soft weave. I looked neat, I knew, put-together, but I'd been wearing that outfit all day and when I got back to the hotel I decided to change before going out. After trying on a few outfits, I decided on jeans and a blue t-shirt and a green leather jacket. My hair and zit were still stupid, but I thought I looked passable in the getup, maybe even a little tough-looking. The open sides of the jacket hid my stomach, I conjectured, although they probably didn't.

It took me a while to find a taxi, it being Friday night and all, but finally I flagged one down. I got a little drowsy during the slow trip into Soho, and was a little shocked that the meter had rung up nearly fifteen pounds (almost $30!) by the time I arrived at a club called G-A-Y.

whatever, Mary

I got on line outside G-A-Y and was pleased when an Asian kid in front of me handed me a free pass. He and his two girlfriends slipped past the velvet rope when we reached the entrance, but then the woman at the door latched the rope in front of me. I nodded at her, figuring that she had to pause for a bit to let the crowd thin out.

"Have you been drinking, sir?" she asked me. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

"Nothing," I replied, looking her in the eyes. I figured the glass of wine with dinner two hours ago didn't really count.

"You appear to be intoxicated, sir," the woman said. "Are you sure you haven't been drinking?"

"No," I answered, feeling awkward now. "I'm not drunk. Really."

She gestured to a male bouncer nearby and he beckoned me over. "Had too much to drink tonight, sir?" he asked me.

"No," I said. "Really."

It is very difficult to look completely sober even when you are completely sober. What posture and expression do you strike to signal a total lack of inebriation?

"I can't let you in," he said. "You're intoxicated. Go get a coffee and come back in an hour."

"I'm not drunk," I said again. "An hour?"

"If you're not intoxicated, sir," the bouncer replied, "you won't mind waiting an hour, now, will you? Go get a coffee and come back in an hour."

Then I was back out of the velvet ropes and on the sidewalk, completely bewildered about what had just happened.

I stood on the sidewalk, watching other groups of kids -- Indian or Pakistani kids, mostly, a party of one gay guy and three pretty girls, all dressed in sparkly clubwear -- standing nearby feeling sad because they hadn't been allowed inside, either. They weren't drunk.

The bouncers had known I wasn't intoxicated.

They just hadn't wanted me to go inside.

I wandered down a side street deeper into Soho, planning to hit another gay bar, but as I circled the maze of blocks, I started to feel more and more insulted and couldn't stop fretting about being bounced.

It was because I was too old. Too fat. With bad hair. And a zit. What was I doing, trying to get into a London gay club with the cool kids? I'm too dumpy for that. I should have insisted to the bouncer that I wasn't intoxicated, but I didn't want to sound crazy or pushy. I should have said that I wasn't drunk, I was bewildered by London. Didn't he realize I was an American? I should have mentioned that I paid fifteen pounds to get to the club. Wasn't my leather jacket cool enough? Maybe it made me look like too much of a roughneck. That was ridiculous. A portly, middle-aged, mop-topped roughneck? No wonder they bounced me. I should have been able to explain that I was not pickled. Somehow, there must be a way.

About fifteen minutes later, I had circled back to the velvet rope and I went up to the bouncer, ready to talk my way in.

"I know it hasn't been an hour yet . . ." I began, stupidly reminding him immediately of disobeying his requirement.

"That's it, man," he said. "Go get a coffee and come back in an hour."

"I'm not drunk," I said.

I wanted to ask for clarification about whether he meant an hour from now or an hour from when he had first told me to get a coffee, but he didn't care and he turned away to give somebody else a hard time.

I didn't know what to do. Going to the G-A-Y Club had been my only plan for the evening -- I didn't want to return to any of the places I'd been to the night before. I'd taken a fifteen-pound taxi ride to get there! It had been so long since I'd been barred from a nightclub, I didn't know how to react. No . . . I'd never been denied entry from a nightclub before! This was the first time.

Not having any other agenda but definitely not wanting to go back to the hotel yet, I went back into the warren of Soho and ended up in a dingy, sad bar called The Village, which was obviously past its prime.

Like me.

Come back to my hotel, Solo?

I got another drink, with more attitude from the bartender -- even there, in Loserville -- and I wandered the four floors trying to find a good place to stand and survey the scene. I hovered near some skinny European guys, but they were too young and cute and I was a vile blob of revolting repulsion by that point. I tried not to stare at a ogreish fat man who stood alone on the opposite side of the pack. He had manboobs that quivered nervously beneath his too-tight polo shirt, with depressions in the cloth for his silver-dollar-sized inverted aureole. When he met my stare, and his mouth twitched as though it was working up into a desperate smile, I looked away, tense with my own sense of my tier within the lame bar. New York is similarly leveled in gay culture, but I know my strata there and I know where to go so that I don't feel out of place. It was actually a relief when the lights came on about an hour later and I hit the streets in search of a taxi to take me back to the hotel.

The next morning, after enduring endless suspicious security queues in Heathrow, I flew back to New York.

As soon as I got back to my apartment, I changed clothes and ran to my neighborhood barber for a haircut. It was a vast improvement.

My trip to London?

Professionally it couldn't have gone better. I'm proud of myself for how I've been excelling at my job.

Romantically it was awful. I'm tired of putting my body, my face, my heart out there in the bitter scene. It makes me feel vulnerable and it hurts and I'm entering an era of severely diminishing returns. My pride suffers terribly.

I can't do it anymore.

I can't keep up.

I want my husband to show up now so I can slow down and get fat in fancy restaurants with him and concentrate on settling down and shining in my careers. No more appearing intoxicated alone outside London nightclubs, wondering what's so horribly wrong with me.

I want the reassurance of a relationship.

Will someone tell him I'm here waiting, please?