Being a reasonably fit, attractive, and ambiguously straight man, I’ve long assumed that I held a certain power over gay men looking to convert me — like a kind of gay kryptonite. I imagine myself the male version of that attractive girl friend who does all the things the boys do — booze, ballgames, and talking shit — but who never lets guy friends in her pants. So, it was with a certain amount of arrogance that I pranced over to Czar this Saturday to the after party for CLIP (Tampa’s gay and lesbian Film Festival) only to be turned away because I was not on the guest list. I blamed this on Kelly and her lack of a penis.
To be fair, my name is rarely on the guest list at events I’m scheduled to work. I probably said something like, “let me have my people call your people.” The doorman gave me a courteous smile before popping inside to get his boss.
I tried to maintain my cool by fluffing my hair and ignoring a guy in line who was carrying on like a drunken sorority girl; he was stumbling in his heeled shoes while calling his friends bitch and yelling about how hot he was.
A well dressed man named Rob, with a head gleaming brighter than Mr. Clean’s, came out with a firm smile. “So you want to get in for free,” he said. “What are you prepared to do for me?”
I was taken aback, wondering if I was expected to give some secret gay handshake. I cursed myself for forgetting to transfer my emergency latex gloves to my wallet before the event.
“I’m just fucking with you,” Rob said, putting a hand on my shoulder and ushering us in.
I had the feeling that he would have let anyone in for free so long as he got to humiliate them a little.
Inside, an obligatory shirtless bouncer was doing dips on the guard rail and literally bouncing in place to the pounding bass. Hordes of well-dressed, muscled and manicured men with gelled hair, pressed shirts and designer t-shirts filled the three rooms of Czar. We followed the intoxicating scent of lotion and cologne into the second room. The female impersonator, Circuit Mom, was on stage, lip synching to Madonna songs while dressed in Marilyn Monroe’s pink dress and jewels from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
The third room looked more stereotypically gay than any Hollywood portrayal I’ve ever seen. Industrial cat walks hung over the dance floor as electro-charged diva dance music pumped in time with the lights and a disco ball moved fast enough to induce an artificial cocaine high.
“There’s a man peeing in the girl’s bathroom,” Kelly said after meeting me in the mix.
“There weren’t any guys in the men’s bathroom," I said. "I was a bit disappointed that no one propositioned me for sex. I even stood with a wide stance and started tapping my feet sporadically.”
Kelly initiated a conversation with some middle aged men who had much more sexually active minds than their straight counterparts. I started to feel better about myself when one struck up a conversation with me, but he quickly began making fun of me for being straight. How did he know? He kept talking about how he was Polish like it was a secret password I wasn’t picking up on. He asked if I had ever seen a Polish guy naked. Being part Polish myself, I tried to remember if there was anything interesting about my naked body. Was he trying to bait me into some sort of polish sausage reference? I never figured it out.
I was beginning to wonder if I was wearing some sort of sign that screamed, “Straight.” Perhaps my shirt wasn’t tight enough or my shoes didn’t look like spacemen’s running shoes. Maybe it was my choice of Bud Light to help loosen my nerves while everyone else was drinking cocktails. Didn’t they know that at Czar, Bud Light was a fancy man’s drink? How else could they charge $4 a pop for it?
I couldn’t keep my mind from the inevitable: I wasn’t pretty enough to pass for gay anymore. I felt like the fat friend at prom in a sea-foam dress. I would normally blame Kelly for blowing my cover, but she and her outrageous hair were talking to more guys than I was. Kelly told me that maybe the guys were intimidated, but I knew she was just being nice. I had never seen a higher concentration of attractive men in one place. One of the guys even told me I had great hair, but this was probably the equivalent of a straight man telling a girl she has a great personality.
“Maybe you should learn to talk to people as people,” Kelly suggested.
I considered this. “That’s not happening.”
In my opinion, sex was the basis of every conversation. If guys were not talking to me, it was because I wasn’t appealing.
Reverting to my old tricks, I stopped one guy with leather suspenders over a superhero shirt and asked if I could take his photo for Creative Loafing.
“Sure,” he said before promptly removing his shirt.
Having seen these shenanigans, another guy named Michael tapped my shoulder and asked how he could get his picture taken. At first I assumed he wanted me to introduce him to the shirtless guy, but then I asked him where he would like me to take the picture.
“Anywhere. On the floor, on the wall, on my bed…”
I smiled. Was he flirting with me, or did he talk like this to everyone? I took a few shots of Michael and his group of relaxed friends who jokingly posed for the pictures before they left for the rowdier rooms. I took my place leaning on the wall with a neglected lesbian sipping a Bud Light.
“Alfie,” I heard as I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Michael. “Are you gay?” he asked.
I couldn’t stop myself from blushing. “No,” I said. “Not tonight.”
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This article appears in Oct 15-21, 2008.