Where My Ladies At?

6 Jun

“What is this?”

“A Jagerito.”

“A what?”

“A Jagerito.”

“What’s a Jagerito?”

“Mojito with jager and apple.”

“Umm…okay.  We’ll take two?”

Five long minutes of hardcore drink preparation and thirty euro later, Elyse and I walked away from the bar with new drinks and the remnants of the only conversation to be had with a straight man for the remainder of the evening.  To be honest, I don’t even know if he was straight, and considering my gaydar has been completely out of whack in this confusion pit known as Europe, it’s very well likely that he was not.  But he just seemed straight, and when you’re standing in a crowded room with gay men mingling and gyrating and shaking what their mothers’ gave them, you can (kind of) tell when someone just doesn’t quite seem to fit the mold.

I have always wanted to experience a gay nightclub.  What’s not to love about dancing the night away with fashionable, fabulous men who know how to move and don’t try to creepily hit on you?  So when Elyse pitched the idea of making an appearance at the Gay Pride Parade After-Party, I was in like Tom Cruise in a closet.  I figured I wouldn’t have a care in the world except having fun, since nobody there would be, or could be, anything special.  I was off the hook.  I didn’t have to worry about impressing anyone, saying the right things, or all those other dating game shenanigans.  Unlike some girls, I’m not into the metro men, and this night would be full of guys who weren’t my type, and a club filled with people who definitely didn’t think I was the right type either.

Turns out, I did have a worry or two.  Yes, I did have fun, and yes, I danced in the center of the floor like it was nobody’s business.  But that whole crap I invented about not having to impress anyone?  Complete and utter bullshit.  As a girl, one who was in a sorority no less, I clearly should have remembered that we women don’t dress to impress men, but rather other women.  So naturally, dressing to impress gay men would be ten times more difficult, and more necessary.  I spent time carefully crafting my outfit, my accessories, my hair, my makeup.  What I could forego in witty banter and sex appeal, I had to make up for in fabulosity.  Unlike every other run-of-the-mill dude, these gentlemen knew their labels and knew their looks, and I needed their Queer Eye approval.  As I shimmied away to Ke$ha and Lady Gaga (I was pulling for some classic Whitney, but to no avail), I was more aware than ever of how I looked.  Was I a good dancer?  Does my hair look ok?  How about my outfit?  Are my heels tall enough?  Am I worthy of a gold star of approval by these fine young (and old) lads?  And I thought getting the attention of men I actually wanted to date was overwhelming.

My hard work and attention to detail paid off.  A marvelous man tested my and Elyse’s moves, then deemed us worthy of their circle.  We had made the cut, and cracked the code for getting in with the outed.  Turns out, the Greek gay clubbing world is just like the student body in the movie Never Been Kissed – you get one person to think you’re cool, and you’re in.

Another thing I had all wrong?  As this was technically an LGBT event, I was nervous I’d get hit on by a woman.  But remember what I said about the (potentially) straight bartender?  It didn’t take long to realize that, as Elyse and I were the only women in mini-dresses and stilettos with makeup and jewelry galore, and the only women who knew every lyric of the top pop songs, we were clearly associated as having more in common with the men at the club than the women.

And so we celebrated liberation and danced the night away.  Liberation from social norms?  Wave your hands, honey.  Liberation from society’s ideas about right and wrong?  Shake that ass.  Liberation from having guys grab and grope and try to dance their way into your pants with the moves they don’t have?  Do a twirl, girl.  Liberation from paying for overpriced cocktails?  Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  While they were good, those Jageritos cost 15 euro a pop, and with boobs and a menstrual cycle, don’t think anyone’s dishing out cash to get you drunk.  But hey, if 15 euro is the price I have to pay to feel fabulous, learn a few new dance moves, and get a better workout than I’ve had in months, then take my money and get me another cocktail.


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