I have never seen so much penis in my whole EN-tire life as I saw this Sunday night.
My cousin Rolfe came to visit me, in preparation for his move to Boston. We went to a baseball game, and on a harbor cruise, and drank gallons of beer with my friends. By Sunday night, however, he wanted to (and these are his words, now) be among his people, so we went to Avalon for Gay Night.
This was somewhat problematic because I don’t dance. Rolfe kept referring to the evening as a “good chance for you to practice your dancing”, whereupon I had to inform him that I can no more “practice” dancing than I can “practice” the harpsicord. I just don’t even have any idea of the basic principles involved. Also? Oh my goodness, I have never been in a club with so many men who did not care one bit about my cleavage. And many of them were not at all nice about it, either.
After the 9,000th shirtless muscley guy in slave bracelets bumped into me and then sneered as if to say, “how do you like that, fish stick?” I asked Rolfe what was up.
“The muscley ones,” I hissed, hiding behind him. “They really, really hate me.”
“Don’t mind them,” he said. “They’re just pissed that they spent all those hours at the gym trying to get straight guys to fuck them and they’d still all rather fuck you.”
“Can’t they just fuck each other?”
He smiled. “They’re all bottoms.”
“They are. It’s a thing.”
What really struck me as fascinating, though, was how many men there were running around in nothing but their underpants. Not boxers, either: these guys were wearing teensy tiny bikini briefs. One guy was wearing leopard-print spotted ones and kept pulling open his waistband to peer inside.
“Check out this guy,” I said to Rolfe. “What’s he doing? He keeps pulling open his underpants as if to say, ‘Hey, there, fella! I miss you up here! How’s it goin’?’ He looks almost fond of his penis. Like they’ve been through a lot and he’s sorry they don’t get to spend more quality time together anymore.”
“Nah,” Rolfe said. “He’s just checking to make sure that whatever he’s stuffed with isn’t going to fall out of the leg hole of his briefs and embarrass him in front of all the other go-go boys. By the way, these are the worst go-go boys I’ve ever seen in my life. Look at that one over there. He’s fat.”
Fat or no, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They weren’t even attractive. I was sort of repulsed. But their dicks or whatever they stuffed with — if you believe Rolfe — kept sort of flopping around. It’s just not the sort of thing I see everyday. After awhile, I started telling people about it, as an explanation for my unusual lack of chattiness.
“I’m really sorry,” I said to Rolfe, “It’s just that there’s so much penis in here.”
Eventually, Rolfe’s exboyfriend Matt arrived, and I told him about it.
“Hi, Matt,” I said. “I’m Rolfe’s cousin Jen. I’d really like to impress you with idle chatter, but I’m afraid there’s just too much penis in here. I don’t really think I can talk in front of all this penis. For instance, that guy over there seems to be wearing nothing but baby oil and some sort of wash cloth. Is he a slave boy? Is that a diaper? I don’t know. All I know is that there’s a lot of penis in here and it’s nice to meet you.”
“Is this your first time at a gay club?” Matt asked, looking sympathetic and only a little frightened.
“No. Nope. It’s just that there’s a lot of penis in here. I used to go to gay clubs when I was in college and trying to be a lesbian, but I have an aversion to touching vaginas other than my own, so that didn’t work out. I still like Ani DiFranco, though. Omigod, did you see that guy? I think I had that bathing suit when I was five.”
Finally, Rolfe and Matt just started steering me around by the elbows and not letting me talk to anyone. We had fun, actually. They made me dance. Even Rolfe had to admit that I looked like Elaine on Seinfeld, only, you know, not quite so comfortable with myself physically. Eventually, I stopped caring about the fact that everyone seemed to have forgotten their pants and that the muscle gays hated me, and I realized two great things about going to gay clubs: 1) no one, but no one, tried to touch me in any way, and 2) sometimes really good looking guys started making out with each other, like it was time to do that, or something. Oh, hey, lookit: 1:35 a.m. Time to make out with a hot guy. It was pretty interesting.
The experience on the whole was a positive one, and once I showered off the secondhand baby oil and smelled some coffee grounds to clear my sinuses of the all the Cool Water, I had to admit that I’d had fun.