Exercise 13

We get into the club successfully. There was much debate outside as to how to pass off those of us who aren’t 21 as 21. Some of us thought that to look 21 meant to look slutty while the rest of us thought it meant to look sophisticated. It’s hard to look either of those in jeans and Chucks. Most of us have little make-up on, another heated debate. We couldn’t collectively decide if lesbians wear less make-up to show they are above trying to attract somebody by covering their faces or if we as newly out homos should wear more war paint to assert our femininity in this viscous battleground, Rain, only of only three gay clubs in town. At least those of us who are already 21 only had one look to decide on.

The club was small; perhaps those who built it figured there aren’t that many of us. We split up. Those under 21 head for straight for the bar while the rest of us assess our surroundings. The dance floor is small, way too small for this type of club. We’re gays, we need to dance. The DJ pounds out the classics: Mariah Carey’s Fantasy, Michael Jackson’s The Way You Make Me Feel, and the goddess of the gay male, aside from themselves, Cher. Before we can head to the porch, the crowd pushes us towards the left corner of the club. They are waiting. We, not completely sure of the traditions of this club or the rituals of our people, wait too.

The rest of our group joins us, drinks in hands.

“What are we waiting for?” Meredith asks.

“We don’t know,” we say.

“Is that a stripper pole?” Jill points out.

We look to where she’s pointing, and it is indeed a stripper pole surrounded by a cage.

The DJ comes on over the speakers. “Ladies, butches, and queens, welcome to Rain’s Sunday night amateur strip night! Think you got the balls? Think you got the moves? Think you got those Calvin Klein’s tight enough? First prize is 100 bucks!”

We look at each other, trying to hide the blood rushing to our cheeks. The first contestant gets up on the small stage and after sliding down the pole, he begins to clumsily take off his white t-shirt and jeans. There are scattered cheers from the crowd until he is only in his underwear.

“Well, if I ever needed proof I’m gay,” Jill says.

We laugh in agreement.

“I’m going up there,” Meredith says, downing the rest of her drink.

“You can’t go up there,” we tell her, half hopeful she’ll ignore us.

“If I win, drinks on me,” she shouts back as she walks up to give the DJ her name.

Justin Timberlake comes through the speakers and Meredith walks confidently to the pole.
We send out our catcalls and whistles, watching her slide out of her shirt as Justin claims to bring sexy back. The rest of the crowd joins us. We forget the 100 bucks, thinking only that we, too our up on that stripper pole, naked for everybody to see.