You seldom find me in an LGBT bar since, with a few exceptions, the atmosphere is less than welcoming to senior men and women. These places were once our secret/special areas where we could be ourselves, find friends and lovers, dance together (if the police had been paid off) and escape the hate-filled outsiders. Now, however, they are playing host to a growing number of non-community members. In the past this was a long-sought situation meant to foster equality and friendship (Kumbaya. Kumbaya).
Sadly, to me, it is not as idyllic as I had envisioned. Something is missing: that something special about being special which we used to experience once we entered these, our sanctuaries. I felt a difference last Sunday as I passed the local lesbian favorite. True, the variety of customers was having a ball: great, and maybe I’m wrong, but during the evening a lot of the women might have liked a bit more privacy to engage in some old fashioned cruising, cuddling and general carrying on without the feeling of being stared at or commented on by the “straights” (Can we say that now?).
I wish we could have both. That is, there be a section/room/alcove where the non-LGBTers would subtly get the message they should stay in the other areas. Barring them might be a problem, so how can that be done? The same way it is done by the door/guard person when we seniors first arrive at some “family” establishments (Surprised? It has never happened to you? Wait!). Even if the millennials don’t care, this senior’s position is, while favoring mixing things up in the main bar areas, there should be a place for those who want more privacy, too.
‘The one’ is staring at me!
Reading an old diary entry reminded me of the thrill of catching that perfect someone’s eye across a crowded room. No matter what team you are on, your legs get weak as you wonder if the stare meant something. Keeping cool, you saunter over and position yourself nearby. “The one” moves closer and gazes intently at the wallpaper decoration. Nobody says anything. You stand your ground, sip your drink and join in the wallpaper appreciation. Nothing.
They drop a handkerchief. How old fashioned; you let it lay there and some bitch walking by picks it up, hands it back and silently moves on. Good riddance. You adjust your shirt, socks, belt and hair as the dramatic pause fast loses its charm. “Hurry up,” you say to yourself, “I can’t stand here much longer. People will notice.”
Changing tactics, you casually cross to the water fountain. They follow right behind you. Not to be rude and block the fountain, you drink quickly and, hovering a foot away, strike your sexiest, come-hither pose. The fascination of the fountain spurt has now replaced the wallpaper.
You cough slightly and hear an echo. All this shyness is becoming a turnoff. Unsettling thoughts begin to creep in, “Maybe I misunderstood those glances; there may even be an eye problem. The hair color is a little suspicious, nose also and those blue eyes have to be contacts. On closer inspection, the weight is more than I should date as is the age. Good heavens, was that a limp? Lucky I spotted these flaws before I made a fool of myself.”
It’s the usual story: there is always something wrong with them. You’re tired of saving yourself for “the one,” but what else can you do?
