Zack's Ramblings: When Straight Girls Attack
Note: I do not have fag hags. This doesn’t mean that some of my best friendships aren’t with straight girls. Rather, I see a clear distinction between loving, mutually beneficial platonic relationships and the kind of situation where some curious lady wants to hear if I top or bottom and treats going to gay bars like a monthly urban safari designed specifically for them. Elizabeth, Abi, Casey, so many others: You’re the best friends a guy could ask for. This isn’t for you.
Three nights ago I was walking down DC’s U Street, the east end of which holds several gay bars, with a couple male friends of mine. Granted many of us were wearing tank tops but I don’t think that precludes kind, humane treatment. Some girls who I don’t think were lesbians were stalled drunkenly at the alley next to Nellies, checking their phones and twiddling their Mardi Gras necklaces, when one decided to annoy the everloving crap out of me. ARE YOU GUYS GOING TO NELLIES? She screamed, in a volume usually reserved for running alongside the train taking your loved one to the Korean War. I mumbled back that no, I was going to Town, a megaclub down the street. YOU’RE SO CRAZY!!!!! she screamed back, as if singing “What a Man” to a deaf person.
I hate when people say “you’re so crazy.” In my experience it is what boring people say when they find out that I have seemingly innocuous personality quirks that they can’t process. I collect belt buckles? Sometimes I go to the zoo by myself to relax? You’re so crazy! In this case, though, I think she making the same mistake that so many annoying straight girls do: That all gay men are fundamentally entertaining creatures who are strange enough, exotic enough, to warrant ostensibly benevolent intrusion into our mating rituals.
I strongly suspect these girls were taking part in one of the many bachelorette parties that wind their way though Nellies’ highly-cologned interior. I don’t find these to be irritating, per se, as many of these girls have the tact to keep their hands and never-ending questions to themselves. But I know this: Gay men are not curiosities and our bars are not carnivals. Bachelorette parties seem to be based in going to the most outrageous places and doing over the top things. Skydiving? That works. Jello Shots at Game Keepers? Ok, I won’t stop you. But there are probably hundreds, if not actually thousands, of bars in the Washington metropolitan area and I don’t see what makes mine so damn compelling.
Are you there to ogle the gorgeous, unattainable men? There are gorgeous straight guys, and my guess is that obnoxious bachelorette behaviour would make any of them reasonably out of your league. Do you want to flirt or make out with fags? Then get a Republican boyfriend and wait three years. Do you wanna get a drink and just enjoy yourself at a fun bar? Then awesome, sit down next to me and I’ll get the first round. But straight girls, please, remember that I’m a person first, sodomite later.
I don’t know if your ex-boyfriends’ predilection for pastels and anal means he’s gay. I don’t want to answer your speculative questions about Little Richard’s orientation. I don’t like when you say that “I’m one of the good ones” and CERTAINLY do not want you cornering me for 45 minutes to talk about why gay guys are so much cuter while hovering your gaping, lipsticked maw near my ear and erotically whispering that you’re a good kisser.
If I sound snippy here it’s because I’m trying to disguise my genuine hurt. One thing I value enormously is the privilege of not explaining my sexuality all the time when I’m out on the town. I’ll tell you where I’m from or how I met my boyfriend, or gripe about the many small injustices that make up the average queer day. But I won’t speak for everyone and I won’t let you ruin my night.
Honestly, ladies, I would appreciate it the most if you took your bachelorette parties and inappropriate, prying queries elsewhere. You’re taking up valuable space that could be used for my straight girl friends who treat me not like one of Jane Goodall’s gorillas, but like a friend.
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