Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Straight Hell

A few nights back, The BF and I joined some straight friends at a bar called Belly's. Maybe I am just really out of touch with my straight roots, or perhaps I am just having trouble recalling what it was to be young and desperately trying to fit in (The BF will attest to the recent death of what used to be my memory).

I am not sure if it was just that bar, or the time of night we hit it (about 11:45 on a Saturday night), but as I remarked to The BF while standing inside, "If I was straight and this was among my options - I would kill myself."

First of all, the music was blaring at 85 decibels. We tried standing in a few different locations around the bar, but to no avail. Any conversations we had resulted in shouting matches. The music playing in the bar was all hip-hop, which is strange because Belly's might very well be the whitest bar in Chicago. And after watching drunk, ex-frat boys bumping and grinding to Snoop and Yung Joc, it's easy to see why the Middle East hates us. I was ready to bomb the bar myself. Even the straight people we were with seemed agitated by the noise. So we moved from the back of the bar to the front of the bar by the open windows.

Speaking of which, ex-frat guys were hanging out of the front window yelling at women who pass by. So I ask, does that really work? Do men really meet women that way? Do women respond to that? They must, or men would have stopped doing it by now.
"I met your grandfather one night as I was walking with my friends past a bar
called Last Chance At Love, and he yelled out the window that he had a pony he bet I could ride like no one else. And since Grandma loves horses ... well, it was love."
And there was more man-on-man canoodling (that's right, I said canoodling) than I have ever seen at Sidetrack (look at the pics again); guys with an arm around another guy's shoulder in the guise of the "this is my best bud" stance (apparently it's cool as long as you both are holding a beer in the other hand). Guys, just blow each other in the men's room and get it over with. Around the neck, across the shoulders, around the waist - it's all called hugging, boys.

Another thing, and I know this is a stark generalization, but every woman in the bar looked alike. It was like stepping into the Ape House at Lincoln Park Zoo. There was zero individuality: same hairstyle, same tight jeans, same top, same purse. Everyone had different shoes - perhaps that's how you tell them apart. Of course, I'm just guessing.

Perhaps I am just used to how it all goes down in a gay bar, even though I don't go to them very often anymore. Belly's wasn't even fun. And it's not like I would be out there looking for a hookup or anything - you know I got mine - but it just seemed like a party in the basement of someone's house rather than a bar or nightclub.

After all, gays just do it better.