My countdown to our group rainbow parade through Paris is getting smaller and smaller and I am getting more and more excited to take the French by storm.
Currently I have one friend making me a list of acceptable gay clubs to frequent while Kyle and Brian plan ahead on what I’ll be wearing to such an event.
I have another friend who is joining us and it’s her job to handle the flask situation and decide if she’s bringing her famous red slut dress and white pumps. Sounds completely appropriate and I will be jealous if I don’t get to wear something similar.
Oh. I should note this is only for the gay *events we do in Paris. The rest of the time I hope we look as put together as the rest of the French, which I think means black skinny jeans and a scarf. So.
Today I was going to write about how I’m going to turn this four day glitter event into my own personal hunt for the perfect croque monsieur but I can write about that tomorrow because the minute I typed something about a gay club in Paris I remembered the time I ended up topless in a gay club drinking free gin and that is a much better story.
It was DC, probably 2005 or 2006. I don’t quite remember but it was during The Trainwreck Years so I’ll bet it was summer of 2006. I was over my friend’s house in some transitional neighborhood on U, right near Cafe Saint-Ex, and we were casually binging on who knows what drink, most likely smoking and watching neighbors from her concrete stoop. I remember she roped me into going with her to meet a friend at a bar who was apparently mending a very severely broken heart and it was our duty that evening to cheer him up. She did not tell me Mr. Heartbroken loved penis and in turn, we would be going on the hunt for new penis at a bar filled with an abundance of hot penis, all of which wanted nothing to do with my vagina. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We met Mr. Heartbroken on the corner and headed to the bar, a bar called Green Lantern, which everyone apparently knew about but me. As we stood in line, I remember assuming it must be quite popular because the line was long, the music was loud and I could feel the steam coming out the doors. As we approached the bouncer collecting money, I realized that
1. We were at a male gay bar.
2. No one was wearing a shirt. No one. I looked up two floors and a hundred yards back and nope, not a damned shirt in sight.
We made it to the front of the line.
“That’ll be $5 each and you’re not getting in with your shirts.” I think I saw a flyer that said something about topless Thursday.
“Shirts off?” We stood there while a sea of sweaty men stared at us like we were filthy shirt wearing trolls. We were having a summer filled with booze and bad decisions and more booze and I would not be outdone by a bunch of insanely pretty and topless boys. Especially when they were giving me the GRRRRRRL, GET IN THERE OR GET OUT OF MY WAY, look.
Off went the shirts. How liberating yet awful the minute I realized I was wearing one of my least flattering bras. WELL NO ONE TOLD ME I’D BE IN ONLY A BRA ALL NIGHT. We did our best to slink past all the cock loving, judgy stares.
“They’ll either love you or hate you and no in-between,” the heartbroken one offered flatly. He wasn’t kidding. One minute I’d get brush of the tit and a, “oooh, girl, good for you” with an approving look of my rack and then I’d look up again and two twinks would be giving me the evil eye and hissing at me. As in REAL HISSING.
We made it to the very back, to the second bar where the bartender was delectable and underwear hung from the ceiling. After perching ourselves on the high-top cocktail table in the corner, we proudly sat up straight to avoid inner-tube jean gut, tossed our hair around and ordered lots of gin. I am magic on gin. I am pretty on gin and goddamnit, that night I would be titalicious on gin.
Except I was getting really drunk due to my excessive excitement due to all my new gay friends that kept swinging by to touch real boobs. I don’t know. Something about all sorts of yummy men swinging by to poke my boobs and ask about them was just fantastic. Between that and watching all the filthy sexy things going on everywhere, it was best I kept up with the gin.
And then I was made an offer.
“Hey, bra off for the rest of happy hour and you and your friend drink free.” Well, well, the yummy bartender with the pretty abs was making deals now, was he? I never turn down good deal.
“Can I touch you?” I asked him, as though that might sweeten the deal. I can’t remember if I inappropriately stroked his chest in a pushy manner or not but I’ll guess yes and just assume he was used to it.
“I won’t do it. You do it. It’s free gin.” My friend was (slightly) a bit more reserved than say I was but not more sober. Either way, I was thrilled for the offer of free gin and so off came the bra. I rationalized that I was not only saving money but my bra was ugly anyway and no one, and I mean NO ONE, was looking at my boobs and then wondering how many more gins it would take my pants off, which I’ll admit was slightly disappointing, especially since gin gets me all DANCE OFF PANTS OFF.
With one quick and secret pinch of both nipples, I slammed back more gin and proudly sat in my high-top chair, giggling with my new set of penis loving friends, avoiding eye contact with my friend that had the only other vagina in the building and thinking, Yep. This topless shit is where it’s at.
Wait, what? Like you wouldn’t force a hard nipple situation if you knew a bunch of people were looking. No one likes soft nipples. No one. Except maybe milk sucking babies and to be honest, I don’t even know what the rule is about that.
God, I miss DC sometimes.
*I have no idea what a gay event is.
**Check out Green Lantern if you don’t believe me about topless Thursday. It’s not just MY idea of fun. They made it up first.