Pugfaced Lesbians, Quizzo and Vagina Flavored Ice Cream

May 23, 2007

I just got back from Gay Quizzo night.

I’ll explain.

A few months ago, Matt and I were scouring Google for a Tuesday night
quizzo bar, when we came across Valanni.  Like us, it didn’t get
started until late, so we hopped in my car and drove into the city…
straight to 13th and Spruce.

Believe it or not… we both had the nerve to be shocked when we learned that it was a gay bar.

To be fair… it isn’t exactly gay quizzo.  It’s called Kinky Quizzo…
which is three rounds of ten questions pertaining to
subjects like Felching, Masturbation, Sex and the City and Mae West.
So essentially it’s gay quizzo.

Now, contrary to popular belief… neither is Matthew, nor am I a
homosexual.  Matthew is clean, attractive, moderately metrosexual and he
smiles a lot… and I am delicate, loud, well-spoken and literary.
Fruity we may well be… but neither of us enjoys sitting on meat.  We
are both ruggedly straight… and will fuck any one of you to prove
it.  Well… Matt will… I’ve got a girlfriend.

(no really… I will… call me)

(sorry bean)

The ringleader of Kinky Quizzo is a leathery redhead named Jen.  She’s
got a crunchy mop of dyejob red hair, and little spaces in between all
of her teeth.  She isn’t even attractive if you close your eyes and
try.  She knows every last one of the gay dudes that go to quizzo
night… and is chock full of limping quips and asides – referring to
the lowest-scoring team as “coming up the rear.”  There are a lot of
terms one could use to describe Jen.  Ugly and annoying are certainly
apt… but she’s most often described as a fag hag.  A fruit fly.  Jen
is the worst type of girl… the type who populates her weeknights with
gay men and raunchy humor, most likely to cover up the fact that she’s
tremendously uninteresting and crushingly lonely.  There’s nothing wrong with having gay friends… of course there isn’t… but Jen’s the kindof girl who exclusively has gay friends.  She’s exactly like one of the characters from Sex and the City, in all of their two-dimensionality and mail-order sexiness.

She’s the kindof girl who’d wear a leather skirt to Christmas dinner.

The other regulars are your garden-variety, gay bar homosexuals – a few
doubletake lesbians, a bunch of catty, beautiful men with pursed mouths
and 100 dollar haircuts, one black guy, and a bear of a bartender named
Lorenzo, with a puffy goatee, shaved head and Eastern Block accent.  They’re all nice
people… and are always up for chitchat between rounds… but still,
the conversations we’ve engaged in have always seemed a little forced –
plastic – not so much conversations, as collections of scientifically
analyzed sentences, forged out of terrified politeness and whiffs of
distrust, like the way your grandparents talk with your other
grandparents.

Every time Matt and I end up at Kinky Quizzo, we end up
taking the position more as ambassadors for lame, straight guys, rather
than interesting people you might meet at a bar.  It’s the same thing
that happens when you’re at a party and your girlfriend goes off to
talk to one of her friends, leaving you alone and helpless… and you
find yourself stuck in a conversation with a big black guy named
Antoine.  You’ve got nothing against Antoine… in fact, you find him
to be pretty cool.  He’s funny, he’s interesting… he’s got great
stories.  You like Antoine.  But still, you find yourself laughing a
bit too hard at his jokes, and you’re staring at him really really
intensely, as if to communicate that you’re not only fascinated by what
happened to him at Walmart the other day, but also that you’d seriously
consider voting for a black presidential candidate, that you frequently
donate to the NAACP, you think Hip Hop music gets a bad rap, you’ve
never said the word nigger, and you’re really really sorry about
slavery.

You find yourself saying the word y’all… you add a bunch of i’s to
the word shit – shiiiit… your lame whiteness starts to falter, and
you start siphoning away Antoine’s blackness just to keep breathing…
you’re unbearably fake, and you know it.  Antoine knows it too… but
again… Antoine’s cool… so he gives you a pound, he calls you “dog”
and tells you that you’re a’aight.  Then he goes off to grab another
Heineken, and you look around the room for your girlfriend like a
frightened bird.

Most of the regulars at Kinky Quizzo treat Matthew and I with guarded kindness, as if we were two stray dogs who lumbered in from the cold.  Occasionally, while outside smoking cigarettes, a gaggle of them will leer at us, then turn back into the huddle and reel in a chorus of flamboyant cackles… but most often they just let  us do our thing, and we let them do ours.  No nastiness… no real friendliness… we’re just those two straight guys who show up sometimes.

But tonight, I found myself outside, clasped in the wiry embrace of a pugfaced  lesbian named April.  April’s about 5′ tall… she’s got her hair pulled back tight into two tiny pigtails, which plasters her dirt-brown hair to her head in such a way that, if you were to lose the micro-tails entirely, would make her look exactly like Adolph Hitler.  She’s got a voice like a dirt road, and two flapjack mounds of skin which are pretending to be breasts.

“You’re straight,” she says to me, waving the smoldering end of her Marlboro Red so close to my eyeball that my brain felt hot, “you’re totally straight… I can tell.”

“That’s so interesting,” I say back to her, “gay people are always so sure that I’m straight, which I am, but tons of straight people mistake me for gay.”

“No way.  Not at all.  You’re one of the straightest dudes I know.”

Pause.

“Thank you?”

What do you say to that?  This is the curse of being a straight, white male aged 18-45… you never know what you might say that could remind other people… people who aren’t in that “we’ve got it all, we’ve got it made” category… that they really should be hating you right now, rather than smiling at your face and patting your back.  Is this liberal guilt?  I’m not really a liberal… I’m a progressive.  I’m all for gay marriage and abortions for everybody (mandatory abortions in the case of some really really stupid people)… I’m socially as open-minded as a person could be.  I wonder why that is?  Is it all motivated purely by a sense of guilt over how entitled I’ve been, due simply to the diceroll of genetic chance?

How do I know that saying “thank you” to April the pugfaced lesbian wont cause her, or some other gay person nearby, to fly off the handle, shouting something along the lines of, “What?  Would it be a PROBLEM for you if you weren’t straight?!?”

I’d spin around and deny that entirely… but nobody would listen.  No one would have heard the conversation leading up to it… they’d only hear the caterwauling of the gay guy, as he flails around, shouting that I should go back to Alabama… and that the 80’s are over.  They’ll all glower at me, and hate me for hating them… and I’d be just like every other lame, white, straight guy.  I’ll have to go back to the straight bars, where guys wear Ozzy t-shirts and say “git-r-done” and “faggot” and punch one another in the mouth for looking at their girlfriend, who’s leaning over her table to clean up the spilled pitcher of Coors Lite.  Places where people play patriotic country songs and sing along to the lyrics… songs which make me hate America, and Americans for being so obsessed with empty gestures and shallow symbols.

But luckily… April beams at me, her tiny eyes opening just wide enough to communicate glee.

“Awesome!”

And then she hugs me again, and I feel her nipple piercings pressing into my sternum.

I’ve obviously got nothing in common with April… aside from our mutual appreciation for having sex with women.  We go back to talking about the questions we got right or wrong in the previous round… she thanks me for giving her the answer to the question about whether or not men’s testicles raise up in their scrotum during sex.  We ended up getting that question right… but we got the next one wrong – “What is the Latin word for Vagina?”  This one really fascinated and delighted me.

It’s Vanilla.  Named so because of the similarity between a vanilla bean and the shape of a woman’s vagina.

I think it’s things like this that make gay quizzo so delightful.  The whole ride home I was thinking about this.  All of those whitebread, stuffy Christian nuts with their wonderbread sandwiches and their grapejuice christblood… every boring, Calvinistic middle-American who pops bon-bons into their mouths while farting into their couch cushions to The Price is Right… every American who hates “faggots” and “niggers” and longs for a more chaste, God-fearing America…

They’re eating vagina flavored ice cream.

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