Sunday was one of the roughest hangovers of my young life and I was unable to do any writing, so I went — where else? Out to brunch. I went to one of my older standbys in Lower Haight where I knew there would be a table, very hot coffee and soymilk, surly waitstaff (no hangover is complete until you’ve been dissed by tattooed cashiers) and a tasty breakfast. I went with a very cute boy from the Extra Action Marching Band and he was thrilled to hear about my bachelorette night out with the femme lesbians — but the stories didn’t really begin until we went walking and shopping along the sunny, tourist/hippie/junkie/street musician infested Haight Ashbury — and trying on a white pair of go-go boots, I accidentally revealed the bruises and broken skin on my knees. Yes, my knees. From being on my knees the night before. Then the memories came flooding back…
Saturday night was a blur of champagne, lingerie, lesbian strippers, silicone dicks, me being on stage way too many times, and a purse (actually I carry a silver Marching Band lunchbox these days) full of butch dykes’ phone numbers. I got over to M’s house just as the hot sexy lesbian babes were arriving to give M the sendoff she deserved — and boy, was the crew tasty. Tight dresses, heels, lots of cleavage and lipstick, a butch to run our errands and a magnum of Veuve Clicquot (not may favorite champagne, but a few in those cheesy little wedding cups did the trick). We rushed through the presents so we could get to the club where we hoped there would be enough flesh, strap-on dildos and booze to make it a night. But the presents were a blast — candy Dick Tax (which ended up on the cake, then later on the stripper’s runway), cheesy red and black tiger-striped lingerie, hilarious gay male gift cards, and even a veil — yes, while lesbians seem unconventional, conventional methods of humiliating the bride-to-be can make a room full of evolved women scream and shriek like teenagers (note that M and a couple of her friends are recent Psych. graduates going into counseling, and work with at-risk youth).
Off to the club — and let me tell you, while I still haven’t had a lap dance (am I a leper?), I know that after the night at Fairy Butch’s Cabaret, any strip club I go into will be disappointing. Lesbian strippers — pros, who likely are "straight for pay" — pull out all the stops in a club full of other lesbians, dykes and FTM’s. No holding back, and goddamn, those women were sexier than any issue of Taboo or Leg Show, homemade porn film, or Richard Kern/Eric Kroll book. I was stunned! As I entered, I realized that fairy Butch cabaret shows are basically big hookup joints for lesbians of all stripes, and the evening’s festivities revolve around strippers and making the hookups happen. When we walked in we got stickers with numbers and filled out a form that had multiple-choice options along the lines of "single, cruising, only single tonight, options open, etc." and scales where you could circle what you felt like for sex that night (i.e. top, switch, bottom, with spaces between each). And room for a sentence about yourself. Mine was "I like long contemplative funny emails involving slurping and wood nymphs and squeaky rusty machines and even squeakier toys." With this system, interested suitors could see your number, look up your info and leave you notes, secret-admirer-style.
The show began, but not after the women in our group harassed butches like it was a sport — no light for a lady? What, were you a butch dyke from the 1980s? It was awesome — the masculine women were our sexual prey, and it became all too real when later in the evening our femmiest, most buxom member was dragged up on stage to give a birthday dance to a very handsome Latina butch from New York — who mistakenly told our girl to strip. Out came the reserves (me and M), to force the butch into submission on the stage while we sex danced with each other. This scene repeated itself a few times, later with me on the floor mock-sucking strap-ons (I was drinking lemon drops) and lap dancing (I have no idea how to lap dance and I’m sure everyone knew it) the bride-to-be, who ended up in male drag at one point. Clothes were exchanged, there was a "dating game" style sex dance contest for a blindfolded butch onstage, and more. My favorite point of the evening was sitting next to S, an old friend of mine, and watching a stripper lap dance her way down the seated lines of women. S told me, "I don’t really like strippers. I need a connection, you know, some meaning or reason. Bodies are hot, but I’m a massage therapist and see a lot of bodies, so it’s got to be something simmering beneath the surface and in the eyes. You know?" I agreed, and a new stripper came out, a very curvy blonde with big nipples that looked like tasty pink gumdrops. S turned to me and said, "I take that back." We laughed and she wandered up to the chairs, dollars in hand.
It was a hell of a night, and amazing to be in such a sexual atmosphere with all those dressed-up women — though it was trans night, and there were a good number of FTM’s and even a few biological men. I watched the bio boys — two looked a little freaked out and uncomfortable, not like they were threatened, but more like they knew they were out of place. These guys all arrived with queer women — the doorman doesn’t fuck around, especially in the Mission where there typically roving gangs of drunk straight men hassling women (I got harassed by guys both to and from my car that night — not to worry, I kickbox and was a street fighter in my youth). Two other bio boys seemed to be drinking it all in, honestly amazed and happy to be there and seeing it all. I was, too.
