So as you've probably heard I had drinks with Airheadgenuis and Zeitgeisty the other day. We spent the better part of the evening in a gay bar, with softcore porn playing in monitors underneath the tables and big ticket Hollywood movies like The Great Santini and Polanski's Tess projected against the far wall.
According to guy lore, gay bars are the easiest places for a straight man to meet a woman. I remember casting the first short I directed several years ago. I posted ads in Backstage West and met with dozens of actors afterhours in my boss's Beverly Hills office.
I remember one guy I spoke with jumped very quickly from telling stories about his acting background into tales of his sexual prowess. It seems some male actors in LA are more excited about their prospects for having sex than they are about working. Hey look, ma! Somebody fucked me! Can you believe it?
This man swore that he could have sex with any woman in a gay bar. Their defenses are down, they feel safe, they vamp suggestively without having to worry that some guy is going to get the wrong idea, and they tend to drink heavily, chugging fruity two-for-one specials.
I had originally planned on shooting the short as an all-nude production. When I mentioned this to they actor he immediately stood up from his chair. "I'll strip right now, if you want," he said. "I'm not ashamed of my body at all. You want me to get all the way naked?"
I've always had mixed feelings about gay bars. I don't like the idea of separating social groups based on sexual preference. Bars are bars. People get drunk, they dance, they try and meet someone new, many wind up bringing someone home later on. You're a little less likely to hear Tom Petty or Dire Straights in a gay bar, but otherwise, the idea is basically the same.
On the other hand, the gay bars I've been to have felt less serious and weighted down with social posturing than other straight bars. Would that there were more straight bars with porno playing on the walls and colors outside of the red and black vinyl variety.
The first gay bar I remember going to was in Austin. It was a lesbian night at a place called Boyz Cellar. All the bartenders were topless and covered in bodypaint. It was surreal to be in a room filled with women and not a single one paying attention to me. Knowing in advance that everyone in the bar was outside of my sexual purview took a lot of tension out of the air. I felt like I could stroll around leisurely and talk to anybody about anything. There was no worry about having intentions misconstrued or being shot down by a cranky tyrant.
After a couple of hours one of the friends I was with reached a level of dramatic intoxication and decided she needed to vomit in the corner. The bar manager saw her and asked that she leave. She was still lucid enough to feel insulted by this and she went nose-to-nose with the pasty man for a few minutes trying to pick a fight before finally relenting.
I don't like the idea of having to pick someone up, no matter what the context. There has been a lot said for the thrill of the chase and wanting the unattainable, but I don't see the value in either. I don't believe in unattainability. We're all born out of the same primordial question mark. We all want to believe in someone. We are all attainable.
Chasing after someone is equally uninteresting. Why should I have to pursue someone who resists the idea of my companionship? If they don't want to spend time with me, what does it benefit me to convince them otherwise? I want to fight for the people who'll fight for me, and not chase after a trophy to validate my sense of achievement.
Those two ideas hang heavy in straight bars, like wooly fogs across the neon light. It might be easier to pick someone up in a gay bar. But it isn't any easier to fall in love.
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Sex Machine: Talking About Sex With Your Parents
Love Machine: Willing to Relocate
Sex Machine: Checking my Oil, or the HIV Test
Date Machine: How To Pick Up a Bartender
Date Machine: Are You My Girlfriend Now?
PDA Machine: Making Out in a Bar
Sex Machine: The Cake is a Lie, or Does My Butt Show When I Walk?
Obituary Machine: Natasha Richardson, or Smoking Cigarettes on the Roof
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