One night many years ago, my good friend Mike and I decided to go to Trax. Well, Mike decided to go and I decided to tag along. From what I heard, Trax was a great place to go cut a rug as it had four dance floors. One for techno, for trance, industrial and 80s. It was also a popular gay bar. Not that that matters, it just matters for the story.
Anyway, we got to Trax about 10:30 and proceeded to drink, dance and watch women. One interesting thing about gay bars; women are always at them. And, no, not lesbians–straight women. Lesbians don’t tend to go to gay bars. Well, not male gay bars. I guess women feel safe as most straight guys stay out of gay bars for fear of catching teh ghey. Me, I’m a firm believer of it’s not where you are, it’s who you are with and the time you are having. If that means going to a gay bar, then so be it. Let’s party.
At one point or another during the evening, my buddy and I were out on the dance floor, cutting it up. Generally, if I’m into the cut, I am oblivious to everything else. So when the song ended, and the next one started, I suddenly realized three things.
My buddy was gone, the women were clearing the dance floor and the men were rushing to it.
Before I realized what was going on, I noticed my friend at the bar, a HUGE grin on his face. He tipped his beer to me and started laughing. I had no idea why.
Then it dawned on me.
It was the song.
It’s Raining Men. Halleluja..
By the time it hit me, it was too late to run off the dance floor without looking like a complete and utter ass.
Understand, this was my first time being surrounded by a swarm of gay men. I didn’t know what to do.
So I did what I thought was best.
I said fuck it, I’m in their house.
So I started to dance.
I was doing my thing when I suddenly realized someone was behind me. All up on me. Hands on my hips and having a time.
I turned around–or danced around, as I didn’t want to make a scene. After all, I was the one on the dance floor at a gay bar when it was raining men (halleluja).
The hands never left me as I made my way around, and by the time I got a look at whose hands they were, I didn’t mind at all. No sir. Not one bit.
The person who was dancing with me was a smoking hot brunette in a red dress. A clingy red dress. And she was curvy. Oh, man, she was curvy and fine and hot and a woman.
And so we danced.
At the end of the song, I simply thanked her. I was pretty sure she knew what she was doing, and I was right.
She leaned up to me and said, “You know, you are a pretty good dancer, but you are obviously straight. Your friend may have bailed on you, but I wouldn’t.”
And she left.
That was it.
But that is okay. She made an uncomfortable situation comfortable, so if that was all she wanted to do, fuck it, who am I to argue.
I do wish I could have bought her a drink, though. Not to pick her up, but because of her cooltitude.
Rock on, sister.
Oh, and my friend was pissed off at her. He would have been able to bust my balls for years with this story, but he got nothing. Ha.