Going to a Happy place with a group of Gay Men

To be clear, Happy is a bar down the street from my place in Boulder that specializes in making drinks. Gay Men are homosexuals, meaning they like intimate relationships with same sex partners. I have no issue with either except that at times they both can be a bit frou-frou.

I had never been inside Happy, although I have walked by it many of times and heard stories about the thousands of drinks the bartenders are required to have in their memory banks before an application would even be looked upon. These are not a set roll call of booze mixings, but rather a sheer quantity of knowledge and artistic talent ala Tom Cruise in Cocktail without all of the theatrics. Had there not been an onrush of gay men quadrupling the normal weekend crowd size, and I mean the whole weekend, not just one night multiplied by four, I would have ordered the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster only to see if they could make it. As it was, the Sushi menu of drinks was dropped to the Happy Hour list with dinner time prices.

Blake of the Moab fame invited me to this meetup or matchmaker or manhunter (I cannot remember the title of the group), where the homosexual union in the Boulder area practices their solidarity in protest to no gay bars by taking over ‘straight’ establishments for the night, bringing tons of people, buying tons of drinks, and effectively scaring the hell out of wet-behind-the-ear bar backs. Actually, I invited myself when he told me about it. It sounded like much more fun than their usual orientation elitist naked parties. I like naked parties as much as the next guy, more than the next guy, much more than the next guy, but when you involve strict sexual conduct rules the ball crosses the fence for me.

I think sexism should be less gender specific and more about the orientation of those being prejudiced against. Sexism is really genderism. We need labels like this instead of homophobia. Phobia has the literal connotation of fear and the homo part cannot be used to slap back for being reverse discriminated against in the manner that ‘racism’ can. We do not call it blackaphobia, negraphobia, mexiphobia. Okay, xenophobia, sure but this is a condition that causes racism or is caused by it, not one that is inherently in and of itself ‘racist.’ I like to apply it to extraterrestrial aliens myself.

In ten minutes standing at the bar you can discern the feel of whether this guy is going to serve you anytime soon. He wasn’t. At that point it is important to find the lynch pin of the serving station. Every bar, no matter how crowded, has one. I usually explore the joint upon entry, find the bathrooms if I need an excuse, accidentally walk into the employee only kitchen for a head poke, lap the typical u-shaped center, bumping into interesting people along the way. This time I went straight, pun intended, for the drinks. This did not serve me well or even at all so I performed my Lewis and Clark impersonation. Oddly, the rear entrance, which became the main entrance due to the inclination of tonight’s current clientele and the fact that they were allegedly locking the front for a semi-private engagement, was it. I pushed through, teaching a bunch of demure twinks how to be more aggressive with getting the attention of the bartenders by waving cash around like a pervert at the TNA club. He says, “I only have a credit card.” Dancers take that too, buddy.

With Mojito in hand I could properly canvass the next stop on my tour, the smoking section. Yeah, yeah, yeah. A Mojito. I figured, when in Rome. This does not mean I am going to strip down to my toga in the bathhouse for a night with the son of Mars and Venus, but it does means I will drink a tasty mojito in an already frou-frou gay-for-the-night establishment. Evidently, Mercury forgot to deliver the message to some of them. There is always that one guy, the poacher, that you clearly demonstrate verbally your straightness, yet, he still wants to convert you. I could have learned much more about bears and otters than I wanted to that night. I even explained about my breast fixation. The general consensus was that those nasty things were just in the way. Being predominately straight, I can think of other protrusions that would ‘just be in the way.’

There was an after party. I did not go. Thanks to the Boulder Creek Festival my car was already parked way too far from my house. I could only imagine rolling in at 5am and having to walk a mile back to mi casa. Some guy offered a lift. He only had room for one. I figured Blake would get more out of it than I would, so I bowed out. I have more important things to do today needing an earlier rise of a different sort than some here might prefer. I have kinetic generator hula hoops to build. I have art exhibits to attend. I have concerts to go to. The Boulder Creek Festival might take my parking spot, but they cannot stop me from enjoying it.

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