Gettin’ Ripped at the Main Club

I am beaming with gay pride tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to engage in a sex act with another man — at least, not on purpose — no, I’m beaming with pride that this little Superior bar seems to be hosting a Rip Taylor tribute show, and I’m right smack in the middle of it.

Actually, it’s the Annual Drag Show Fundraiser, the final event — the climax, if you will — of Gay Pride weekend in the Twin Ports. Some people call it “GLBTAQI Pride” but, honestly, that’s so gay.

There must be 300 people crammed into the Main Club tonight, all here to fulfill the American Dream by watching grown men dress up like women and lip-synch to Cher. And all we had to do to get in was slip a five-spot to the half-naked door guy who calls himself “Pony.”

It only takes me thirty seconds to realize that Pony has the right idea with his outfit, or I should say lack thereof. The bar is so humid tonight that I might actually sweat my junk right off and be able to join the drag show, no tucking necessary.

Even the master of ceremonies is a bit overwhelmed by the heat, at one point announcing, “I’m sweating like a man up here.” The MC is accompanied on stage by a translator for the deaf, who by my count has signed the phrase “blow job” four times in the past eight minutes.

As much as I enjoy the drag show, I have to admit the really fun thing for me is looking over the crowd and trying to identify who the other nine straight people are. Ironically, the first two straight guys I find seem to be playing the same game. I overhear one of them sarcastically say to the other, “Hey, do you think the chick with the engineer’s hat and overhauls is a lesbian?”

Sometimes this game is trickier than you might think, however. At first glance, I assume the guy in the Minnesota Twins jersey is straight. Then, I notice it’s a Chuck Knoblauch jersey. It takes a few seconds to sink in … and then … wait for it … oh, yeah! Knob lock. Got it.

Turning my attention back toward the stage, I see that one of the featured transvestites is storming off, upset that no men are tipping, just women. As if on cue, two straight women work their way away from the stage and through the crowd, discussing the queen’s agitation. They are quickly distracted, though, by a handsome gentleman dressed like a cop, and start talking loudly about whether he is gay or not, as if a straight dude has ever dressed up like a cop to go to a gay bar.

The gay cop, apparently overhearing this or noticing the ogling eyes, walks over and tells the straight gals flatly, “Don’t worry, I won’t be asking you to slow dance later.”

At that moment, like I needed to be reminded of the heat, the guy next to me says, “Oh my gawd, Bob totally needs to get a super big fan in here.” Hmm. I wonder if he’s gay.

I decide to slip outside into the alley for some cool air, and, as you can probably guess, things are actually hotter outside. One man is bent over a trash can while someone I’m pretty sure is a woman is giving him what appears to be the simulated buttfuck of a lifetime. This continues for about three minutes, and while you might find it hard to believe, I remain sincerely unable to determine if an actual sex act has taken place and whether or not it was homosexual.

Competing for my attention in the alley is a surly queer who insists on standing in the middle of the alley, yelling at cars to either turn into the parking lot or reverse out to the street because he refuses to move. Lest any bigoted readers use this information to tarnish the homosexual image, I assure you that all the other gays in the alley hate this fucker and wish he’d go home.

Back inside, the transvestite parade continues. One guy, sitting at a table in the middle of the room, is voicing his disapproval of the skankiness. “I want Judy Garland,” he says. “I want Julie Andrews.”

Dream on, dear boy. Dream on.