I'm Not Even S'posed to Be Here Today!

Last night I filled in for my friend Calvin DJing at our home bar. Saturdays are fun and crazy and my job is just to twerk and sp1n h0t beetz (it annoyed me more to write that than it did you to read it).  I make the booth my own private dance floor and it goes something like this:

Whilst I'm engaging in my own private vogue-off, customers will often interrupt to request songs. Requests fall into a few categories:

1. Things I secretly want to play and am glad someone requested so I have an excuse.
2. Things I'll actually consider but wouldn't normally play.
3. Things I'm already going to play.
4. Bullshit that I wouldn't play at Ann Coulter's funeral.

Last night, a straight couple came into the bar.  This happens all the time; yes, it's a gay bar, but we welcome everyone. Sure, they were getting the shady side-eye for making out in the middle of the bar, but so were the two boys humping outside the DJ booth. Lucille, could you please demonstrate?

Thanks, lady. See you at the pool; they won't give me full club membership either.

Anyhow, said straight girl spit out her boyfriend's tongue and came up for air long enough to request a Justin Bieber song.

I know, right Whitney?

So the girl said it was fine and walked away, leaving me and Whitney alone to kiki about this week's episode of Smash.  About 20 minutes later, I spin into the remix of "Catch My Breath" by Kelly Clarkson, who just happens to be one of my favorite singers. Wouldn't you know, straight girl's boyfriend picks the second the beat drops out to yell, "You're playing Kelly Clarkson?? FAG!!"

Customers around the booth were GAGGED.

                                      

 OK, calm down, Detox; it was last night and I'm fine now. I did have that moment, though... followed by this one:

Now, I know it's the service industry and we're supposed to be all:

 when it comes to the customers.  However, it's a gay bar and unless you're a drag queen or a close friend of mine, the use of that word makes me go from this:

to this:

I really try not to pop off. I do. It's hard as FUCK most of the time because I see people being ridiculous ALL. THE. TIME.  People are rude and I keep my mouth shut every day, but this particular case was an exception. Girlfriend clapped her hand over this dude's mouth and looked like she would rather be in a three way with Donald Trump and a dead squid than standing in this bar with this man.  I wish I could say that I read him, but what I did lacked any sort of wit, grace, or cleverness.

Yes, Meryl, I could have said that. Christ, you have three Oscars, it's getting show-offy...

I basically told him that this, being a gay bar, is not the place where you can just call anybody anything.  Oh, I also told him to GET THE FUCK OUT. Twice. I don't think of myself as being intimidating, but it kind of looked like this:

from my perspective.  His girlfriend grabbed his coat and started to hustle him out of the bar (smart) but lost her grip on him and he started to backtrack (girl!) but my friend Mario, who is also the doorman, got in his way and stood with his arms crossed over his chest letting brothaman know his adventure was over for the night. I was already back in the DJ booth looking like this:

Good to see you, O-Ren.

The reason I reacted the way that I did is that I was in my safe space.  I work in this bar three nights a week and it's one of the places that I, and other gay men and lesbians, feel free and safe to be ourselves.  Yes, we're fine with a straight couple making out in "our" bar; but it's not the same for us in a straight bar.  We still don't know who's around and in an ass-kickin' mood. I know we've come far as a society and the winds of change are blowing and the President asked the Supreme Court to strike down the Defense of Marriage Act.  That's all awesome, but gay people are still the victims of hate crimes every day. Basically what I'm trying to say is, I was defending my turf, our turf; and I did it because in that moment, that's genuinely how I felt.  Don't come into a haven with that shit and expect me not to stand up for myself because you're not just attacking me, you're attacking everyone in the bar.

I mean, it's bad enough that I feel like I walk around with a sign over my head

*sigh* Thanks, Randal.

God that guy's proud of himself for all the wrong reasons...

OK rant over, back to life; just thought I'd share a thought or two. Namaste, motherfuckers.