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Finding comfort outside normalcy
In a lesbian bar, a straight man breaks barriers and connects
By Tyler Gaskill
One of the most enlightening experiences is watching the battle of reality versus expected reality.
On Saturday, I spent time at The Pint, a lesbian bar. As a straight male I figured this would be genderly-foreign territory on the scale of me, a white suburban American, visiting Pakistan.
I surveyed the landscape upon exiting the car. The Pint is across the street from La Cage, a gay club. I was in Milwaukee, but felt like I’d embarked on an anthropological survey of far-off lands.
I felt more fearful of La Cage than I did of The Pint. I found myself more attentive to the nomads milling about the bars, putting them under a microscope I don’t use otherwise. I wondered if “they” thought I was “one of them.”
Feeling surrounded by such otherness served as the spotlights exposing unknown realities. My constructed barriers were exposed from the shadows of my mind. I found myself thinking in terms of “them.” Apparently, my liberal acceptance of queer culture didn’t contain the depth I’d previously thought.
As my hand opened the door to the Pint, my mind was flooded with previously pumped-in media images. I could envision angry, camo-clad, masculine-looking women donning buzz cuts while arm wrestling to Ani DiFranco.
The door opened and I was greeted with the mundane. Normalcy — the bar looked like one of the countless settings I’ve absorbed into grey matter of drunken memories. Nothing made it stand out. An abundance of women was apparent, but men were still sprinkled about.
I watched the coupled women closely. Not knowing what for — just easing my curiosity. I blew their flirtatious gestures out of proportion simply because I was away from my cozy sense of normal. Watching two women play darts, I looked to see if they played by different rules, or threw the dart oddly.
Needing a drink, I decided to see what kind of service I would receive. I was greeted with a smile and patience — more than I can say for straight bars.
They served my favorite beer, Blue Moon, on tap. Again, more than I can say for straight bars.
The final test was the jukebox. I figured it would be an expanded collection of Lilith Fair bootlegs. I found myself in the wrong, again.
Music spanned from Tom Petty to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. These were my kind of people: Blue Moon on tap, Tom Petty in the juke box, darts, friendly service and a shared lust for women.
By the end of the night, the only thing that felt alien was my stomach from all the Blue Moons. Much like traveling to a foreign country, the routine becomes exciting, glorified and mythologized simply because it’s taking place outside the security of expectation.
A humdrum night of drinking was the last thing expected, but all I received.
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