Chapter I: Rainbow Room

Chapter I

Rainbow Room

I showed my ID to the large black man sitting on a stool just outside the small bar. It was procedure, of course. You stand in line, waiting to prove that you do, in fact, belong to the 21 and over crowd. Meanwhile, underage girls are squealing secretly behind cupped hands, whispering amongst themselves on how to execute the “Oh, I forgot my ID” parlor trick. If that didn’t work, they’d smile sweetly, batting their eyes while bumping their chest forward just enough to show the boob sweat dripping between their cleavage and gain entry.

I surreptitiously curse that if I wasn’t of age, or had unintentionally forgotten my identification card, it wouldn’t be considered appropriate on my end if I were to thrust my penis forward.

Regardless of not possessing large cans, he lets me in with my golden ticket of an ID, and I meet my best friend inside the dark hallway. Jason looked his best tonight in his American Eagle apparel, his flannel cuffs rolled to his forearms, and his hair perfectly gelled; the quaff bastard. Standing before him, my appearance diminished entirely. I was nothing more than a wing-man; and rightfully so, since Rainbow Room is a gay bar, and I don’t swoon for the same team. The mousey, smartass greeted me with enthusiasm, predictably pulling me into a tight hug. He even smelled like Chanel. Perhaps I should have been taking notes.

The surrounding music engulfed our every word of reception, so we mimicked drinking at the bar where the music was noticeably quieter. I walked cautiously, suspicious not to step too close to any of the surrounding gay men waiting to catch a drink, yet inadvertently blocking the only aisle. I noticed that Jason made contact with every man’s eye as we shuffled further inside, and I, embarrassed to share a part in their gaze, locked my eyes onto Jason’s neck uncertainly. As a straight man in a gay bar, I feel hopelessly overwhelmed by the undesirable attention.

“Rainbow’s packed tonight!” Jason screams over the blaring music beats, his eyes lift in elation.

I nod, trying my best not to seem frustrated by the amount of visitors. I understand that midterms are over and everyone is famished for fun, but I absolutely hate crowded rooms; especially when no one is attractive or straight. But as I look around, I’m finding various demographics represented, and I become hopeful that tonight will be different than the rest. On any other night of the week, Rainbow Room is actually called Madhouse. It is only on Thursdays that the gays take over and revamp the old bar with lights, a large dancing cage, and a pretty great DJ. With the added income on Thursdays, I guess it keeps the Madhouse running since it isn’t located downtown like the rest of the bars.

Quite frankly, it is the best place to dance and enjoy a stress free evening…unless you happen to be me. If you think straight men are aggressive, picture an outspoken hipster with tight jeans and too much access to their parents’ money. I find myself fondled before I even reach the bar, and am able to squirm away from the “accidental” hand swipe. Jason sees that I’ve been groped, and is achingly fuming with jealously.

“Damn you, Tom!” he peeves rather loudly. The other men have taken an interest to him, preying on his mannerisms. They become worried, and wonder if they offended him by grasping his “boyfriend.” His loose grin is evidence that he drank before coming tonight. “What does it take for me to get molested around here?”

“Another shot!” says an attractive bystander to the left. He holds a small glass with brown liquid above Jason’s head. Instinctively, Jason tilts his head back, and opens his mouth greedily. The liquid lightly spills from the sides as the large blonde bystander misses his mark a bit. However, my smartass buddy swallows quickly—no pun intended—and lets out a whoop of approval. Our college colleagues pat him on the back. The attractive blonde that poured the shot leans in for a kiss, tonguing Jason enthusiastically. He didn’t seem to care, or realize that we came together. The others look on with mild curiosity to see my reaction, but because I do not take interests in anyone else’s penis but mine, I cringe a bit.

A little disturbed, I push past them both and lean against the bar to order a drink. When a seat was deserted, I jumped it and pulled a twenty from my wallet; it sat on the bar beneath my fingers to get someone’s attention. There were mirrors behind the liquor lined up along the walls, and I could see several men watching Jason and the blonde. I was his wing man, but soon felt unwanted in a place I didn’t feel comfortable. If I wasn’t also planning to meet Gal tonight, I would willingly have fled the scene.

The man at my left begins to take in my uneasy countenance, and it feels like I am invisibly probed by his eyes. I am happy to wear just jeans and a t-shirt, nothing flattering. Once my beer has been ordered, and arrives, I shift into an anxious state. ‘Get here already, Gal,’ I tell myself, while searching my phone for new messages. When I find nothing, I turn back around to track Jason, making sure he is isn’t revealing any traits associated with his traditional antics, which typically include throwing up, getting into fights, or passing out. Instead, I find him thoroughly enjoying himself, flourishing his contagiously pleasant personality. Though I am certainly relieved that Jason is behaving himself, I still can’t shake my disappointment in being here tonight.

I look at a picture of Jane on my contact list, her blue eyes chilling me to the core despite the intense heat of the packed bar. I wallow in regret for pulling out the portrait. My love for her lingers like the painstaking sting of an unwanted whiskey shot.

After letting out an audible sigh, the man who had been deliberately staring at me throughout the course of my beer turns his body towards me, visibly showing his interest in speaking with me. I look on him with insecurity, unsure of his intentions. I hardly see forty year old men come down here on Thursdays, and they are easy enough to spot, so I assume he lived over the hill. His appearance had a sort of whimsical approach, like a carefree white Jesus—not the true Middle Eastern version—in a casual black and red plaid shirt. His beard is large, brown and scruffy in a lightly groomed way, if that makes any sense. With a visible smile, he nods towards Jason in a friendly manner, “You’re not mad at your boyfriend for kissing other men, are ya?”

My body unleashes its careful fatigue with another dilapidating sigh of discontent as I state with immediate intention, “We are not like that.”

“You are not like what?” Hipster Jesus answered, a bit confused, but moved by my unreserved depression.

“Gay, man! I’m not gay!” I burst, taking my eyes off his beard at last.

The man dotingly glares upon me for several moments before I hastily realize his eyes are mist over in a drunken torpor. Unable to escape his limp state, he blinks slowly, probably unable to register anything I’m trying to convey. I don’t move because I’m unsure of what action I should take. So I sit patiently, silently longing that if I stand still, this giant Hipster Jesus will mimic the actions of the Tryansouraus rex in the Jurassic Park movie and forget I’m here. He sloppily blinks again, the eyelids devoid of the will to work in unison.

I am just about to turn from him when he articulates a booming response.

“YOU’RE NOT?”

Despite the loud music, everyone around us, including me, jumps in quick retort. His eyes are large, his mouth sagging open in brief shock as his beard sinks into his raised beer mug.

“No…Do I look it?” I ask a little concerned.

The man studies me for a second, squinting one eye as if exaggerating his next response to seem legitimate.

“I guess not,” he says finally. “You dress badly,” he says taking another swig.

I know I don’t have the best wardrobe, but I surely shouldn’t be taking fashion advice from a guy who looks a lot like Jesus. “You come here to get fashion advice?” he asks a little sourly.

He drains his beer quickly as a male bartender comes to our corner. Hipster Jesus buys another round before he resumes.

“You never answered my question. Why are you here?”

“To be a wing-man for my gay best friend.”

This guy is draining me of all I have. I hate arguing with strangers, but I finish my glass and buy another. I apprehend I’ll need larger quantities of alcohol to keep this up. The man nods and continues to stare at Jason with randy eyes. Why does my friend have to be so hot? I try to distract Hipster Jesus so I am not sickened by the exaggerated display of affection he has for my friend. “But you know, there are a lot of straight people that come in here too.”

“I’ve noticed this time around. Why’s that?” he slurs as his mouth hangs low, unaware that his beard is dripping like a teabag in the mug. Of course, it would be appropriate to tell him to lift his chin or lower his drink, but I find it more amusing to hold back a small grin.

“Good music?” I shrug. “People love to dance in Santa Cruz, but unless there is a great concert at the Catalyst, this is the only building in town we have that plays great music. No one wants to pay a cover charge at Motiv. And I don’t really care for the ‘look at me, I’m all dressed up kinda ladies.’”

“Yeah? You looking for a carefree girl?” he replies. “I can tell by how you dress.”

Why is this guy so fixed up about how I dress? I know I didn’t exactly take time to get ready, but I assumed I look better than most.

“I didn’t know straight guys like to dance,” Hipster Jesus tries to bump hips with me off his stool, but sloshes his beer on his shirt again.

“We do,” I answer, cautiously avoiding the spilling. “But with straight women.”

“That’s too bad,” he says as he throws down a three dollar tip onto the wet bar. He gets up from his seat and wipes some of the spilt mess off his shirt. “You are actually a real looker,” he clasps his hands on my shoulder. I wish to shy away from his touch, but don’t want to offend him. I’m not sure whether to thank him or not; instead I give a reserved smile. He gives me a kiss off his hand before disappearing before the crowd.

I wonder to myself if being gay is more about being intensely pervasive or extremely slutty. Perhaps both, I conclude.

Though standoffish, I find silent meditation a safer station than a loud revelry with Jason. He’s telling off hand racist jokes that side split his new acquaintances, and I am quietly fuming that Jane had broken my soul to the point of panic. Half a year of her absence has done enough to unnerve me, but seeing her today so suddenly with another man, her arms wrapped around his torso, fingers lightly digging at his skin, has demolished my kindling spirit entirely.

‘Where the hell is Gal,’ I muse, wishing to find an escape.

My nose twitches, and I feel a heat raising that flames my eyes. I look at the mirror directly above the liquor and quietly ponder why I have no will to meet a new girl.

A bartender with a pink mohawk gets between me and my reverie, forcing me to quit blubbering like a high school outcast. She knows I am troubled, but doesn’t try to talk to me. I am thankful. She hands me a beer with a thick, dimpled smile and refuses to take the money I lay out on the bar. The gesture makes her prettier, and my hope in women is a tad bit restored.

However, I don’t know if she is a lesbian or bi, so I remain reserved in my ordeal. Problems like this arise so often, like a terrible guessing game gone array. Santa Cruz is filled with questionable people and trying to figure out their sexual preferences. It took me half a section to realize that a new lab partner wanted to fill my void, if you catch my drift. But I suppose half the fun is not knowing until they lean in for a kiss, like last week. At Rainbow, I can’t be angry because I am invading their turf.

But sometimes, you find a gem of a dance partner that makes the bar scene worth the evening drive; it is certainly better to exercise your desires rather than wanking to Call of Duty all night.

I feel an elbow slide to my left and force their way to the bar. I tensed, only to find that it was Gal, my Israeli Jewish friend. His voice is deep, but slow with drunk alliteration. 

“Tom! Tom, you gotta run away!”

“Gal, finally! Why haven’t you called? You said you’d call— What the hell are you doing?” He began pushing me off the barstool, shoving me by the shoulders. “Goddammit, Gal! Stop!” I give him a hefty shove back.

“Tom, seriously,” he mutters. “I’m not joking. They are coming for you!” he looks past me, surveying the entrance carefully. I’ve never seen him this worked up, and I’m kind of enjoying it.

“Who—who’s coming?” I try to look over the heads of others, but find the task impossible.

“Too late!” he cries with complete seriousness. He turns to the Mohawk lady and slaps down a fifty. “Gonna need shots,” he says to her. She begins eyeing the fifty with relish, placing small fingers on the tip of the bill. “2 Jacks, please!” he says urgently. She lifts the finger off the bill and maneuvers with little trouble to get our order. I smile a thanks at Gal, but soon realize his motive.

“Hi, Tom,” a shrill voice drowns my ears. I cringe at the unbecoming bellow.

Now I am no longer depressed, but frightened. I would rather take on a frisky, angry gay man than the merciless Tiffany. She turns my chin to face her. Even though I like to believe I possess gentlemanly qualities, I wanted to rip her fingers off her fucking hand and stuff them past her rambling, duck lips. My balls shriveled up inside myself, unwanting of her vindictive touch.

She brought Molly, Jane’s little sister, a low blow to my already deflated self-esteem.

“What’s the matter, Tom? You aren’t going to say hi to us?” Molly’s voice croons in a manner deceptively lovely. She looks enough like Jane, showcasing ghostly cold eyes that chill to the point of pain. Despite my calm greeting, my heart quickens in spite of itself.

“She isn’t here, Tom,” Gal whispers in my ear encouragingly.

My breath exits from my trembling lips with great relief.

Jane isn’t here.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” he whispers quickly. “They stole my phone and knew you’d be here, and I had no way of—

            “No secrets!” Tiffany pushes Gal from his post at the bar, her Mexican accent as thick as her dark tresses.

The Mohawk bartender scans the girls over before turning away. Her disgusted look confirms that she does not approve of the muffin top midriffs insistently pushing their bodies against me. I can’t say I blame her.

“You bought us shots?!” Tiffany squeals ungainly.

I shoot Gal a revolted look of disproval.

“Uh…no,” I say with a mock screech that wounded her pride for half a second. Gal suppresses a smile, and is punched in the arm by Molly.

I feel a small slap against my face as well. My cheek stung lightly without pain, but it felt degrading to be emasculated by a woman in a gay bar. Turning to Tiffany with rapid rage, I regard her coldly, wishing to be out of their presence so I could defuse the vengeful spite looming between us all. But, she is too drunk to notice my hatred.

“Bad, Tom! Stop fooling with us!” she flaps her arms, reaching for my Jack Daniels. I want to slap her hand away, but realize that she was wasting Gal’s money, not mine. Frankly, he deserves a dip in his pocket after this disgraceful reunion.

Molly swiftly reaches for Gal’s shot to confirm her own self-entitled dominance. Both scrunch their face to show their detestation after the shot had slid down their thick throats.

“I need a soda to chase down this shot!” Molly cries, her eyes brimming with large tears that further illuminate her abominably icy eyes. She begins to wave her hands around like a fucking delusional T-rex. (If it seems like I’m referencing dinosaurs too often, it’s because I love Jurassic Park. And these girls are monsters in their own right.) With a little spite, I watch as Molly dry heaves, unable to hold down Gal’s whiskey. “Tom, I said I need a soda!” Molly’s face tweaks, her eyes stretching. I can hardly watch, her face deformed, her eyes growing in demand of solace.

Tiffany swallowed hers with trouble, but clenches her fat jaw long enough to surpass the fiery entry.

“You are such a pussy!” Tiffany grabs the shot glass from Molly’s fluttering fingers. Turning to me, she pushes her swollen fingers holding the glass against my chest, a vile plea for more.

Gal continues to leer heartily, resolving to clap a hand over his mouth to force himself against an unintended outburst of laughing fits. Shamefully, I attempt to back up, almost stumbling on a young woman trying to get through the crowd.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, despite the fault being my own. When she leaves, Tiffany snuffs a quick “Bitch” before rubbing her shoulders against my chest. Without warning, I sensed her fingers softly grazing my groin. Molly gazes on with intense envy, swallowing repeatedly to stop any bile from frothing up her throat.

Not wishing her to throw up, and allowing myself an escape tactic, I press myself towards the bar and order a soda for poor Molly. I could feel Tiffany’s unyielding eyes penetrating my skull with undeviating vigor.

Save me, Gal!

Tiffany moves forward, scraping my ass, acting as though she is attempting to speak with Gal. He humors her, but watches with equal fascination, his eyebrows rose as she attempts to press her red talon nails to my side, stroking my leg.

I’m immobile, my mind unable to react, yet my groin begins to stir. My breath hitches as I realize that my organs are failing me miserably. My teeth clench firmly, silently pleading with my dick to descend. Molly grew pale, her blonde hair losing its tousled carefree vibe, suddenly morphing into an unkempt mop of ringlets; her eyes became wary with betrayal at Tiffany’s blunt touch.

What would Jane think of this?

Discovering my strength, I stumbled away from Tiffany’s range, afraid to offend them directly. Luckily I did just this, for Molly suddenly upheaved a fountain of liquid, almost burgundy in color. What the hell has she been drinking?

“I’m sorry,” she manages to mumble between protruding fits of liquid, her hair acting as a veil that shields her pale face.

Gal managed to back away unscathed, but Tiffany’s exposed toes—plump little things that were pinched fiercely into tight heels—were caught in the wake of vomit. She screamed, trying to back into the bar as far as her portly build would allow. I beamed proudly at their misfortune, but acted the savior as I grabbed a bar napkin, handing it to Molly.

The crowd was careful to back away from our tight circle, carrying on as if nothing had happened. We were nothing more than a backdrop of idiots to them; not worth their consideration, an uninteresting story. Gal began shaking his head, suppressing another fit of giggles as Tiffany began to curse violently at us both. She watches my hand brush against Molly’s in the exchange, her eyes desperately attempting to oppress her jealously with little success. After catching her eye, I am suspicious that she’ll fabricate a story to Jane about me and Molly.

I thought hipsters were rough. But they are not so abrasive compared to girls and their vengeful schemes.