I can see Sid’s face fall.
“There’s no need to talk anymore,” Barry continues, not realizing he’s embarrassed Sid. “All it takes is a text and the right photo. Bada bing bada boom.”
I listen to my friends verbally spar as they eye the hundreds of sweating men packed into the place like sardines.
There is nothing like a gay bar. It is our community’s Church of Mary.
This is the thing you need to know about a gay bar: It is our safe space.
It is communal, almost spiritual, a place where we can unashamedly, unabashedly be ourselves.
I hear even louder verbal sparring and turn my attention toward the door.
A group of gay men is barring the entrance of a bachelorette party.
The fact that bachelorette parties have overrun our gay bars is a huge bone of contention. Palm Springs has become one of the most popular destinations for bachelorette parties; women arrive in droves, dressed in sashes and crowns, taking over our drag shows, gay bars, restaurants. I get it: They like our music.They want to dance. They want to be complimented on their too-short dresses. They love our company. They desire our advice. But the reality is, they can go anywhere and be welcomed. We cannot. And so we have taken our community back.
Many gay bar owners in the area have let bachelorette parties know in not-so-subtle terms that they are no longer welcome. Does that sound wrong to you? Discriminatory? Judgmental? I don’t care. Go to Tommy Bahama.
What would happen—may I ask you—if my gay bachelor party showed up at your local sports bar? Would the fellas there buy us drinks and dance with us and treat us like we were the most special human beings in the entire world for doing something we weren’t allowed to do until only a decade ago because we were denied the most basic of rights? If anyone would have the right to celebrate our marriages, it would be us, right?
Uh-huh.
But there is a deeper reason: Gay bars have saved the lives of many a gay man seeking inclusion in a world that told him he didn’t belong. Gay bars saved my life when I moved to Palm Springs. When you are exhausted from running from hatred, you need a spot to rest and be accepted without any judgment.
I know that the four D’s usually come to mind when we think of gay bars (and I’m not even including the “Big D” in this analogy): drinking, drugs, disease and debauchery. And, yes, it can be all of that. I’ve witnessed some bad scenes along Arenas, many of which included movies from my own life, but there is something more that is found here: a common, united history.
I glance around the bar.
We fought to be here.
I look around this bar and suddenly think of Stonewall in Greenwich Village on a summer’s night in 1969. Some fifty years later, these bars, you must understand, are still the places we gather as society continues to demonize us and take away our rights.
Where can we go to forget the hate that surrounds us?
Here. And few other places.
Our beloved Streetbar was the first gay bar in Palm Springs, long before Arenas Road became the epicenter of gay culture and fun in the city. It was originally called A Streetbar Named Desire.
I mean, c’mon. The gays are always the cleverest creatures, my dear.
I look out the windows that face the street. Arenas is packed. Every bar.
Today, Arenas is home to a block filled with every type of gay bar imaginable, from dance tunes and show tunes to strippers, leather and lesbian. It is even filled with shopping, from upscale clothing to GayMart, a sort of Walmart for the gays.
Over the years, Streetbar and Arenas have become an oasis during our fight for equality, and today are a welcoming spot for the LGBTQ+ community and their allies.
“Are you supposed to be Hillary Clinton?”
I turn my head as a very drunk man elbows his way to the bar.
“Yes,” I say. “And I was supposed to be president.”
He looks at me like I have two heads and orders a vodka Red Bull, the drink of choice for a generation that also likes espresso martinis. By all means, let’s get hypercaffeinatedanddrunk.
I finally take a sip of my pink drink.
A Rose Kennedy is always the same: vodka, club soda and a splash of cran with a lemon wedge. Simple, refreshing, does the trick, and even a moron could make it right in a busy bar. The cocktail got its name many moons ago in a DC gay bar called Trumpets, and the drink contained only enough cranberry to make it subtly pink. We wanted to get drunker faster back in the day.
