by Nina Krieger

A gay man could get laid in the remote corners of the world, trekking through an Amazonian jungle amongst face painted natives who speak in clicks and clacks, or caravanning across the Tibetan plains underneath a soft yak blanket and followed by a nightcap of hot butter tea. That’s what I thought walking through London’s Soho streets, where men with shopping bags held hands, and rainbow flags flapped above bars like Sir Dicks a Lot and the Cock and Arms. I might be slightly off on the names, but I felt like a sheep lost from my herd as I paced up and down the dead-end streets, inspecting the numbers on the doorframes, checking and rechecking my notebook for the exact address of the one dyke bar in London.

Before leaving the States, I’d found the location of the Candy Bar on no less than five Websites. Bateman Street. But isn’t this Bateman Street? I wondered aloud into my mini-tape recorder, a device meant for work research but used instead to keep myself company.

“You should ask someone,” I said to myself, flipping the recorder to my other ear like a cell phone.

Fortunately this was the afternoon scouting excursion, a dry run. I couldn’t be pacing around sweaty and disheveled come nighttime, and then expect to stroll into the bar and pick up a girl. “Confidence is the key to success,” I said. “But clearly you know this, my friend.” I patted myself on the back and returned the recorder to my pocket.

London Bridge, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben were all potential tourist destinations for my first day in London, and while I contemplated a visit to Buckingham Palace, to stand in front and ask strangers, “Excuse me, do you know where Buckingham Palace is?” I didn’t need to see another bridge, church or clock. We had those back in the States. What we didn’t have were British girls.

Girls are girls are girls, you might say, and how wrong you would be. Perhaps you’re unaware of the distinguishing nuances of culture and incapable of appreciating the finer things in life, like the transformative beauty of an accent. For example, take “cunt,” a crass and vulgar word that evokes two sisters with bleached hair and press on nails clawing at each other as one of them spews through smudgy lipstick, “You stole my husband, you cunt.” The crude word signifies all that is boorish about American society.

But British society is high society, replete with etiquette and eloquence. There is majesty to the crowns and jewels, to the white gloves and courtly robes. Picture the Queen on her throne. “My cunt is a tad wet,” she might giggle. Now, you see, the word is properly smutty and obscenely civilized.

I imagined myself holding one word “cunt” auditions. “One more time,” I’d say. “I couldn’t quite tell if you’re from Sussex or Essex. And perhaps you could try it slower. Think royalty. Think power. You are the Queen.”

Assuming the auditions went well, with only my backpack I could easily move into my new girlfriend’s flat by morning. Since those Brits still have their knickers in a bunch over the whole Tea Party incident, securing an extended visa would be more difficult, and I had yet to research the domestic partnership laws, but all of this would be moot if I couldn’t find the bar.

A man swirled his cocktail in front of a place called something like the Admiral Assbanger. “Do you know where I can find the girls?” I asked. “I think it’s called the Candy Bar.” I felt oddly shy before a man who in my position would’ve asked more specifically for a blonde bottom with leather chaps and his own handcuffs.

He suggested I ask in the sex shop, where surrounded by a cock cage, ball spreader, and erection pump, I started to wonder if I should’ve been snapping pictures of celebrities at Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum instead of salivating over currant and rhubarb lube. To cultivate my cultural awareness I practiced metric system conversions on both the cock rings with their challenging fractions and the dildos, for abroad it is crucial to know that 25 centimeters equals a silicone bazooka. Eventually I asked the cashier for the correct location of the Candy Bar, and after confirming its existence, I returned to my hostel.

****

All five boys were asleep in my room. At first I thought the universal law of hostel napping was in effect—at least one person must always be sleeping, fully dressed and with the lights on—but none of the boys were clothed. Bare arms and legs shot out from the holey, yellowing sheets on the top and bottom bunks, and aside from a few puddles of jeans on the ground, no bags or jackets signified an overnight stay. Obviously a mass homosexual orgy had taken place.

Or I had returned to the regular backpacking world, to a hostel with a mist machine in the basement club, spaghetti sauce glued to the pots and pans in the kitchen, and an air of teenage boy—body odor, fart and mildew—lingering about the building. These were farm boys in the big city for the weekend, their few belongings stowed in the lockers that I’d failed to notice.

When I opened my backpack, underneath two guidebooks, seven novels and a back-up journal, I found only a couple pairs of crumpled pants. The more flattering pair had a zipper above the knee. These blue outdoorsy convertible shorts/pants were perfect for an African safari—shorts for the hot days tracking antelope and springbok, pants for the cool savannah evenings at camp—but unstylish for an urban club. I pictured myself saying, “It’s a bit toasty in here with all this grinding. Just one sec, babe, let me zip off these legs and cram ‘em into my cargo pockets here.”

Thankfully I remembered my special “makeout shirt.” Red collared and with thin blue lines, this top is actually a Fila tennis shirt from the 80’s that developed its special status only because I wore it often enough for the rules of probability to play out. Many girls I know have a lucky shirt, although they call theirs a “pussy shirt.” I hoped mine might graduate here in London, in which case it would be correctly called a “fanny shirt.”

****

I arrived early enough to find a stool at the bar and ordered what amounted to a ten-dollar Budweiser with the exchange rate. Combined with the exorbitant cover charge, the cost of the evening had already burnt a hole into my money belt. In order to prolong my gold beer, I swilled and backwashed half of each sip and in between snuck furtive glances at the door. A diverse mix of girls straggled in, some with khaki pants, neat white shirts and ponytails pulled tight; others with glittered faces, busty cleavages, and platform boots; all of them, British.

Unfortunately I couldn’t think of an appropriate conversation opener. In a bar with seedy lights, mirrors and sex-colored décor, a simple pleasantry like hello would reveal my obvious intentions. I considered, “Hey, wanna buy me a drink?” to hide my desire under the brazen guise of overconfidence and keep me within budget constraints, but this could result in a slap, an unacceptable risk. After shredding my bottle label and the coaster, and with my warm beer down to the last unsavory sip, I prepared to leave. Then I felt a bump at my back.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry,” I said and slid over to make space in front of the bustling bar.

“You’re a Yank,” the girl replied. She smiled delightfully to reveal a gap between her teeth, small by local standards and perfect in its significance. The bartender placed a bucket of ice holding a bottle of Chardonnay in front of my new friend, Jane. “Care for a glass?” she asked.

“No thanks,” I said in a foolish polite reflex.

“Oh come along, you’re in London. Have a drink with us.”

“Well, if you insist,” I said and swiveled around on my stool. I told Jane and her two friends about the travel writing contest I’d won and my work writing for a budget backpacker’s guidebook to Europe. They all huddled closer and nodded their heads in impressed approval as I shared my embellished tales of life on the road.

“I once backpacked across Canada on a Greyhound bus,” Jane said. She struck me immediately as unique with her weighty silver earrings, stone choker necklace, and thick woven belt, the kind of offbeat accessories one purchases at a flea market or maybe a New Mexico airport.

“Canada’s big,” I said. “That’s one helluva trip.” Impressed by Jane’s odd adventures, I started to think of her as Bachelorette #1.

“My bum was sore, but it was bloody brilliant.” Jane edged closer to me in the circle. I added bonus points to her tally for the use of “bum” and “bloody” in the same sentence.

“I’ve never left Britain,” said Widj, her name short for something like Widjicksiezki or WidjShouldICallHer. The answer, of course, was Bachelorette #2. “I never go anywhere. I never do anything,” she said in the monotonous drone of Eeyore the donkey. Her puritan features were as dreary and glum as her attitude.

At one point Bachelorette #3 had a name, but she also had a girlfriend. Upon hearing this I developed retrograde amnesia and temporary deafness in the ear closest to her.

After round one of The Dating Game, a superior British version (as they always are), I had eliminated the nameless Bachelorette #3, but still needed to make a decision: leave on the last underground tube or take an expensive taxi later and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the next week. I waited to no avail for the host to request my answer.

“Would you like a rum and coke?” Jane offered.

The only drink I liked less than white wine was rum and coke. “Sure,” I said.

Jane sucked hard on her drink straw; her pale cheeks flushed a piggish pink from the build up of booze. She bopped to the beat, first swaying, and then loosening up her hips and shoulders into rhythm with the music. The dance floor in the basement remained at maximum capacity and a line wound up the circular stairs. “I wanna dance,” Jane screamed. Letting go of all inhibitions, she sprinted in place like a Bruce Springsteen groupie in a music video. The ice in her empty glass rattled as she shook her head wildly and her long wavy hair nearly whipped me. She slammed her glass on the bar and in a schizophrenic return to grace, she said, “I’m going to the loo.”

Relieved, I turned to Widj. “So, you’re a doctor. You must have some crazy stories?” I remembered this young Australian doctor who once regaled me all evening with the items a doctor can extract from a patient’s ass: carrot, candle, shampoo bottle, and an apple. The last you can pass on your own and doesn’t require a hospital visit.

“Nah, I’m dull,” Widj said.

Lack of personality seemed like a ridiculous reason to discount a pediatrician. She would be good with the kids, especially when they were sick, and we’d always have money for diapers, formula and cases of Budweiser.

“I once dated a girl for six months because she put corn in her tuna. I found that exciting.” She took a sip of her late-night water. “I’m just dull, I guess.”

I looked around the bar, scanning over nasty napkins, scattered glasses, the grimy floor, and pockets of couples in the corners. My eyes settled upon the former Bachelorette #3 with her arms wrapped around someone who wasn’t her “girlfriend.” If I had known the word meant something different in London, she would still be in the trio of possibility, but now only Jane remained.

“There were no bog rolls in that filthy loo,” Jane said. When I smiled at her expression for toilet paper, she picked up my drink off the bar and tipped her head back for the last gulp. She grabbed my hand and dragged me to the darkened cave, where on the dance floor sweaty bodies fumbled onto each other with intoxicated desire.

I paused to consider which of my three dance moves to use, the Oompa Loompa bounce, shake water from the ear—a hop useful after swimming laps—or prizefighter—a pump of my two clasped hands from side-to-side above my head. Jane decided for the both of us, choosing the unmentioned spasmodic snake.

She fell into me so that we undulated in clumsy paroxysms, and she kissed me, all slobbery and sour. Our bodies mashed together while our tongues slashed. With my eyes closed, unbalanced feet pounded all around and the stench of hard liquor burnt my nostrils.

Even with the time change on this side of the Atlantic, drunk o’clock is the same at any club cellar in any dyke bar in any city, although here we were snogging and back home we’d be kissing, but in both places it was still disgusting. “I gotta go,” I said and slipped into the female flotsam.

Upstairs I ordered a beer and resigned myself to blowing all my quid, to going out with a bangless bang, and to hanging out with Jane, who had followed me to the bar and interlocked her arm through mine. I bought her a beer so she’d let go of me to drink it, and the two of us sat in one of the plush red booths. Undeterred by my unfashionable blue zip-off pants, Jane and her fingers crawled up my leg. “Come on, say it,” I said as I held her arm and twisted it away from my crotch. “It’s just one word. Please.”

She tugged her arm in sexually frustrated aggression. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you, you bloody Yank.”

“The bar is closing,” the bartender screamed. She stood topless on the bar. “Get the fuck out.”

Everyone ignored her, including me. Normally I’m a sucker for a bare breasted woman, but British girls are different. “Say it,” I said to Jane.

“Al-u-min-i-um,” she said, adding an “I”, the extra British syllable that distorts the entire word and translates a mundane element on the Periodic Table into a sound of beauty.

“Aluminum,” I said, banging on the consonants.

“Al-u-min-i-um.” Her vowels floated like butterflies.

“Aluminum,” I spat.

“Al-u-min-i-um,” she sang.

I could have listened to her all night.

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 11th, 2007 at 7:09 pm and is filed under First Annual Solas Awards Winners, Funny Story, Great Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.