As I’ve mentioned before, I raise my rainbow flag high. Queens definitely know how to party, and I like to party. Peas in a pod, people!
So, I do enjoy going to a fun gay bar on occasion. As a woman, there is absolutely no pressure because no one notices you. I like to dust off my old miniskirt, try out some new eye shadow techniques and then go shake my groove thang. It also helps that gay men like to fawn over me and tell me how beautiful I am, which is never a bad thing to hear.
A few months ago I met up with some friends in Boystown. Sure enough, I had opted to wear a rather short skirt. We claimed a table in the back near the dance floor. Before we knew it, the place started to fill up. On pure luck alone the area we choose to sit was apparently a lesbian-designated area. I caught a few wandering glances in my direction (I still got it!) and high-fived myself proudly. I had somewhat forgotten the opportunities to score with some lesbians and regretted not wearing my purple sparkly tassles as previously planned. Look and love ladies, look and love!
Again, part of the joy of being at a gay bar is the feeling of inhibition. It’s amazing! I love to dance, and it’s nice to be able to rock out knowing there is no chance of some young annoying guy trying to “tap” anything I’m shaking.
The dance floor was not too crowded, leaving ample space for me to try out my new tap dance routine (Tea…for two…and two…for tea). As I’m shuffling and shaking my head all around, I noticed a little Mexican man who seemed to be impressed by my amazing dance moves. He was probably 100 pounds soaking wet and was gyrating his pelvis in a way that can only be described as feminine. I eagerly checked in my purse for a pen to make sure I was prepared when he asked me to autograph his butt check.
Then, suddenly, this tiny man was behind me and dancing with me. And by dance I mean hump like a dog in heat. I was a little perplexed at this, as he was CLEARLY of the homosexual variety. And he was CLEARLY excited about something, which most likely was not the fact that I was the proud owner of a vagina. Unless he had a roll of quarters in his pocket, which is what I crossed my fingers, toes and eyes for.
My moves are good, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t go turning gay people straight by any sense of the word.
I turned around and giggled uncomfortably, but he did not even seem to notice and continued humping away. I then attempted to break loose from his grasp and walk away, but he held on to me tighter than I would grasp a loaf of pumpernickel bread from the Cheesecake Factory. Once I broke free and was able to walk away, he followed me, staying right on my ass and humping away.
He literally humped my ass across the entire dance floor as I tried to make a break for it. I was so confused!
I somehow released myself from his grip and got back to our table, then took a few minutes to softly knead my now bruised buttocks. My ass took a pounding! I asked my gay friend, who informed me the guy was likely “on” something and I was simply a means to an end.
Of all the people on the dance floor, why did he choose ME as his personal masturbation assistant? Seriously, this stuff just doesn’t happen to other (read: normal) people.
Moral of the Story:
Karma is a bitch. I deserved to be humped by a tiny Mexican man given all the dry humping I have done to unsuspecting people in my past.
My only problem is at least stick with your own persuasion. I was actually a bit upset at his actions. Not only was he so desperate to get his rocks off that he felt the need to hump a random stranger on the dance floor, but he also chose a woman to do this.
I at least have standards!