The Truth Hurts

[March 16th, 2005] On a Saturday night, I'm twirling on the dance floor at Vitis Enoteca, swimming in a sea of women, and I feel myself letting go of some of the insecurities I associate with hanging out at gay bars-like age, weight and beauty.

On this night at Vitis, I've become a male fag hag. I could be naked and nobody would care. This feels so wonderful, so freeing, that I begin to wonder: Do women feel like this when they're the only ones of their gender at an all-boy bar?

My partner and I didn't plan on being the only two dudes on the dance floor a couple of Saturdays ago, but that's what happened at this event billed as an "After Hours Party for Women."

Vitis is lesbian-owned, but it isn't a lez bar; hell, it doesn't even really look like a restaurant. Nestled in the I-405 corridor where the Pearl District meets Northwest Portland, Vitis is more French wine cellar meets Italian trattoria, which makes it a nice late-night spot for ladies to tap each other's asses while enjoying a plate of tapas or, as on this night, a platter of apple-tinis. The entire reason we were there in the first place was because we'd agreed to meet two friends-who just happen to be girls who like girls-in the hopes that they might hook up with each other.

While that didn't happen, something else did.

Let me back up to explain something significant that happened a couple of hours earlier. I knew I was in for a special evening as soon as I zipped the head of my penis into the metal mouth of a tight pair of 501s. You see, until then, I had gone my entire life without feeling that particular pleasure (insert Ben Stiller joke here).

But this isn't the place to talk about the pains I've inflicted on my guy parts. Rather, I'm thinking about the way men and women hook up, and how hard it is for all of us to step out of our own skins.

Lining up for the men's room at Vitis-which for the night had become another ladies' room-I looked around and realized I was in the middle of a live local version of The L Word, Showtime's girl-on-girl television fantasy.

Everyone at Vitis was hot. Everyone looked like they had money, or at least a job. A couple of the ladies on the dance floor looked like they could be the proud owner of an Olympic gold medal or a World Cup trophy.

I can let go here, I thought, because the sexual transactions don't include me.

You know, come to think of it, I'm actually glad that on this particular night I got my you-know-what caught in my zipper. For a few hours I was forced to be myself. I had become, temporarily at least, a eunuch unencumbered by the cucumber (OK, pickle) in my pants.

Well, while that may be a bit of a stretch, wouldn't it be nice if all of us-male and female, straight and gay-could go out every once in a while and not have to worry about getting our asses kicked or maybe getting our asses noticed at all? Wouldn't it be nice if there were places in the world where we could be free of the insecurities that we've come to associate with the most private parts of our anatomy? Discomfort aside, I'll never forget this night.