Rob And The Gay Giant

We didn't know Rob was homophobic until it was too late.

Rob drove from New York to San Francisco with Matt and Kris, friends of mine
from high school days. The night they arrived, we decided to go out dancing
so they could sample some SF nightlife and work off the hours they spent
sitting in the car. Mora, my girlfriend, suggested we go to the Stud. It was
mostly known as a gay bar, but this being Thursday it was "Motown Night," which
normally drew a mixed crowd.

We should have smelled trouble as soon as we got there. As Rob walked in, he
looked around, and said in a panicked whisper to no one in particular, "This
is a gay bar!" We pointed out the hetero couples and some apparently
unattached women, and told him to relax, ask someone to dance, and have a
good time. Instead, he sat on a stool with his back to the wall, ash white,
looking somewhere between dazed and terrified. Several times Kris and Mora
asked Rob to dance, but each time, without a sound or change of expression,
he shook his head.

While the rest of us were out on the dance floor, we saw an extremely tall
man, maybe 6'6" speaking to Rob. Ironically, the tall guy was wearing a jean
jacket with a beaver elaborately embroidered on the back. It was clear from
his body language that he was hitting on Rob. Rob just sat there stone
faced, refusing to acknowledge this giant in his presence. Even from across
the room, it was becoming clear that the tall man was getting frustrated and
loosing his patience with Rob's insulting behavior.

Sensing trouble, Matt and I made our way toward Rob and the giant. We could
see that a group of people had pulled in close to them, trying to see what
was really happening behind this comical-looking situation: A huge man
obviously hitting on this poor scared soul, who refused to make eye contact
or even utter a sound. We closed in just in time to hear the giant say, "So,
little man, if you won't tell me any else then tell me this: What stunted
your growth?"

Rob never changed expression, never looked at the big man in the beaver
jacket, but responded in a strong, clear voice, "My Dick!"

After a second of hesitation, the bar broke out in pandemonium. In the
middle of the chaos, Rob stood up for the first time all night and, in a
high-pitched voice, squealed, "I've got to get out of here." He ran toward
the Exit sign behind the pool table at the back of the bar. He hit the door
full speed, but it didn't budge. A group of men were playing pool, and one of
them said, "You can't go out that way buddy, it's a fire door." In Rob's
twisted state of mind, he saw this group of butch gay men telling him, in a
menacing tone, that he's trapped in this hot, sweaty bar full of predatory
homosexuals who had his number. It didn't help that they all held pool cues.
Rob, paused for a second, then ran through the bar, screaming at the top of
his lungs, "I CAN'T GET OUT, I CAN'T GET OUT, I CAN'T GET OUT, I CAN'T
GET OUT!"

We finally caught up with him a few blocks away, sitting on the curb,
panting. Unbeknownst to him, he was sitting in front of a transvestite bar.

Is there a point to this story? No. But if there was it could be this:

If you're a guy in a gay bar, the appropriate answer to any question is "My
Dick!"

(Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

© Jonathan Bryce 2001