Learning to Not Drown

The true story of taking my friend to his first gay bar. Sketches were thrown in since it was originally published in a mix of visual and written media magazine. Written at Colby College, 2012

8:30.

Early, but we were going to be late. It had been nearly an hour since Rob had entered the bathroom of our small hotel room:

Spring Break 2011; We were only twenty, so we drove to Montreal, where the drinking age is eighteen. Rob had been complaining about lack of good men at Colby, so I suggested we hit St. Catherine Street, and go to some of the gay bars there. Rob had never been to a “gay” location, not even a regular bar, so he jumped at the opportunity. At first, he was really optimistically excited, but now he was cynically nervous. Maybe they wouldn’t be good enough for him, maybe he wouldn’t be good enough for them?

After another half hour of fashion critique, we hit the street. I didn't know what Rob was looking for specifically, but I was looking for a good time; for both of us. This kid was gonna have fun, whether he liked it or not.

The club was packed, and moving. A large dance floor separated two wings, each with their own circular bar. I had no idea what to do, but I was the leader, so I pressed boldly on, Rob in tow. I sat us down at a high cabaret table, giving us ample view of that bar and the floor. I figured we feel safe here. The dance floor was down a small flight of stairs and a guard rail blockaded us from direct contact: A good base camp for us to get out bearings in.

After soaking up the atmosphere, we went and got our drinks: Stella for me, Long Island for him. We sipped nervously, but beyond idle chat, we weren't doing anything. Clearly, drastic measures were needed. I’ve always believed in trials by fire, and the axiom of learning how to “not drown” before you learn to swim. It was time to dive in. I stood up from the table and with an intense look, leaned in:

Rob looked shocked. I had come here to help him, right? Why would I abandon him. As he mulled it over, I went beyond the bar and downstairs to the bathroom, where I played with a random slot machine. I lost.

Resurfacing, I walked directly past a bewildered Rob, around the dance floor, and hit the bar on the other side of the club. I didn’t really abandon him, he just had to make the step himself. So I was watching him, carefully holding on to his Long Island with both hands, sipping quietly. His face began to sour with each tug on his straw. He looked left, looked right, and with a grandiose shout which I lip-read as “F**K IT”, he downed the drink and disappeared into the dance floor.

Feeling satisfied, I returned to the bar we first sat at, this time on the far side of the circle so Rob wouldn’t see me and come back. I ordered a Jack and Coke to treat myself. At this point, I didn’t need to act bold anymore, so I sat calmly, carefully observing the people around me. After some time, a tap came on my shoulder.

The man settled in. I don’t remember his name so let’s call him David. An old bear from Florida, he was here on a business trip, and was looking for a good time, just like us. We hit it off, but there came a moment where we had to settle accounts. When I confessed being straight, he laughed and told me everyone already knew, something which the bartender also laughed at, confirming David’s story. Apparently I have the classic “straight guy lean” over the bar.

I laughed heartily as he bought me another drink. I explained the whole situation to him with Rob, which intrigued him. We continued to chat on being gay and how it related to religion, life, politics, etc., and we laughed at the terrified boyfriend some girl had brought with her and her drunk girlfriends. David said that happens a lot. We bought doubles of rum and were just about to toast ourselves, when a familiar kid came up to us with a huge smile on his face. He told us that some Norwegian kid tried to make out with him, and to quote:

Rob, David, and I took our shots and introduced one another. Rob had refused the kiss, as he wanted his first to be special, but David was insistent that Rob just take the plunge. David had been buttering me up with flattery and drinks, so while I was defendant of Rob’s right of refusal, I was starting to side more with David. I want him to just do it already. Here is where my trial-by-fire attitude got things escalated: David suggested we went to some place called, SchoolMates, I believe, some pun about students, I don’t remember. It was a gay strip club, specializing in eighteen year old men, and Rob’s face lit up at the idea. He gave me a look as the bartender poured us parting jager shots, and asked me if I’d be ok. I laughed as I threw the shot back.

This was happening, no matter what. Even if I was against going, I would have gone anyway.

The place was dark, as you would expect. Strong men paraded around the stage to a quiet but attentive crowd, as hardcore videos played on a multitude of monitors. I stuck out like a sore thumb, but I put on my best face for Rob. Besides, the drinks kept coming, how could I complain? We drank, and talked, and occasionally gawked, but after an hour or two, things started to get a little out of hand. David was much more intoxicated than Rob, who was slightly more intoxicated than me. After David began to complain about being dumped by his recent boyfriend, and Rob awkwardly had to push away a stripper offering a lap dance, I suggested we leave. David would only get worse, and was starting to sit too close to Rob for anyone’s comfort.

We returned to the first bar by ourselves for one last shot to a good night. Feeling empowered, we hit the dance floor, and let our natural rhythm flow, by which I mean, a plastered straight kid stumbled around with a hammered gay kid for about forty seconds before they were given death glares, and then they booked it out of the club.

When we decided to head home, it was late. I didn’t know how late, but the subway was closed. We had to walk back. We didn’t speak french, we had no idea where we were, and we were trashed, but we never stopped laughing. Spirits improved when we found Le Foufounes Electriques, a punk rock bar we had visited the night before. We knew where to go from there. Rob pulled out a pack of cigarettes he bought because, “vacation”, so I took one as well. We chain-smoked as we walked, when Rob suddenly interjected:

He had put his lit cigarette in his pocket, which caught fire. He yelled as he drunkenly slapped at it, before taking the jacket off and stepping on it. A large hole had been burned clean through it. He would eventually patch the hole with duct tape, and still wears it with honor to this day.

After that shock, we laughed at the whole night. We smoked and we sang “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” as we stumbled through the Place des Arts, at one point falling on our backs to watch the stars. After a few slow cars passed by, which we interpreted as undercover cops, we scurried back to the hotel before we could get arrested for public drunkenness. Rob thanked me for a great night. I replied with a slurred slew of swears.

I don’t remember the morning. My next memory after crashing is us already on the road back to America; the next day at seven o’clock. Far too early for any civilized man. I was hungover and had a six hour drive ahead of me, since Rob didn’t have a license. Even if he could drive, he looked like he could puke all over my car at any second. With the radio quiet, our bottles of water, and a box of Golden Grams being passed between us, we were heading home. After about an hour of silence, Rob motioned for me to pull over. He wretched for a few minutes before crawling back into the car, defeated by his body’s double attack of hangover and nausea. After falling back into his seat in exhaustion, he leaned forward: