A few weeks ago we were invited to go out for our friend Jared’s birthday: a quick dinner at a Chinese restaurant, a round (or three) of drinks at his boyfriend, Lijie’s, apartment, then out to their favorite ridiculous gay bar, Funky.
At least one of the major bars in downtown Santa Barbara does a gay night, but in my limited trips downtown, I somehow missed ever going to a gay bar—until now.
Megan and I dressed fabulously, but the boys in our group were disappointedly decked out in jeans and T-shirts. Typical.
We pushed through too-young boys bespectacled in the thick black rims that are so popular here to get to our table. Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” video was projected on the big screen, and everyone stood, riveted by the fierce costuming on the screen.
The song changed and people fell out of the Gaga trance and started dancing. We joined them on the floor, and it was wonderfully freeing to not have to worry about being “asked” to dance.
The too-young boys would momentarily join our circle, dancing with the birthday boy and telling us girls that we’re beautiful. The guys in our group went back to the table comparing how many times their rear ends had been grabbed.
We danced and talked until the smoky haze was simply too much to bear, and then caught a cab, Megan and Jared inviting everyone to a hung-over bagel brunch the following afternoon.