An Unforgettable Bar
He suggests Unforgettable Bar because I am unfamiliar with the neighborhood. It is a single stop away on the Blue Line from my friend’s house where I am staying, so I agree. When I arrive, I am underwhelmed. It is like every other Irish pub. Everything is green. It is St. Patrick’s Day. The bar is decorated with cheap, kitschy tinsel garlands and cardboard shamrocks. The bartender asks me what I want to drink. A Modelo, thank you. I sit beside him. He is drawing in a pocket-sized sketchbook and doesn’t look up. Z? I ask. Oh yeah, he says hello.
We try to make conversation. The music is too loud. I am too soft spoken. He shows me his drawings. They’re good, I tell him, relieved, and joke that I would’ve had to leave if I didn’t like them. It is impossible to fuck someone who isn’t talented at their craft. A man interrupts us, hands Z a quarter, and tells him it’s his turn to play pool. I am going to play pool, he tells me. Oh, do you want me to watch? I ask. Yeah, you can watch, or you can stay here. Whatever you want.
Well, I guess I will watch him play pool. I sit on a lone bar stool in the corner. It is elevated enough that my feet don’t touch the ground. I turn my knees inward and try to make myself seem feminine and somewhat removed from the scenario. He wins the first round. You won, I smile. He mishears me. Did you say we won? He laughs, I think because it would imply we are a couple. I nod and touch his abdomen, using my nail to scratch a dried patch of clay off his shirt. From the ceramics studio? I ask. Yeah, I fucked up a teapot. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed recently. I hate that men have to put so little effort into being attractive. But he is undeniably attractive. I like when he leans over the pool table and raises his one leg behind him for balance, exposing a sliver of his midriff. He makes a dumb, focused expression. His lips pucker like a fish. Maybe I will fuck him tonight even though I told him I don’t fuck on the first date when we were messaging earlier that day. I’m sure he thought that was a lie or that he could persuade me otherwise. He touches my right knee with his hand. My stomach clenches. I feel a little dizzy. Giddy. Am I blushing? Oh wow. I haven’t been this turned on in a long time.
He plays three more rounds. Between his turns, he returns to me and presses his groin against my knee. He is hard. It is a little aggressive but not unpleasant. He wins two more rounds. Maybe you are my good luck charm, he laughs. It’s a combined effort, I explain, your skill and my luck, ha. I feel like the Midwestern tranny version of a Bond girl. You know, one of those classic scenes where Bond is in a casino wearing a tux while a gorgeous siren hovers at his shoulder. My makeup is impeccable somehow. Just a bit of blush, concealer, and mascara. He loses the fourth. Okay, now we know I only had the stamina for the first three, I tease. We move to the bar. He goes outside to smoke a cigarette. He doesn’t invite me. I would love a cigarette right now. Fucking air signs, man.
He is fidgety from the nicotine when he returns. He tries to get the bartender’s attention to order another beer. We attempt to make unfocused conversation. I think he might be drunk; I should have realized he was when he flung open the door to the single-stall restroom while it was occupied and left the door ajar without apology after being yelled at by the burly dude pissing at the urinal. I bet you could make me feel good, he says. He places his hand on my thigh. That’s nice. Do you sleep with women? He asks abruptly. Yes, I say, indignant. I don’t, but I am frustrated by the line of questioning. Do you fuck women? I ask. I mostly date women, he explains and leans in to whisper in my ear, But I love sucking dick. It’s fun. It is fun, I admit. I pout. I guess I’m not included in his definition of woman. He moves his hand further up my thigh and squishes the head of my cock. I laugh. I am stunned, I guess, by his boldness. He keeps stroking my cock. Is that ok, he asks? I want to say no but I’m confused by the whole interaction and afraid of upsetting him, so I kind of half nod. Everyone else at this bar is cisgender and drunk. I am so soft. It is so bright in this bar. I’ve only drunk a single beer. Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” plays in the background.
The bartender asks me if I want another drink. No, I’ll close out. I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I text Arroz. She is driving home from a date. Can I call you in five minutes? Yes. When I come back, I tell him I have to leave. I’m meeting a friend in Pilsen early the next morning. This is not a lie. I kiss him on the neck and duck out. He sends me three messages on Tinder in succession. 11:33 pm: You turned me on… 11:37: You are hot. 11:58 pm: Ugggh. I unmatch him. Well, apt name, it really will be an unforgettable bar.
Image: Nicole Eisenman, Sloppy Bar Room Kiss, 2011.
Current recommendation: I am obsessed with Emji Saint Spero’s Disgust. Agnes had us read the first few pages before our final writing workshop. I’ve never had a book confound me this much. It is an epic, fragmented poem written after a week-long performance where Spero entered into an agreement with d, a dom. The first directive is that they cannot use their hands. They falter and interrupt themselves. Encounters with their friends become erotic and charged; they pour vodka down Spero’s throat. It spills everywhere. Someone places a cigarette in their mouth. They become acutely aware of physical intimacy. Disgust’s erotic framework is a stroke of confessional genius. I hope I can emulate it one day.