Late last night I was working on my website when I got a call out of the blue from my sister-in-law. She and my brother were in the area, and did I want to go out for a drink? I was fairly ensconced in what I was doing and had to wake up at 5:30 a.m. for work, but some wacky part of me has been forcing myself to say “yes” to things I would normally refuse, so I agreed to meet them at a nearby pretentious lounge, Red Maple.
Red Maple has never been mentioned in these electronic pages because I have only been there once or twice. In my opinion, it is the Lounge that Tries Too Hard. Their architecture is, on the surface, stunning, but a closer look at the chintzy construction reveals why they keep the lights down so low, and the music was so hideously loud that conversation is impossible. I have been to Manhattan lounges, Red Maple, and you are no Manhattan lounge.
After one drink, Tim asked if there were any nearby places that would be more enjoyable. Not being a habitué of Baltimore’s nightlife, I could only think of Hippo and Grand Central Station, two gay bars few doors down. Hippo, I explained, is sort of divey and GCS is a step up but with less intrinsic character. With all of the giddy excitement of bwanas on their first safari, my brother and his wife followed me into Hippo where we discovered . . . it was Bingo night and the dance floor was closed. Not the sort of entrée into “my world” (as they appear to have envisioned it) they had in mind. So we went across the street to Grand Central Station, where we had intended to have one more drink before calling it a night but instead followed a drag queen into the back bar to observe a phenomenon called lube wrestling.
There are no illusions to shatter here: lube wrestling is exactly what it sounds like. “You know,” my brother said as the contestants came out in their underpants. “I love the fact that when I wake up in the morning I truly have no idea of how the day is going to end.”
This day ended with his wife spreading lube on one of the contestants. Or, as the drag queen put it, “Get down here, straight girl! Man, you are stacked. Isn’t she stacked, everyone? Here, pour this pitcher of lube all over that guy over there. Don’t forget his ass. Really rub it in there.”
As the wrestling match heated up, my sister-in-law cheered on her champion. “I didn’t rub lube all over you for nothing!” she shrieked. My brother’s proudest moment!
Meanwhile, not content to watch two slick, gorgeous, and nearly naked men writhe all over each other, I became concerned with something else entirely: it was my first time in a gay bar in years and no one was hitting on me! Quite accustomed to strangers buying me drinks, passing me phone numbers, and declaring my stoic demeanor an Alp to be scaled, I simply did not know how to function in the midst of the silent treatment. My wrathful glare toward all of the potential suitors went sadly misinterpreted, so I had no choice but to drink my wine, take in the proceedings, and regret in advance another night of inadequate sleep.
Oh, and I took this photo.
You know, I really ought to get out more.
