Do I look like I belong here?

One Saturday night, after a day of thrift-shopping and museum-hopping, my lipstick butch, drop-dead gorgeous then-girlfriend and I were headed home, tired, but still wired. We were going to take our time getting home by way of dinner, then a little dancing, pool, and cognac at our favorite bar in West Hollywood.

She had a lovely friend, a gay man named Carlos (not his real name.)

He had just started seeing someone he really liked and wanted us to meet him.

We found this out at the gas station when she was pumping gas and I called home to check messages from the pay phone, (remember those days?) because I was waiting to hear about an audition.

I was hungry, and we felt like dancing, so we called and left him a message, telling him we would meet him later.

Carlos wanted us to meet him at this men’s leather bar on Santa Monica near Vermont.

We usually liked to go with him to this bar of a Thursday night, only. My former love would sit one Thursday a month, in the mobile barber chair, and donate to one charity or another and get herself an almost military flat-top. It was kinda hot.

I was playing at being a girl (I never really got the hang of that one; inside I was the biggest butch in the world,) and although the night she and I first met, I was in men’s trousers and suspenders, because she asked me to, and because i “cleaned up ok,” I wore dresses, corsets and stockings and even sometimes heels to my ex-darling’s jeans and engineer boots.

So, anyway, with a now-full tank of gas and a renewed sense of purpose, we got back into her black beemer and headed to our favorite restaurant in West Hollywood for steak au poivre with broccoli.

Then we hit our favorite bar with the best dj ever and danced off our dinner, nice and close to each other. Shot a few games of pool, then found a table to relax with a drink.

Later, after I went on designated driver mode because all I could handle was a sip of cognac, not being a drinker, and after her few snifters of Remy Martin, a shared Marlboro red, and water with no ice, we headed over to meet Carlos.

At first there was no traffic, but being a Saturday night in Los Angeles, that changed quickly.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, as all that water was catching up with me.

Ahead, we heard a crash, and then the traffic stopped. We inched along, seemingly for an hour, during which time I tried to think only of the desert and saltines, heading east on Santa Monica Blvd because there just isn’t a freeway in that area to cover the distance more quickly.

After finally moving around the fender bender, (nobody was hurt,) we began to move again.

I could feel my back teeth floating, and I’ve never been good at holding it in. I switched on the radio and concentrated on driving, putting my full attention on shifting gears smoothly. I was ready to burst. My then-love rested her hand on my right knee. I told her after I get to pee I preferred to go home. We could meet Carlos and his new squeeze for coffee and raspberry soy pancakes at The Source on Sunset the next morning. I’d stop long enough for relief and we’d be on our way.

Finally, just when I thought I was about to pop, we pulled up to the same men’s leather bar.

My then-darling came around to open the door for me, still early enough in the relationship for her to want to be a gentleman, upon which I flew out so fast I almost fell. I was so intent, I left behind what I needed to bring, and vice versa.

Getting out of the car I almost wet myself, so we ran to the door because Carlos, whose voice we could hear just behind the wall, knew the door-guy, but tonight it was someone else, and he wouldn’t let me in to pee because my ID was back in the car, too far away.

So I took a second and composed myself as best I could, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, and looked down to check out what I was wearing.

I made a show of taking a mirror from my pocket, a vintage pink Bakelite compact...

Vintage silk pale yellow scarf wrapped like a band around my long, natural brown hair, pale rose lipstick, PEARLS, both earrings and necklace, a vintage 1950’s yellow cotton dress, a vintage hand-beaded cardigan, Bobby socks, FUCKING SADDLE SHOES, and a huge rag doll I’d found earlier in the day at a thrift-shop that I’d forgotten to leave behind, because all I could think about was how badly I had to pee. My sweetie stood by, patiently.

And I looked at the door-guy... black leather motorcycle cap, a tight and well fitting black leather vest across a gorgeous hairy chest, tight indigo 501s, and black motorcycle boots polished to a gleam. His wrists sported thick black leather bands and from his back pocket poked a black bandana.

Directly beneath that black leather cap were two twinkling mischievous blue eyes, with a bitchy grin and a waxed mustache.

Then I looked at me again and pleaded, feeling my bladder about to burst, honey, look at you and look at me... do I LOOK like I belong here?

He fell off his stool laughing and let me in.