Off My Chest

After too many afternoons spent with my friends, I decided I could use some masculinity in my life. Not that there's anything wrong with Lacoste shirts or hair gel or guys who cross their legs at the knees. It's just like watching too many Mike Myers movies: eventually you start to wonder what Chuck Norris is doing.

I put on black 501s and black motorcycle boots, then dove into my t-shirt drawer in search of butch. I had exactly one black t-shirt mixed in with the colorful souvenirs from various vacations, and it had "Nobody Knows I'm Gay" stenciled across the chest. I flashed back to my birthday: one of those aforementioned friends gave it to me thinking advertising might help me find a man. Not if I refused to wear it, I thought, but I pulled it out of the drawer tonight. Even dated and tacky paled in horror next to loose and pastel.

I headed to the Pit, one of New York City's few leather bars. It's in the worst part of town, it's dirty, it serves one kind of beer straight out of the bottle. Cyclone fencing divides it into rooms, sinister music plays at earsplitting volume, it's so dark you can't see your hand in front of you. Throw in the adjoining shop selling paddles, whips and gags and you've got everything a butch dude could want.

My pulse quickened as I scanned the manly types, but when my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realized they were all seriously flawed. Too much exposed flesh. Pinprick pupils. Too much leather. A little is hot, but head-to-toe is crazy. It's like wearing too much pink.

I wandered around for maybe fifteen minutes, and found exactly one hot guy. He was leaning against the wall by the pool table, watching a couple guys play, and I knew he liked me because he pretended not to notice me as I walked by. I sidled up next to him, feigning interest in the game. We watched intently as they knocked the balls around, and when it was over we pretended to see each other for the first time. He raised his beer a couple inches in the world's most restrained toast. With his eyes on my t-shirt he growled, "Hey, ‘Gay.'"

That's another thing that sets butch men apart: they have their own way of talking. Whereas regular people introduce themselves, butch men don't need no fancy names. They're all "Scout" and "Ace" and "Champ." When they want to get really familiar, they name you after your clothes. Heck, I still get Christmas cards from my second husband addressed to "Polo Shirt."

I scoured his apparel for a nickname. His jeans were tight, his boots were scuffed, he had a leather cuff around his right wrist. His low-cut tank had a Balkan cross and the word "DEUTSCHLAND" on it, so I went with that. "Hey, German," I replied, in a low but still possibly believable voice.

He moved in close, and the hair on my arms stood on end. He rubbed his face against mine, presumably so I could hear him over the music, and the stubble on his chin could have scraped a lasagna pan clean. "So, what do you like to do?" he asked me.

No names and no small talk, evidently. Well, that was just fine with me. I figured this could be the start of a new relationship, so I decided to be honest from square one. "As little as possible," I declared, flirtatiously flipping my hair. "In every room of the house."

When his glance slid away I knew I was history. I had seriously messed up. An unshaven number with a black rooster on his tanktop pushed past us and their eyes locked. When German winked, I knew I'd lost him forever. "Hey, Rooster," he said to the newcomer.

"Hey, German," Rooster replied.

"So, what do you like to do?" German asked.

"Everything that's legal," he said, plunging his hands deep into his pockets, "plus a few things that aren't." When most folks move in for a handshake these guys went for a hug, and within minutes they were twisted together like a pretzel. My skin exfoliated just watching them make out.

I skulked off silently, refusing to concede defeat. Maybe I wasn't exactly the butchest guy around, but this old dog could still learn new tricks. Over the next few hours I wandered into every corner of the joint, watching the interactions and noting the details like there might be a quiz later. I eavesdropped on conversations. I heard the woofs and the growls, saw the glowers and the winks, watched the chin grabs and the back slaps that meant "You're swell." I watched and listened and memorized it all. Finally I was ready for another try.

Unfortunately, by that time it was three A. M., and even most of the ugly folks had gone home. There were eight guys with swollen pink stomachs sticking out of their leather vests, three wearing harnesses that trailed into leather hotpants, and one wearing a studded mask, a cockring and a smile.

I'd put my new skills to use another time.

I stumbled outside into the early-morning air, but even the dewy chill couldn't dull the heat inside me. A drunken straight couple staggering the other way looked at my t-shirt and laughed. That's enough abuse for one night, I thought, and I pulled it off over my head and flung it over a fence. The cold air felt good against my sweaty chest.

I wandered through the darkened streets, heading for the subway, when headlights appeared further up the road. As they approached, I noticed two things: first, that it was a classic old Ford pickup, battered and painted primer gray, and second, that my man German was at the wheel.

The Ford slowed as it neared, and our eyes locked together. That initial attraction still burned. He came to a halt in the middle of the road, and I casually sauntered over, thrusting my hands into my pockets.

My eyes lingered on the muscles beneath the tank top, the well-packed jeans, the chin cleft that could hide Jimmy Hoffa. I was ready. I was willing. I knew the manly response to any question he could pose.

He stretched a thick, tattooed arm across the passenger seat, eyeing me like a buzzard eyes a budgie. "Hey, Levi's," he rumbled like Barry White. "You look really familiar."

I tried to smirk, but I'm no Bruce Willis. "I was ‘Gay' until a couple hours ago."

"Oh," he said resignedly, and he shifted the truck into gear. "Too bad you gave it up."