[Video] The First Night | Ely Percy

By Ely Percy

Art by Lauren Drinkwater

Ely Percy captures the feeling of being new to a community in this fictional vignette of a Scottish queer night scene

 

It was my first night out on the scene. The gay scene. It was a Friday night, the same night Mel from the chat room proposed to her girlfriend. But, that’s a whole other story. I didn’t even know you could get married if you were gay. That’s how clueless I was. As I said, it was my first night.  

Paris and I had met on gay.com, and we’d emailed back and forth before she convinced me to come out for a drink. It was weird because I’d read things about meeting people over the internet – paedophiles and all kinds of weirdos – but it never occurred to me that she might not be who she said she was. Later, when I spoke to my straight friends about it, they all insisted they’d never consider hooking up with a guy they hadn’t spoken to in person.

Not that I was planning on hooking up with anyone – I’d made it clear from the start I was only looking for friendship.

Anyway, I know how dodgy it must have sounded, but somehow meeting Paris seemed perfectly normal; being asked out to a bar I’d never been to by a random gay girl I’d only spoken to through a computer screen seemed perfectly feasible – especially when Paris said that she’d take care of me. And she certainly did take care of me.

 

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I couldn’t decide what to wear – my mock leather trousers, or the new ones I’d bought from Oasis with the slits up the sides and the diamanté trim? I couldn’t find shoes either. Eventually, I settled on my little black mini skirt, black knee-high socks and baby doll shoes, and my matching satin silk shirt. I looked hot – or so I thought.

Truth be told, I took so long getting ready that night I almost missed my taxi. And when Paris met me outside on the corner of Wilson and Virginia Street, my nerves were jangling, and the adrenalin was pumping, and I was so busy fantasising about all the gorgeous lesbian ladies I was about to see, that I hardly even registered her presence.

 

As soon as I stepped into Sandy’s, heads were turning, and jaws were dropping – but not in a good way. Everyone else appeared to be following some kind of dykes-r-us dress code that nobody told me about, and I’d never seen so many women wearing gingham shirts.

Still, I’d taken the plunge, and I was determined to make the most of it. Plus, I’m not the sort of person to be put off just because I’ve made a fashion faux pas.

Paris had on an all-in-one white Kappa tracksuit and a matching rhinestone-covered baseball cap. I had no idea at the time, but sportswear was all she ever wore. Of course, there was a lot about Paris I didn’t know. According to her online profile, her interests included: football, basketball, martial arts and dancing. Obviously, she’d forgotten to mention that she didn’t actually partake in any of these sports but preferred watching them on the telly on a Saturday afternoon, whilst nursing a hangover from the previous night’s cocktail of alcohol and miscellaneous substances that she’d consumed while she was at the dancing.

To be honest, I was thoroughly disappointed. Like I said, I’d no intention of getting romantically involved with her, but I’d never had a girlfriend before, and a teeny, tiny part of me had been hoping that, maybe – just maybe – there might be a spark.

No chance of that, I thought, as I watched her staggering back from the bar with the waistband of her boxer briefs riding high above her tracksuit trousers. But it wasn’t just her lack of dress sense, or the lies she’d made up to impress me, or even the fact that she looked like she’d walked straight out of a you’ve-been-tangoed advert – I swear to god this lassie got her makeup skills courtesy of Crayola – it was everything, her entire personality.

Paris slammed the drinks down on the table. Then she burped. She actually fucking burped. Right in my face.

“Emm, thanks for that,” I said.

She grimaced at me. “Two pound for a Malibu an a diet fucking Coke!”

“Pardon?”

She reminded me of a cabbage patch kid – a stick-thin, orange, moon-faced cabbage patch kid with acne and peroxide hair.

She stabbed at my glass with her skinny index finger. “Two quid.”

“Oh. Right. Sure. I’ll give you back the money.”

“S’okay, doll, it’s no bother, it’s just it’s fucking highway robbery know what I mean?”

I didn’t understand half of what she was saying because she kept slurring her words. Of course, she wasn’t the only one who was drunk when she arrived – I’d downed half a bottle of wine for Dutch courage before I’d left the house.

I thanked her again for the drink, then gave her a tight smile and lifted the glass to my lips.

To be fair, I was grateful that I had somebody to keep me company – even if I did have to keep edging away to avoid her trying to snog me.

Because there was no way I’d have ventured into a gay place by myself. Nope.  No chance.

And Sandy’s was really nice inside – if you ignored the incredibly rude clientele who kept craning their necks in our direction and nudging each other and sniggering.

It wasn’t what I’d expected from a gay bar at all. It was well-lit for a start. And I liked the way the tops of the tables and the backs of the chairs had tiny little hearts carved along the edges. There was a menu on our table that said ‘Sandra Dee’s Diner’ in tiny, gold, joined-up writing. I picked it up and began scanning the list of food – Vegan Sloppy Joes, spicy piquant chickpea burgers (also vegan), tortilla veggie-dogs (contains egg), rainbow chips… Interesting, I thought. I’d read a thing recently that said lots of lesbians didn’t eat meat – I could get down with that!

Paris was now babbling about her pals, who were a couple, who were supposed to be joining us. I nodded, occasionally punctuating the conversation with “uh-huh”.

Then

“You sure you don’t want to crash at mine the night?”

I’d already declined her offer four times.

“Sa bastard trying to get a taxi –”

“Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll manage.”

I got distracted after that. A couple of long-haired, normal-looking –  I mean, straight-looking – lesbians sauntered in, hand-in-hand. I didn’t fancy them or anything; I was just relieved because, so far, every other woman I’d seen had either a mushroom, a flat-top, or a short and spiky manly haircut. I hoped that these were the girls Paris was waiting on – unfortunately, no such luck.

I started thinking about Michele who used to go to college with me. She had short hair and she wore men’s jeans and football tops, but I would never have known she was gay if she hadn’t told me. There was a guy in my class that fancied her – he kept asking her out and he was really lovely, so I tried to set them up. That’s when she told me her flatmate was actually her girlfriend. And that’s when I stopped being homophobic. That’s also when I was forced to admit to myself that Michele wasn’t the only girl we knew who preferred girls.

Paris was still having a one-way conversation, and I was imagining what I would say if Michele was to walk in and see me right at that moment.

“Oh-my-god, fancy meeting you here,” I’d go. And: “Who me? What am I doing here? Oh, well, I’m… out with a gay friend.”

It was a tricky situation. I didn’t like lying, but I didn’t want anyone else to know I was a lesbian – not yet. I’d only told one other person in real life, and it hadn’t gone down well. But, of course, Michele would never believe I was friends with Paris – she just wasn’t my kind of person. Paris clearly hadn’t gotten the memo though, because right at that moment, she leaned in way too close for comfort and garbled, “heh, doll… you’re fucking gorgeous by the way.”

I pretended not to hear her. What else could I do?

Her breath was rotten and the smell of the foundation she’d plastered on was giving me a headache.

“I seen ma pals there,” she continued. “Ye wanna go sit wi ma pals?”

“Sure,” I replied. “Why not.”

 

I wish I’d said no. I wish I’d faked illness or a period pain or had someone call my mobile with “an emergency”. But I didn’t, because I was well on my way to being wasted by that point, and because some small, stupid part of me was still holding out for the evening to redeem itself. So, I followed her, and even though I recognised a couple of her weird mannish-looking pals – because they’d been amongst the ones that had laughed at me when I first walked in – I told myself to forget it, to be kind, to give them another chance. What an idiot.

Normally, I can fit in with anyone – I’m polite, I’m chatty, I’m confident – I’ve never been one of those loners sitting on the periphery of the playground watching all the cool kids. But that’s exactly what I felt like that first night. I tried smiling at folk and listening politely, but I couldn’t even follow the conversation – it was all “butch” this and “femme” that, and one girl even asked another if she was a “pureblood”.  

“On the butch / femme scale …” continued the girl who I’d assumed was a massive Harry Potter fan “…how would you define yourself?”  

She had short, spiky hair and was wearing a tight black top with white writing which said: My fantasy: 2 Men: 1 cooking, 1 cleaning.  I found her quite attractive, if I’m honest – she’d great bone structure and a tight physique – but I just couldn’t imagine myself getting it on with a girl who had a boy’s haircut.

“I’d say I was sporty femme,” replied Paris, and she unzipped her tracksuit top revealing a thick gold belcher chain with a teddy bear on the end. “I like the old sporty spice look.”

More like neddy spice, I thought. And I had to bite my cheek to stop myself from sniggering.

“And I tend to go for either sporty femmes or high femmes.” She jabbed a finger in my direction: “I would say she was high femme.”

I felt my mouth go dry.

I hate people who point. And I hate people who talk about you as if you’re not there. And, normally, I would’ve jumped right down Paris’ stupid throat, except I couldn’t get the words out.

“I don’t think she’s gay by the way,” interjected Potter Fan.

A third girl with a ponytail tilted her head at me and said, “Uh, what’s your name again?”

“Julie.”

“Are you gay or straight?”

My heart was hammering behind my rib cage.

It was the question I’d been dreading all night.

I wanted to say I was “gay and proud”, but the last part was a lie.

And I wanted to say “I’m one of you” but that wasn’t true either.

I wasn’t like them. I would never be like them. I would never cut my hair and dress like a guy. I would never act butch.

I took a deep breath and

“Hey, P!  Guess who’s OUT?!?”

Paris was on her feet enveloping a tall blond with a seventies side-parting.

“Yer out to yer maw?”

“Yeah, she walked in on me with some random.”

“Fuck, what did she say?”

“Excuse me,” laughed the blond. “Then she just walked back out. She confronted me about it the next day though, asked if I thought it was a phase – ”

“Aw, I fucking hate it when they say that…”

A chair was dragged over from another table, and the blond sat down and began telling the story of how she’d met ‘the random’.

 

I was super bored. It was getting late, and I’d given up on looking for girls who looked and acted like me. And I knew I shouldn’t drink anymore, but when one of Paris’ pals offered to get a round in, I thought, fuck it.

Afterwards, I excused myself to go to the toilet. That was when I walked straight into JJ.

 “Julie Turner?”

He did the whole oh-my-god face complete with jazz hands. He was wearing a Stetson and a stars and stripes shirt with a sheriff’s badge pinned on the front, and he hadn’t changed a bit since I’d last seen him at youth theatre two years ago.

“Hey,” I smiled, “still doing the line dancing, I see.”

He tipped his hat. “Sure am, ma’am.”

I’d always known JJ was gay. All our drama buddies had referred to him as ‘Gay-Jay’ even though he’d denied it.

“So… what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Same as you,” I retorted, “Except it’s not the boys I’m trying to pull.”

It was a knee-jerk response, and straight away I regretted opening my mouth.

“Oh … my … actual…”

I sighed.

“I can’t believe you’re a lezzie!”

I couldn’t believe I’d been so fucking stupid. Already I was mentally tallying the mutual friends that he could spill his guts to.

One of Paris’ pals – a big manly girl with hair like a toilet brush who’d bought the drinks – caught my eye as she was walking past. Then she did that thing where you lick your lips and bite the bottom one. I was like, hell, no!

I turned my attention back to JJ.

“I’m kidding,’ I told him.

He gave me a wry smile.

“Just because I’m in a gay bar,” I said, “doesn’t mean I’m… ”

“Whatever you say, honey.”

 

When I finally got rid of him (he actually followed me into the ladies’), I went back to our table to get my bag and coat. Paris was over by the bar, so it would have been an excellent time to make my escape… if not for the reappearance of the girl with the toilet brush hair.

“Thanks for the malibu,’ I said, as she hovered towards me. “It was nice to meet you, but I’m afraid I have to go.” I was still trying hard to be polite, but I didn’t want to get her hopes up.

“Hhuhh,” she grunted. “Good riddance.”

I froze, my arm mid-way through my left coat sleeve.

“I beg your pardon?” I said. I really was quite taken aback.

“You heard.”

I quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Sorry, did I say something to –”

“There’s far too many fucking hetties on the scene.”

“Too many what?”

She got right up in my face then, and I could practically taste her beery breath.

“I suppose you’re just that bit bi, though, eh?”

“What? No!”

I was starting to feel dizzy.

“Experimenting, were we?”

And a little bit nauseous.

But at least I’d figured out the gist of her problem. My best friend, Mylene, had made similar accusations when I’d come out to her, including telling me that I couldn’t possibly be a lesbian because I’d never had lesbian sex.

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand,’ growled the butch girl. “It’s a fucking

tease.”

Now, under ordinary circumstances, I like to think I would have stood my ground and told her exactly where to shove her misogyny.

But as I said, I’d had way too much to drunk; I wasn’t thinking straight, I felt tired and emotional, and I really just wanted to leave.

I tried to walk away but she blocked my path and kept on talking at me.

Then

“Hey, Minty! Whit’s gaun on here?”

 

Paris stood hands on hips, fists clenched, thrusting her chest and her chin forward. The ridiculous gold teddy bear around her neck was swinging from side to side.

I never thought I’d be so pleased to see her.

“Are you hasslin ma burd?”

Her face was contorted in anger.

I wanted to correct her, to tell her I was no-one’s ‘burd’, but the timing felt inappropriate.

Other people gathered around to watch the spectacle. Potter Fan had her arm round the girl with the ponytail, and the two of them were laughing.

The room began to spin.

“Hey, watch yersel, doll.”

Paris looped her arm through mine. I clung onto her. She felt warm and safe and strong.

“Ye must be desperate,” crowed toilet brush head.

(I didn’t know if the last comment was aimed at me or Paris.)

Thinking about it gave me a pain in my chest.

I clung on tighter, and let my head fall against Paris’ shoulder. The two of us were swaying from side to side.

“Ye wantae go back tae mine, babe?”

My pulse quickened.

There was a lull in the music and someone at the bar called for last orders.

“Yeah,” I said – because I knew exactly how to shut those bitches up. And I raised my voice to make sure they all heard: “I’m dying for a shag.”