There's No Place Like (Someone Else's) Home

Here's an excerpt of a conversation I had with my mother on Sunday:

Mamadukes: Sojourner, when are you going to stop spending all your time with gay men?
Me: When they stop loving me, mother, when they stop being true. That's when.

She thinks that this is the main reason I am single. What she fails to realize is that for the first time in a rather long time, I could care less. I'm not a 'fag hag', but a Future Gay Icon, making my way through the gay ranks until I'm a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race, so fierce in my performance that they let me compete even though I have lady parts.

I started to form this master plan over the weekend, and it all came together on Monday evening.

Friday night I met up with a great gay pal who was visiting from Australia, and spent the evening club hopping in the West Village and Hell's Kitchen. The highlight of the night had to be Peaces, a gay club in the West Village, where we met a bevy of boys. My favorite would have to be a man named--no joke--Robert Christmas, who stuck his finger down my butt crack and his gin-and-tonic straw in my cleavage before giving me his business card and saying, "you know you wanna facebook me." The man is a Christmas miracle.

See, it's that kind of straight-forward, no-bullshit tactic that the hetero males need to be taking if they want a shot with the blacktress--well, except for the ass-finger and straw-cleavage moves.

After an excellent night, I came home only slightly buzzed, as I didn't have to drown my sorrows of being surrounded by d-bag heteros with way too many vodka-sodas. I then was able to awake bright and early on Saturday and have lunch with two of my favorite boys, a couple that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out. They invited me to a fellow friend's graduation party for Monday night, and I said, "Evite be damned, I'm coming!"

I woke up Monday with a heap of errands and to get myself in a can-do mood, I put on an outfit inspired by Joan Holloway from Mad Men (my latest addiction. I am obsessed with repressed White folks, high-waisted skirts, and 1960s social conventions). As I walked through midtown running errands, I noticed that a bevy of banker types were lightly eye-fucking me--I guess the sexy secretary vibe was working for me. Thank you, Joan!

However, it wasn't until I arrived at the graduation party that evening that I was truly the belle of the ball. Surrounded by professional gay couples, drinking white wine, I remembered why I feel most at home in moments like these--it's because when I'm with the gays, I'm the prettiest girl in the room! I met the graduate's parents, who had come from Witchita, Kansas, to celebrate their son and his boyfriend. As I took mom's camera and played paparazzi, I got to meet everyone and learned that Kansas is a hotbed of gay activity. How great is that?! My favorite people had to be the 18-year-olds who just moved to New York City together and are in a realationship! In their gray slacks and pastel button-downs (the gay uniform for events), they were just the cutest ever! I am kind of obsessed with their young gay love, and offered to buy them booze whenever the need arises--you know how I love to enable addictions.

As the party wound down, I chatted with the parental units, and they thanked me for taking pics, and then told me how pretty I was. "Where's your boyfriend, sweetie?" Mom asked me tenderly.
"Oh, he's right there," I said, pointing to one of my friends across the room. "And there. there. Oh, and there's another one there," as I pointed at various homosexual gentlemen. I then asked if I should move to Kansas to find a strapping lad who could handle a blacktress. Mom said yes, and next thing you know, she's taking down my blog address and wondering where she can see me do stand up.

I am now, like Dorothy, on a quest to return home to the plains of Kansas. Or, better yet, I am Diana Ross in "The Wiz." I am done with Munchkins and the lollipop guild. I will no longer be fooled by the little man behind the big curtain. I am ready to ease on down, ease on down the road.
Before I go, let me go ask one of my gays for a pair of sparkly red Mary Janes--teehee.

No Holds BARred

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 12/2/2008.

It's about 2pm Tuesday afternoon--or 1400 hours for those on military time. I woke up about an hour ago, still fatigued from my first full shift as a bartendress.

Yes, the blacktress is earning her keep! Last week I applied for work at a bar near the city center that's popular with the foreign/backpacker crowd. It was a weird process, as the boss was very flaky and much of my hiring was due to me calling him and him making a last-minute decision. For example:

After an interview last Tuesday, he said he'd call me the next day to set up a trial shift. This means he wanted me to come in and work. He wanted to see me--this is fact. So, Wednesday comes and I get no phone call.
Thursday comes and goes, no phone call.
Finally, sick of the waiting game, I call him up on Friday at 2pm to see what the deal is.
Manager: "Hey, how are you going? Actually, someone canceled their trial, so can you come in at 6pm tonight?"

Cut to me, four hours later, standing behind the bar like I know what's up.

At the end of that shift, he says he'll slot me in for Monday, and let me know the exact time.
Yesterday, at 1pm, I'm calling him and getting NO ANSWER, as I wonder when my shift is. He then TEXTS me an hour later, telling me to come in at 10pm.

I thought working on a Monday would be a nice way to ease me in to the process, for where I come from, Mondays aren't usually poppin'.
Clearly (and as the night would go on to prove), I was an idiot. I keep forgetting that being on the other side of the world, things are opposite of what they'd be in the land Up Over. The thing is, backpackers are on vacation, so every night's a party night. They are in it to win it and will not stop until they can't feel their face and are making out with a dude from Croatia.

The place was packed and in full swing, and I pretty much got behind the bar and hit he ground running. I was instantly overwhelmed and confused, unable to understand many of the foreign accents and needing things repeated over and over. Luckily, I was told to shadow Laura, a really nice English girl who was super fast and knew the way backwards and forwards. Having been awake since 4am and in a state of stress and panic all day, I wasn't as sharp as I should have been, and also have a lot to learn.

This is what happens when you lie on your resume.

I realized that I don't like serving girls, or guys with groups of girls, because they always order complicated things and are quick to give a female bartender an attitude. This is especially frustrating when said female bartender is new and has no idea what the customer is talking about. For instance, when someone says:
"Hey, can I get two QF shots?"

What the fuck is a QF shot?!

I repeated her order with my confusion obvious, and she looked at me like I was a retarded, three-headed hydra. And I'm thinking, "Oh, what bitch, you're so fucking cool you have to abbreviate everything and expect me to read your mind?"

A "QF shot" is a Quick Fuck shot-- a combination of (wait, let me see if I can get this right) Midori, Kahlua, and Baileys. I'd never heard of it, it looks as disgusting as it sounds, and it's all the rage with the English.

Have you ever heard of Vodka Raspberry? It's vodka with raspberry cordial. Never heard of it before yesterday, and it looks pretty narsty. However, it's quite popular. I'm also supposed to know that when someone orders vodka-raspberry, I am to add lemon soda to it--even if they don't say it!

Oh, and what about "white wine with lemonade"? Well, by lemonade, these crazy foreigners mean "lemon soda" -- but do NOT think this means 7-Up or Sprite. No siree, those are sweeter, lime-flavored, and do not count.

Do see what I'm up against?

Guys, I just want to meet people and enable addictions-- am I asking for too much?
I had grand illusions of working in a nice, local pub where I'd get to chat with kindly people--preferably during the early hours, which would enable me to have a social life. Alas, I'm on the 10p-3a shift, getting yelled at by strangers who are lined up four-deep for jager bombs.

On the plus side, the other girls I work with are pretty nice, and helped me out. I tried to look to them for inspiration, especially my dear Laura. I asked her how long she'd worked here, and was pleased to hear her say she'd only been here two months. Maybe it'll take time, I thought. She's so good in two months, maybe I'll get there quickly, as well.
"Have you worked in a bar before?" I asked her, hoping she'd say no.
"My parents own a pub in England, so I've been in pubs my whole life."
Well, there goes my inspiration. Laura's been up in the pub since she was 11, which is of course why she makes serving 10 people at a time look so effortless.

My ego is further crushed when I learn that Laura is only eighteen years old. In fact, all the girls on duty last night were under 21. And they're just slinging and mixing like some fucking Coyote Ugly extras, while I'm standing around wondering what the hell is in a "Norwegian Sock Jug."

I got home at 3:30 am last night, my shoes soaked through with dirty soap-water, and my jeans wet up to my knees. I smelled of beer and insecurity, and couldn't wait to shower. It's now 3:15pm, and I've got less than 7 hours before I have to get out there and do it again.

Um, how badly would you guys judge me if I quit?