Hot Tramp



  Hot Tramp

  A prequel to the novel Straight Men in Gay Bars

  Copyright 2014 Erik D’Souza

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this authour.

  Disclaimer

  This book is a combination actual personal experience and a great deal of embellishment. Names, dates, places, events, and details have been changed, invented, and altered for literary effect. The reader should not consider this book anything other than a work of literature.

  TCP

  Timbercrest Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Title page

  Hot Tramp

  Excerpt from Straight Men in Gay Bars

  About the Author & Contact Information

  Hot Tramp

  November, 1996

  I blame David Bowie. I have been watching his videos, listening to his music, and believing in his testament. And now I find myself standing in the rain, dressed in a non-descript, white dress shirt and my girlfriend’s red, feathered boa wrapped around my neck. We are next in line to enter the dance club, and not a moment too soon, as the rain and winds are picking up.

  It’s a Tuesday night. We have been drinking since four and have eaten very little. Johan and I are in the mood for some mischief. Or to be more accurate, I’m in the mood for mischief and misadventure, and my best friend, Johan, is being accommodating as always. He doesn’t copy my fashion choice of wearing a boa to Vancouver’s largest gay bar, but to be fair, he has a better job than I do, and doesn’t feel the urge to solicit free drinks from gay men; his loss.

  Celebrities has been a premiere dance club in Vancouver, since the 1980’s, but it is not the first bar to have been in this location. The history of this building spans almost a hundred years. It was designed and built as a dance hall, but it has changed names and music genres every few decades. Originally it was the Lester Dance Academy and then the Embassy Ballroom, a genteel dance club. In the 1960’s it was known as Dante’s Inferno. The Doors and the Grateful Dead played here before gaining international stardom. But perhaps the most notable tidbit is that Jimi Hendrix had often sat in with the house band that also consisted of Tommy Chong, who later found fame as a member of Cheech and Chong. From what I hear, the band was pretty tight.

  It’s a matter of debate which came first, Celebrities or the gay village. Technically, Numbers Cabaret Nightclub, which is located half a block away, is older than Celebrities. In the mid-eighties, many members of the gay community chose to live in close proximity to these two clubs. For fifteen years now, Celebrities has hosted many grand galas and has been a pivotal in the LGTB community. I’ve been hanging out here because my girlfriend loves this place. Personally, I prefer bars that play rock music, but it’s close to my apartment and always good for a laugh.

  After a few minutes of needless waiting in the rain, the burly bouncer lets us in. An under-fed lad wearing a tight, white t-shirt checks our coats. The nightclub is three quarters full and many of the patrons are dancing to non-descript house music. I find a seat at the bar, while Johan enters the array of purple strobe lights and the half-dressed hordes that occupy the dance floor. I drink a beer while taking in the sights and sounds. I admire from afar a scene that resembles a modern day roman feast. It doesn’t take long for the bartender to return, pour me a new pint and say, “This one’s from the gentlemen seated over there.” He points with his eyes and my glance follows out of curiosity. I may be heterosexual, but I prefer it when cute guys buy me drinks. In gay culture, just as it is in straight culture, the attractiveness of those attracted to you, determines your overall attractiveness. Looking at the guy who just bought me a drink, I realize that I still got it. Years of being in a monogamous, straight relationship hasn’t diminished my appeal to men of certain repute.

  My admirer is a well-dressed Indian, with a well-defined jaw line and healthy smile. It’s not every day that you get to meet a gay Indian, for they must pay a heavy price. They are instantly cast out from their families once coming out. Many homosexual Indians would rather pretend to be heterosexual their entire lives, playing out a lie, than dishonouring their families. I’m only half Indian and I know full well that we just don’t do it. Indians are perhaps the most homophobic race on the planet, and they accept the title with pride.

  “Thanks for the drink,” I say to my suitor.

  “Why don't you come on over here, sit on my lap, and we'll talk about the first thing that pops up?” he says to me.

  I laugh because my straight friend from Montreal used to say that very same line to pick up girls. I never thought I’d hear it used on me. Still I can’t grant this stranger too much satisfaction or he’ll get the wrong impression. “That’s an awful pick up line,” I advise him.

  “It’s better than the one I was using last week.”

  “Which was?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

  “"Do you mind if I push in your stool?" I don’t get it. I think about it. I think some more and then it dawns on me. Damn that’s dirty; sometimes I forget how nasty gay boys can be. “That’s atrocious; and I’m straight.”

  “Sure you are.” With that he approaches and without another word he slides his tongue into my ear.

  “Hey, I said I was straight. Not interested, buddy.”

  “But you’re wearing a boa.”

  “I like wearing pretty things, and I enjoy cross dressing. That doesn’t make me gay,” I say.

  “Well it’s a pretty good sign.”

  Good I have his back up. Internally I’m laughing my ass off, but my outward appearance is quite stern. “Cross dressing has no bearing on sexual preference,” I inform my mark. “Sadly, your type is too quick to jump to conclusions.”

  “My type?” he says, offended at being typecast.

  “Gay men,” I say. “You assume that if a man in wearing women’s clothing he must be gay. Not all cross-dressers are transsexuals. Some of us just like to look beautiful. Men’s fashion is so boring and drab; sometimes I just like to flare it up a bit.”

  “Amen Sister.”

  He’s getting too comfortable with me, time to turn it up a notch. “Don’t call me sister, I’m a man. And I’m sure as hell not related to you. You’re just as judgmental as the straight community. You’re all closed-minded sheep.”

  He’s laughing. He’s not supposed to be laughing. “Alright, alright. You can drop the act, Eric.”

  I can’t hide my shock. “What? How do you know my name?”

  “We work together. I’m Bal, I’ve seen you around PH Communications.”

  “You have? Oh… that doesn’t change anything that I’ve said.”

  “I know you’re straight and that you’re just trying to get a rise out of me. And it worked.” He giggles like a demented cat. I think I like him already.

  Truth be told, I do like the free drinks that men buy me. I estimate that in the past, I’ve spent over $300 on drinks for women in bars, all in hopes of getting to know them. It’s never worked for me. My friend, the one from Montreal that uses the’ sit on lap’ line, is far better than me in picking up women. So when men buy me a drink, I consider it re-cooping my loses.

  But the real reason I wear women clothing to gay bars is because I like being a bastard. And gay men from the west coast are the best people to be a bastard to; they are the most peaceful people in the world. If I tried this crap
back home, in Montreal, I’d get my assed kicked, guaranteed.

  But Vancouver is a different story. Maybe it’s the ocean air, but everyone is way more laid back. So I pull outrageous social stunts all the time. Once I put a cigarette behind my ears and walked down the street. Whenever someone asked me for a smoke, which they did on a constant basis, I told them that I don’t smoke. I kept walking, and offered no further explanation. If they pursued the subject and point out that I had a cigarette behind my ear, I ignored their observations and remind them of the health risks to smoking tobacco. “It’s a dirty habit.” It was a social stunt, much like I am doing tonight, except this one has backfired on me.

  “Are you here with anyone else?” Bal asks.

  “Yeah, my buddy Johan is around here somewhere. He’s out picking up girls.” Johan, unlike me is quite good at meeting girls in bars, and Celebrities has become his newest hunting ground. Straight girls started coming here to have a good time and not be smothered with advances. Johan, being confident enough in his masculinity, can walk into any bar and not care about the demographics of the patrons, as long as there’s women and alcohol. I like having him around, for if my little shenanigans get out of hand, he’s a great back-up. Johan stands at 6’5 and weighs a solid 240 lbs. He’s built like a hockey player and no one