I knew the afternoon was getting weird when I realized I was trashed in a black lesbian bar in the basement of an office building, but that’s getting ahead of myself. My day was going fairly normally, and after a long day at the awkward nursing home that is my office I was more than ready to have a drink or eight at an open bar where my bf and old office were hanging out.
The reunion was basically awkward hellos from people I never really talked to, and sassy gossiping with everyone else. The bar (which I used to think was a classy strip club since there are like no windows and a big wooden door from Medieval Times at the entrance) had shitty service, but who the fuck cares as long as the vodkas free? After about an hour of chitchatting the bf suggested we go meet up with a crazy girl we worked with and her girlfriend, and I was happy to roll out to see this crazy bitch.
Now this girl deserves some explaining. Our last (and only) encounter was my last day at my old internship, and I quickly learned that this black lesbian Muslim activist meant business as the pain killing pills started flowing as freely as my vodka tonics. Several hours later we put her in a cab home, and I honestly knew I would miss seeing her around (cuz who doesn’t love people who wear Public Enemy hats around professional offices?).
Anyways, back to the story. BF and I left for a bar called Bravo Bravo, which I assumed to be like any other in the heart of DC’s financial district. I knew something was a little off when we finally got there and walked down the stairs into the basement of the building. The interior decorator must have been going for a mix of ‘DC Capitol’ ‘80s Neon’ and ‘Los Burritos Mexican Restaurant’ because the décor was THAT fucking weird. While there were two bars, a huge dance floor and an abundance of lounge/dinner tables there couldn’t have been more than a dozen or so people in the place.
Before my eyes could adjust to the dim lighting we were heading over to a dark corner where eight or so black lesbians were eating and drinking their hearts out. I mention that they were black not because I’m some racist ass hole (or at least not racist), but to form a better mental image of how out of place my skinny white ass looked there (though to be fair I DID look pretty fucking cool under those neon lights with my excessive whiteness).
Our friend wasn’t at the table, and the BF quickly ran away to the bathroom leaving me with a table full of awkwardness. I knew one person who didn’t recognize me, despite the fact that she walked past me every day for eight months. She was about 50 with 2 inch nails (with nail art OF COURSE), and some nappy hair. After talking to her for about a minute I was still kinda scared of her, but managed to find an issue she wanted to talk about- how much she fucking hates everyone she works with. I’m sure the cheap drinks had made her more chatty and willing to bitch about people (at least I pray it was the drinks), but I was still a little worried she might get violent.
After a few minutes of that I faked like I needed the bathroom (aka the bar), and wandered into the path of my friend who ran screaming to me and gave me a bear hug. I quickly remembered why I missed her, and how much I love listening to her. We quickly hit the bar for another drink, and made our way back to our fun fun table.
It turns out that her girlfriend, Fresco, was in town from Chicago. This was mildly strange as she was like 18, drinking vodka or something out of a Gatorade bottle (not that I haven’t been THERE before), I kept thinking her name was Prosecco, and she had a streak of white hair that I was not drunk enough to ask about. The conversation turned to the difference between the ‘LGBT’ and the ‘Queer’ movement. I had no idea what the difference was, and honestly didn’t really care at that moment in time. The more pressing issue for me was how pissed these women were getting over the issue, and my rapidly disappearing drink.
As I tend to do when I’m in ‘altered states’ I got hungry as shit. All I wanted was a bite of the sliders the woman next to me was eating, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask for a bite since she seemed to be keeping the mini-burger together by impaling it with her long glittery nails. I settled for mooching some cheese fries caked in salt and ketchup, and it was delicious (and by delicious I mean it was cheap greasy bar food that I crave on an hourly basis).
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, or perhaps the downing of a drink, the sassy women had left. The BF and I were in a heated debate over strong the drinks really were (since I tend to feel fine until I’m on the floor), when we happened upon two white lezzies. Somehow we managed to start talking to them, and by ‘we’ I mean me because the BF wanted to leave but couldn’t just leave my Chatty Kathy ass there.
While their names escape my impeccable memory, I do remember that they were from somewhere far far away. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact that they lived beyond the reaches of the Metro, and that they had actually driven into the city to spend time in this awkward basement. Our conversation continued for a good 15 minutes mostly because of my drunkenness and the fact that I consider lesbians in DC to be like sexual unicorns (they are said to exist in our fair gay city but you NEVER SEE THEM).
Finally, the BF and I parted ways. He left to ride the catastrophe that is his bike home, which unsurprisingly had a flat tire a hobo pointed out to him. I, on the other hand, was feeling no pain, and decided the best course of action was to accept my friend Kate’s invitation to have a bottle of wine on her balcony. Let’s keep in mind that the sun is barely setting at this point, and her balcony is a perfect 10th story setting to watch the sun set over the city.
I’ll spare you the details of our conversations as they somehow always end up resembling an episode of ‘Sex Talk with Sue Johansen’, and I’d like to leave a little bit of my dignity intact. Needless to say we had a great time until I broke a wine glass, and I attempted to clean it up. I know I got all the big shards of glass into the trash, but I miiiiight have swept all the little pieces I didn’t want to deal with off the side of the balcony. I later realized the entrance of the building is directly below her balcony, but that’s beside the point.
Having reached my limit (aka running out of wine) we said our goodbyes and I walked a perfectly straight zigzag line home past the Ritz Carlton, and reminded myself that I am in fact a classy bitch. I felt slightly less classy at 3 AM, however, when I woke up with all my lights, music and N64 on. On the plus side I was in my own bed, and there were no puddles of Kool-Aid under me (that’s another story for another time).
P.S. I returned to the basement bar a while later to give a classy start to my date with the bf to see the symphony. Unfortunately there were no angry black lesbians to be found, but the experience was still made awkward by the table of white people next to me bitching about how their kids are growing up Democrats and liking Obama. At one point (while waiting for their friend Queenie, who turned out to be another Republican GUY) a woman bitched about having to buy her 4 year-old a $70.00 bathing suit. I almost lost it. Who the fuck spends $70 on a bathing suit FOR A 4 YEAR-OLD, and then bitches about it over a dinner of $3 drinks and onion rings? I’ll stick to my Wednesday Dyke Nights, at least they have better nails.
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