The Bar

Just another night at The Bar. The cities change. Copenhagen, London, San Francisco, Omaha, Tokyo. But somehow, The Bar stays the same. The same sights, smells, sounds. The same faces, or close enough. Different languages, but the same lines.

Coming back feels like failure because it is. I’ve lost count of the times I have gone to The Bar, wherever it is or was. I’m like one of those stupid flying insects that bangs against the yellow light on the front porch, time after time. Maybe night after night, I don’t know. Maybe they don’t live that long. Maybe the light kills them.

The light won’t kill me. The Bar won’t kill me either. Though some of the people I’ve picked to leave with have certainly tried. There was Trudi, in Hamburg. How long ago was Trudi? I don’t remember. Trudi was sturdy and blonde in a good Teutonic way. Could drink beer like a sailor. She was rough and insistent and I thought I liked that.

I almost broke my leg when I jumped out the window onto the fire escape, when she was chasing me with the scissors.

There was Max. Max was a couple years later, stationed in Seoul. It sounds exotic, but when you travel for work a city is a city, a Hyatt is a Hyatt. And The Bar is always The Bar.

Broad shoulders, short hair, piercing eyes, grabby hands. That was Max. He was good for a few drinks. Good dancer, too. He wanted to come back to my room and I wanted him to come. Max almost strangled me, though, once we got there. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone that furious.

Sybel in Cape Town, and Kalyna in Kiev. Mahmoud in Dubai. Troy and Ginny and Wilson. Where were they, again? I don’t remember. The Bar, wherever.

You are probably thinking I’m bi. Maybe I am, I don’t know. I’m human, and I’m lonely, and I’m not picky. It doesn’t matter anyway. The only thing that seems to matter is that I’m trans. Whether I leave with women or men, when they find out what kind of woman I am, the evening is finished.

Usually it’s nothing worse than curses and slammed doors, though. I don’t want to be melodramatic. People don’t usually want to kill me. They want me gone, and they don’t want to see me again, and they are angry. I can handle all that.

But I wonder why I want to. It does seem like a bit of an illness that I keep coming back. Like tonight. Why am I back in The Bar?

The usual bar sounds drown out the crack of my heels on the fake wood floor. The Bar has a decent crowd tonight. Business travelers, mostly. Not too many wedding rings in evidence, which means less than nothing. Not at The Bar.

I sit, and The Bartender doesn’t see me. The Bar has to have The Bartender, right? And it does. Different faces. Sometimes women, sometimes men. Always The Bartender. This one is a she, but that won’t matter either. She will get to me, but chances are good that someone else will get to me first.

They usually do. I can pass. In the right outfit and with the right light, I look good. Good enough for The Bar, anyway. Maybe it’s a low bar. I guess it is. But I clear it, anyhow, and I don’t usually have to buy my own drinks.

Tonight is no different. I’m wearing a silk top, kind of a pale yellow. Sheer enough that I need to wear a camisole under it, and I do. Modest jewelry. A stretchy black skirt that shows plenty of leg. My hair looks good, clean. Someone sits next to me.

Male, this time. The usual lines. Call and response or something like that.

He has nice eyes. That’s good, though it hasn’t helped before. Well. No-one with nice eyes ever tried to kill me. That’s definitely a plus.

I open my mouth to accept his offer of a drink, but nothing comes out. I know all the steps, but this time I can’t say the words.

I can’t do this anymore.

Time seems to pause while I get my shit together. At least, it seems that way to me. Maybe I’m just thinking quickly, though that’s not really like me. I don’t like to think too much, because it always hurts.

Maybe I can keep doing this, but I’ll get the same result if I keep doing the same thing. Maybe I need to try something different. It probably won’t work, but what the hell. I need something to jolt me out of the spiral that keeps me coming back to The Bar, and leaving with someone who is always going to be disappointed. I need a new opening. A fresh start.

I look into the man’s nice eyes. They look nice, anyway. He isn’t showing concern yet, so maybe I really am thinking fast.
“I would love a glass of Sauvignon Blanc,” I tell him in my best voice. I have a good voice. Lots of practice. “But before you get out your credit card, you need to know that I’m trans.”

The end.