Bad Gay: Episode 9

I’m going to tell you about one of the most momentous moments of my life. It happened 34 years ago this month. 

It happened in a gay bar that always had its lights dimmed to midnight. Even its outside front façade was painted pitch black. And the bar was named after a German city, which, of course, made it even scarier.

I was a sunny girl from the suburbs. I’d recently joined a pre-coming out group. It was more like a nursery school for coming out. A group that allowed you to take a peek behind the curtain of lesbianism and decide whether you wanted to enter or scurry back into the shadows. Well! I liked what I saw!

There were only six women in the group and a seasoned lesbian moderator. Four of us hit it off immediately and made plans to take a field trip to a gay bar before the next group session. The fifth woman never returned after the first meeting. And the sixth woman? We’ll get to her in a bit.

This was in 1990 when there still were a lot of gay bars. We had at least six lesbian bars in my city and scores of male-centered clubs. You had to sneak into the corners of society to feel safe in public. It was still a scary time to be gay.

Before I joined this coming out group, I was terrified. I was scared of embracing a life that was completely foreign to me and defying the expectations that were baked into me from day one. And, yeah, I was scared of kissing a girl. But not so scared that I didn’t think of it every moment of every damned day.

Our first field trip to a lesbian bar was a blast. We brought merry tales of our adventure to our second group meeting. We were surprised when the fifth woman in the group—a remote, beautiful creature who spent most session regarding our collective puppy dog embrace of newfound lesbianism with cool contempt—finally spoke up.

“Can I join you for the next field trip?”

If Juliette Binoche and Isabella Rossellini had a baby, it would have looked like her. Having a crush on her was completely off my radar. It would have been like having a crush on Catherine Deneuve. It would have been a waste of time. Why bother?

It was this woman who suggested the venue for our next field trip. The raven-shaded club named after a German city known for its barbed wire and existential vibe. Because, of course, someone like her would choose a place like this! (I choose the destination for our next field trip: a suburban bar with a jukebox filled with Abba and showtunes.)

The bar was packed with gay men. All of whom had dangerous haircuts and whose dance moves were as jagged and aggressive as razors. It felt like I’d entered a house of mirrors. Nothing appeared as it should.

My friends had disappeared into the inky dark of the dance floor. I was left standing with Isabelle Adjani. Without a word, she took my hand and brought me to the floor. I’m a terrible dancer, but it was a slow song so I could kind of just shuffle my feet.

I thought she was dancing with me because she had nothing better to do than stare moodily into mid-distance, as her type is wont to do.

But, then, she gently pulled my face to hers. And she kissed me. A real kiss. Not a settle-down-idiot-it’s-only-a-dance kiss.

It was my first kiss with a woman. And if a fissure ripped the earth in two at that moment, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. Because that’s what it felt like.

What I didn’t know then was that it was her first kiss with a woman, too. And that she, too, had mild suburban roots. And she, too, was terrified. The Breton striped tunics and air of ennui were just an act.

Now, 34 year later, after a 25-year period where she vanished into the ether, we’re married and living in the suburbs. She’s lactose intolerant so we don’t spend much time at dingy French cafes. But it still feels like the world ruptures with each kiss.