The Island of Misfit Queens

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54)and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

Greg and I walked into the Friendship with unequal levels of anxiety. I knew it was a gay bar, he didn’t. I was without Daniel, my gay advisor. He was without a proper frame of reference. Let’s just say Greg's blissful ignorance gave him the upper-hand. I was nervous.

Inside, there were about 15 guys in several groups around the bar and tables. We took a seat at the bar, nodded politely to a few and ordered up some beers. The place is covered in nautical kitsch, and its walls had a voice louder than anyone in there. Or so we thought.

Upon first pass, I was visually awestruck and emotionally saddened by my dusty surroundings. This was the home to the disenfranchised members of a disenfranchised sub-culture. It was the island of misfit queens.

“Dude, this place has more sausage than Father’s office.” Greg whispered.

He was right, not a fag hag in sight. No lipstick lesbians or butchy dykes. Just some old queeny beach bums and a few go-go boys at a table.

“I’m Sherlock,” the guy next to me said as he stuck out his hand.

“I’m Rob, this is Greg.”

“Nice to meet you boys,”

“You too,” said Greg.

Sherlock appeared older than his years. He was English, with a mountainous crop of white hair and a tan, leather face. He looked like a gay Santa in an ill-fitting tank top (as if Santa has a straight bone in his body. For God’s sakes he tucks red pants in black boots--Fabulous!).

Sherlock looked like he spent many a day being dandy with the fellas at the Friendship, enjoying the proximity to the beach and the warm California sun. But those days have long passed and all he is left with is an English accent and the teeth to match.

“That’s me, back in the day,” he said as he pointed to a picture of six guys on a fishing boat. He was blonde, sun-streaked and the visual antithesis to his current state of tank-topped disarray. It was Frankie Avalon in his most heroic and homoerotic form.


“Steve, take that from the wall,” Sherlock said, motioning to the bartender.

Steve took the black and white photo down and handed it to him. Sherlock pointed to the people and shared their stories. The glass was deep with greasy fingerprints on each face. It seemed this was a normal ritual for Sherlock with anyone who would listen. And we gladly did.

We became so immersed with the stories that we forgot it was a gay bar. To us, it was just a bar that played lousy music. An hour later, there was a group of about five aged-queens telling stories and laughing around us. Some were sad, others were happy. But all made us feel strangely satisfied, yet fleetingly aware. There would never be a moment like this for us again. For them, too. A captive audience of two young (and dare I say, “handsome,” straight men) was what they needed to get their blood going. Lord knows, the go-go boy table looked at the queens with disdain.

I was prepared for the Friendship to go a number of ways. Greg could have been a homophobe and stormed out, he could have asked me if I were gay or he could have come out himself. But none of that happened. We simply enjoyed our time and left, exchanginghandshakes with the former fabulous five. It seemed they just needed company, and I guess, looking back, so did we.

As Greg and I walked out that door into the Santa Monica night, I looked at him and said:

“You know that was-”

“Yea, dude, I know,” he said without making eye contact. For all the we gained, it would forever be our secret.

So we took our cars and quietly headed back to our lives. Both gaining something unexpected from the evening that will stay with us as long as Sherlock’s memories of that fishing trip.

I guess that’s why they call it the Friendship.