Tongue in Cheek
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Tongue in Cheek Hooters & Other Oddities |
by Kevin Isom
Never
say never. Because sometimes you just might be surprised.
I had to go to an out-of-town meeting this
week with some co-workers. (Unfortunately, the writing gig doesn't pay
the mortgage, and I am a happy corporate slave by day, and a writer by
night. Sort of like Superman. If Superman had no superpowers and a keen
interest in typing instead of flying, that is.)
My co-workers, all of whom are straight,
desperately wanted to see the Monday night football game. Now, I have
about as much interest in football as I do in, say, flower arranging.
In other words, not much. But I thought it would be fun, and it presented
an opportunity to bond with the guys. Besides, watching a football game
on TV in a restaurant with a dirty vodka martini couldn't be all bad,
right?
That was before I learned that my
co-workers had discovered that the only restaurant with decent sized TV's
in the suburb in which we were staying was, well, a restaurant known for
having other things of decent size.
Specifically, Hooters. (The restaurant's
name, that is — and a reference to the restaurant's contents, apparently.)
My co-workers asked if I'd ever been to a Hooters before. I told them
no, and that I would probably get a demerit on my gay card for going.
But what the heck. It would be a cultural experience. And my dirty martini
awaited. I figured that my preferred caramel apple martini would be a
bit much to expect at a Hooters.
When we arrived at the restaurant,
I quickly learned that Hooters does not serve martinis. Only beer. And
the interior looked just like the interior of any gay sports bar I've
been in. In fact, it wasn't much different from the local gay sports bar
near me, which I go to fairly often because I like the lack of pretense
among the gay folks there. (And I can get a good martini when I want to
play darts or pool.) The only difference was that there were no lesbians
trying to yell at the TVs more loudly than the men. And that instead of
a hot built man serving the drinks, there were tight-tank-top-and-shorts-clad
Hooters girls flouncing about.
Or rather, Hooters Cheerleaders, which
I learned was the correct term. In fact, our Cheerleader proudly told
us that she had recently graduated from Hostess to Cheerleader —
when she had turned 18 and was allowed to serve alcohol. When she said
this, I felt suddenly old, which, I realized, is not unlike how I feel
in a gay bar when I'm served by a 20-year-old twink of a bartender.
My co-workers apparently felt old
as well — especially when our Cheerleader, after looking at one
co-worker's drivers license, squealed delightedly that her momma was his
age. It was, in a twisted way, fun watching their discomfort, as they
flirted with the beautiful girl they realized was young enough to be their
daughter. I know that gay men, as we age, go through exactly the same
discomfort. Well, at least some of us do. The rest just insist on dating
the 18-year-olds. Just like some straight men.
Nevertheless, the guys I was with,
married men all, couldn't help but flirt with our lovely Cheerleader,
whose name was Megan. Which, I realized, was exactly what I would do if
she were a studly little guy named Mark in a tight tank top. Me, I was
noticing she had nice eyes and that her skin on her exposed cleavage was
really smooth. In fact, as I looked around, I noticed that all of the
Cheerleaders were beautiful girls. And I wondered, "Why aren't lesbians
all over this place?"
Then our chicken wings arrived. Now,
I've had chicken wings before, but these were probably the best I've ever
eaten. And one of the options for the wings was to have them "naked."
Sort of carb-friendly and titillating, all at once. Likewise, Megan brought
me a large draft beer, which was called a Big Daddy. At which point I
realized that I was in a bar filled with straight men gripping their Big
Daddies, and I wondered if they realized how gay that sounded.
In fact, as the football game began,
I was occasionally tickled by how some of the comments just sounded so
— well — gay. Sure, we're all aware that football itself is
the gayest sounding sport ever — a tight end is somehow connected
to a wide receiver, and with the shoulder pads and protective cups, they
look like Tom of Finland drawings. But after one tackle, my co-worker
yelled, "Look at that! Twelve guys on him and he's still going!"
And I thought, "I believe I saw a gay adult film like that once."
I did enjoy the football game.
No, I wasn't invested in who won or lost, but the folks I was with were,
so that made it fun. Besides, my Hooters foray was an opportunity to see
a parallel life, one I would never have seen on my own, and one about
which I might have had misconceptions.
And I would definitely go back
for the wings.
Kevin Isom is the author of It Only Hurts When I Polka and Tongue in Cheek and Other Places, available at bookstores and online. He may be reached at isomonline@aol.com or www.KevinIsom.com