Illustration by Jérôme Mireault
I guess Danielle is married by now. A few months ago, I spotted her sweaty ass, sporting a dirty paper tiara, slamming mojito shots, and screaming, “This is my jam, bitches!” in reference to Katy Perry’s “I wanna see your Peacock! Cock! Cock!” while her equally raunchy girlfriends fucked the air and whistled.
Where was I? A cousin’s wedding in South Carolina? An airport Applebee’s with half-off sliders and ranch? A boozy secretary’s birthday bash? No. I was at Akbar, in the deliciously chill eastside of Los Angeles. I did not know Danielle—yet.
I’m at Akbar all the time—I’m probably there right now. It describes itself as “a neighborhood oasis,” and it’s a hot mash-up of faux-Moroccan kitsch and Silver Lake–Los Angeles, realness. In the front are autographed headshots of Drew Barrymore, Edith Massey, Alex Trebek, and Fred Schneider. Imagine having a cocktail with that foursome, and you have an idea of what Akbar can be. There’s both a dub-step/ska night and a craft night.
While I love and embrace that everyone is invited, let’s face it: It’s a gay bar. It’s not your typical twink tweeking Gaga Freaknik. But come on, no straight bar would display Queen Carlotta’s headshot ensconced in gold.
It was a Friday night at Akbar. I’d just seen some wretched theater and needed to drink it off. It’s packed and feral. Boys have their shirts off, the bartenders are doing shots with the barbacks, lesbians are being irresponsible—and it’s only 11. I push my way through the nasty jungle of naked and saddle up to the bar. Just before I can say “Grey Goose and soda,” I feel a horrifically violent stab to my kidneys. Holy shit, I think. Someone’s stealing my organs. Then I hear a piercing shriek that sounds like a parrot getting fisted. “Oh my God, I’m drunk!” exclaims a vision in Wet Seal who smells like Cancun and ham. “Wow, that really hurt,” I say.
She replies, “I don’t know how that happened!” just before falling down. Several of us pick her up, try to remount her tiara on top of her shellacked mess of offensive hair, and stand her back upright in heels that she can’t handle. “You boys are sooo cute!” says the barf wagon, as she clumps away.
I don’t think too much of it—she’s drunk, it’s crowded, it happens. I get my vodka-soda and head toward the back room, in the mood for the dance floor. The DJs playing Grace Jones, Sylvester, De La Soul, The Darkness—bliss. I’m grinding, sweating, losing my mind, and making choices with no apologies. At this moment, everything is beautiful. Suddenly, the DJ switches to Katy Perry. Time to get a new drink.
In storms a deluge of Midori-drinking harpies. It’s her! And she’s brought more of her kind! “You were in the last bar!” she squawks.
“I was just in the other room,” I say, as I attempt to avoid her and her kickline of sweaty blowjob machines.
“What!?!?!? Hahah—I’m Danielle. What’s your name? You’re soooo cute!!”
Again with the cute thing. And she didn’t say it like, “Damn, you’re hot, good for you.” Or even like, “You’re mildly attractive, best of luck tonight!” No, she said it like she was at the fucking zoo. She was looking at me like I was a goddamned billygoat.
Another girl chimed in with, “Danielle, you should make out with him! This is your night!”
Oh yeah—this is Danielle’s bachelorette party. And she’s gonna celebrate by getting blackout plowed on Hpnotiq, shaking her dumb party tits to Katy Perry, and kickin’ it with the gays because they’re “cute.”
She also burps bon-mots like, “You’d love my brother,” or, “Doesn’t my Bumpit look ferosh?”
I used to have an issue with bachelorette parties at gay bars—ummm, we can’t get married (most places), so please don’t swing it in our faces at our bars.
But on the other hand, I have plenty of wonderful straight friends who should be allowed to celebrate this huge occasion wherever, however they want. And I love Akbar for welcoming everyone—it’s the neighborhood fucking oasis.
So, I don’t resent Danielle because she’s a straight girl—I resent her because she’s a drunk, condescending asshole.
Welcome to Akbar. Grab a cocktail. Congratulations.
Just don’t call us cute.