On the Booty Prowl

Customers: By 1 a.m., the place was packed with a rowdy crowd of both genders, diverse in size, shape, color, and age. For a lesbian bar, I couldn't help but feel ripped off by the abundance of straight men. A scruffy, lanky guy named Larry (he couldn't give me his last name because he claimed to be "good friends" with the club's owner) lamented to me that he'd been dodging a grabby gay guy all night. "What does he say to you?" I asked. "It's not just what he says; it's where his hands go," Larry said. "Well, just tell him to be a gentleman," I suggested. "No, that would turn him on more," Larry said, scanning the bar. "Besides, I don't go that way. I'm straight. Oh, and I don't go black." After pondering why Larry was at a homosexual, racially diverse club and not safely tucked into a booth at Denny's, I asked about the booty-shaking contest. He couldn't tell me much except that Cloud 9 used to have wet T-shirt contests too.

The female clientele ranged from butch to fem. Jerseys mingled with miniskirts. Older women sat solo, sipping their Long Islands. When I asked the guy to my right (a tiny, long-haired dude named Chuck Almyda — or "Chuckie," as the bartender with the lighter pressed between her breasts called him) what he thought of a particular fleet of stiletto-wearing near-jailbait, he laughed. "They could be my kids or grandkids," he said.

"That never stopped anyone," I said. "But hey, I hear there's a dance contest tonight. You gonna get out there and dance?"

"I've got about as much rhythm as a... a..." He paused, his blue eyes darting. "Well, I don't. But you don't suppose that guy's [the DJ] got any Led Zeppelin?"

Contest: Around 2 a.m., I lamented to Pam that I had come in hours ago, and here I was, still waiting for the booties to shake. (On my recent return trip, Hazel informed me that the booty-shaking contest's "usual time" was about 2 a.m.) But mere minutes after I shoved my debit card into my purse and signed my receipt, the DJ announced that ass-moving was about to commence. "The girls are skurred!" he shouted, and indeed, they must have been — the eventual contestants were three young men and one lone lady.

The contestants were herded onstage and lined up like prisoners about to face the firing squad. They all were black, all looked like they'd been tricked into entering, and all possessed very pleasing posteriors — which the DJ commanded that they turn around and stick out. (Booty-shaking tip number one: A nice booty is half the battle.) The DJ played music for about a minute, and the contestants did their thang. When the music stopped, the crowd cheered loudly to indicate who they thought had the shakingest booty. After the first elimination, the contest picked up: The girl flung herself at the dance pole, and the two guys — one wearing white sunglasses and the other wearing his hair in long braids — started speed-shaking. But though the boys shook their asses with gusto, it wasn't enough to make off with the booty. The only girl, diminutive, barely legal, and sexy as hell, grabbed the $100 prize. After all, how could boys compete with a hot girl at a bar full of girls who prefer girls?

After the contest, I walked away from the bar smelling like smoke and wondering what the Texas church ladies would think if they knew I'd been drinking with lesbians and trying to understand the elusive art of booty-shaking. And though I've been back to the club since, I still don't know whose nipple ring you have to tug in this town to see some lesbian break dance.