Reflections on great gazongas
My friends have been laughing at me all weekend: I went to
Hooters and I couldn't bring myself to leer at the waitress's breasts.
Not that she didn't try. She leaned over quite a few times, serving my drink, my refill, my chicken wings, my bill. I was determined to look her right in the eye -- every time.
I wondered if I made her uncomfortable. She's working at a restaurant where you're hired to show off your boobs -- and I blew it. Then again, I was a bit embarrassed at the thought of flirting. She's working it at this "family restaurant" for the frat boys who frequent the Entertainment District, not for the dykes.
What a terrible revolutionary I am.
The atmosphere might have influenced. The boys didn't bother me, I just felt... odd. Not afraid, just that I'd somehow stepped into a place that wasn't for me. All my lesbian friends agree they wouldn't step foot in Hooters. Though, they add thoughtfully, they'd sure check out the scenery if they did.
(This originally appeared in Toronto's
Xtra in July 2000.)