Bar Hopping

“Where are you running to?”

The bouncer stopped us, and with his soft Polish accent, asked us again. “Where are you running to?”

The four of us were taken aback.

Edric moved a bit closer and said, “Um, we’re going to the bar. Isn’t it obvious?”

“You all are very much aware that it is a gay bar, right?”

Pow. I didn’t expect that. I thought we will all be relaxing and taking our time off at a straight bar in Soho. Yes, there are a couple of straight bars and pubs in Soho as well.

“Well, you look very young. Below 18, actually,” the bouncer said in his unmoving poker face. “Can I have a look of your identifications please.”

Even though his English will make someone from Katipunan laugh till God knows when, it’s not the right moment to even snicker. I don’t have my passport with me, but I have my Oyster card that says I am an 18+ student.

The three of us were through with our Oyster. Except for one. Edric. His laminated version of his school ID was not enough, and his Oyster card doesn’t say that he’s 18+ because he has the old version.

“But I’ve been here a couple of times and I haven’t been checked.” He reiterated.

“Sorry, rules are rules.” The ruthless bouncer just stood there triumphantly, having picked upon his preys for the night.

“Leave it, let’s just go somewhere else shall we?” He ushered.

Now, it would be ok if it all went perfectly. The problem is, we have two companions who are absolutely clueless with regard to Soho’s vibrant and colourful nightlife.

With us, were Gene, and Art.

-----

After that trip to Oxford earlier that day, I’ve had enough. No one’s really right for me, maybe.

And since we’ve already finished visiting all the sights before 6pm, we decided to go back to London a bit earlier than our actual booked time. And I was sweating when the conductor checked our tickets. Good thing he didn’t check it very rigorously.

Upon returning to the bustling city, the gang kept on pressing me to go to the bar where I fuckin’ lost my phone and unwind there.

And I can’t tell them, because if I bring them to Village, then, hell will break loose.

So, there we were, looking for a bar that seems to have a kind bouncer on the entrance. Since when did kind and bouncer go hand in hand?

We managed to enter Bar Soho without the bouncer’s questioning, but alas, the bar was too noisy with its booming surround speaker system and was kind of cramped with no places to sit and have a nice chit-chat.

We had to go out and look for a quieter one. I was on the verge of spilling my secret out by leading them to Village (which had a 50% off on drinks on a Monday), but then, something caught my eye.

Glee night, on Ku Bar in Frith Street.

Yeah, even though Ku Bar is a gay one as well, the poster seemed to show that it’s a harmless bar that can welcome us, since I have straight companions with me. But um, how can we be sure about that?

I threw a smile on the bouncer, and it worked. He smiled back and let us all in.

After getting the drinks from that very cute bartender, we went up and sat on one of the couches. We drank, but at the same time, talked about the meaning of the rainbow flag plastered outside Ku Bar.

Art asked me to get some technology magazines, since he saw a couple of them by the stairs. I was about to get one when I secretly giggled.

They were not tech magazines. They’re gay ones, with all the topless hunks on its front cover.

I can’t risk it. I don’t fancy giving it to him and be shocked by the guys who ooze with sheer sexiness.

----

After a couple more shots of tequila, it was time to go, with the three of them ensuring that all of my gadgets were still with me.

My head’s hurting but I was still wary of the surroundings and what the three were talking.

I bade them farewell as they went down Tottenham Court Road station. I made an excuse that I’ll take the bus instead. Unknowingly to them, I decided to have a drink for a few more hours.

The tequila must’ve seeped into my rationale thinking when I decided to go back to Wardour Street, and enter Village again, for the second time this month.

Just for fun, I decided to check how high (or really low) my face value was, by checking if someone would approach me to have a chat as the night would pass by.

I looked like a fool after ordering that cider and sitting in one corner, eyeing all the cute guys passing by. At the front were a young Oriental talking (and going really chummy) with the 40-ish Caucasian. Sitting beside me were two young Caucasian guys kissing torridly on occasions. Sitting on my left were a bloke and a gal, drinking with their rose.

I got so embarrassed when the night went by without someone approaching me, and I felt even more humiliated when the girl sitting beside me asked, “Are you ok?”

I just have her thumbs up, and she replied, “Don’t worry, be happy.”

Oh dear. I must’ve looked awful. I quickly gulped my small bottle of cider and decided to call it a night to prevent further humiliation.

And at that moment in time, as I sat on the upper deck on Bus N89, an epiphany had struck like lightning.

What the hell were Art and Gene thinking when Edric and I brought them to gay bars?

Am I already out?

And most importantly, since no one approached me it meant only one thing.

I don’t have any face value at all. 

Sick in Soho

*BLECCCHHH*

Fuck. It was soooo damn embarrassing. It was my nth time to wreak havoc by regurgitating all that I’ve eaten on Bus N155 en route to Morden.

I know that I’ve been experiencing a lot of not so good things lately but I can’t imagine I let it get the best of me, by ignoring my friend’s remarks and insisting him to buy one more bottle of rose.

Migration. Job prospect. Homesickness. Art’s evasiveness. All of these meshed together and propelled me to do what God has told me, to venture into the gay bars of Soho.

Yes, you heard it right. Gay bars of Soho. It was in Village Bar in fact, nestled on the corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street, London’s LGBT hub. 

Never would I imagine that I would enter this place unprepared as I haven’t even stepped foot on the cheeky streets of Malate ever before. I was told that compared to the other bars on the street, Village is more friendly to first time goers like me.

Good thing I was with a Filipino I met in PR, so that gave me that extra mile to push that door that has the rainbow-coloured flag plastered on it.

-----

About 4 hours before

“Why the hell are they eyeing us?” I asked nervously.

“It’s because we are an item in this part of the world,” the one who was accompanying me said.

Adam’s right. As soon as the bouncer let us in (damn I already look 21, since they can question you and ask for a proof of age if you look under 21), most eyes were on us. It was as if the bar held its breath as we made our way to find some seats.

“This is nothing,” Mike said as we finally found a seat and drank our Coke whisky. “Go to Kudos and we’ll see. Orientals normally don’t get out of there without getting laid." I looked really shocked but thank God he retracted the joke.

My heart and testosterone levels were fluttering as gays ranging from very cute to very hot pass by our table. Also noticeable were how some of the blokes were glancing ‘secretly’ on the both of us, to which I caught them in flagrante delicto. It was great, because finally, for the first time, I can be myself by saying “Oh that guy’s hot” without society controlling me like a puppet.

We talked about the not-so-clear future regarding our status in the UK, got to know a bit more about each other, and how the hell this gay thing works. Mike tried to teach me some tips regarding flirting, but I decided to try it at a later date. For now, observing from afar is enough.

As the night passed, more glasses were being emptied by my throat, and sure enough, the effects had started to kick in. My vision’s a bit blurred, but not enough to shy away from the very attractive guys I was seeing.

Mike then nudged me to talk to this very cute 20-ish White Briton on my right, since we noticed that he was alone drinking his glass of beer for the past hour. Well, I thought he was waiting for his boyfriend or something.

“Come on! He’s not my type, but it’s definitely yours!” He continued to nudge me.

“E, I can’t. I don’t have enough self-confidence.” Well, thanks for that good-for-nothing Sam.

Well, Fate finally unfolded itself as the cute Caucasian guy turned to us, and asked, “What time is it?”

With the effects of alcohol totally eliminating my inhibitions, I decided to give in and start an friendly conversation with him. And here’s what I got.

Damn, he has a boyfriend (as expected of a guy in this calibre). He’s a solicitor working at the Bank area, London’s financial district. He also has a flat in Holborn, which I know is God-knows-what because rents around the Central are exorbitantly priced. And, not to mention, he has another house with garden in Buckinghamshire, a county just 30 minutes away from the City.

Then, my memory has been tainted with the 20% alcohol content I just drank as I didn’t remember anything else apart from the fact that he left the bar afterwards, and we left the bar as well, with Mike helping me while I was limping, and puking around Old Compton Street.

I realised then that I wasn’t 100% drunk since I vividly remembered that one very cute Spanish guy walked towards us to ask if I was ok. And then, I puked some more around the corner.

I also remembered that Mike asked me to enter Caffé Nero since nearby Costa Coffee was already closed. And then, it all went black again except for the fact that the barista needed to usher us out as I regurgitated the hot chocolate I was drinking.

And then, we had to wait outside the bus stop near Trafalgar Square. Technically, the weather wasn’t that cold, but I was shivering. Seems the after-effects of alcohol are starting to circulate into my bloodstream.

Finally, it arrived, and after puking one more time inside Bus N155, Mike and I alighted at Elephant and Castle.

Damn it was so embarrassing indeed. I kept on apologising about how I made a fool of myself and most especially to him. After insisting nonstop that I can be ok from here, and he doesn’t need me to really accompany me to the door to my house, he finally gave in. First impressions are said to be the most important in ensuring a great friendship, and I just messed it all up.

I was about to alight the bus that would really take me home, when I was rummaging my pockets for something.

My phone.

I asked Mike to open my bag up for me to ransack its contents. No phone, nothing. Just some bottles of water and a couple of chocolate cookies.

Damn. After a few minutes, I decided to give up as we were both running late. It was five past three AM.

I literally slipped inside the bus (as I didn’t hold on to the railings properly), I finally sat down, half –conscious. Wow, for once, that constant puking really helped me by being sober. Now, I will just have to await the dreaded hangover that will greet me the next day.

It seemed to take forever, but finally, I managed to get off the bus properly, open the door, and tiptoed quietly to my room. I don’t want to wake my roomies up with that horrible stench of vomit. I didn’t even bother to change my clothes as I snuggled beneath my duvet.

Inebriation. What a vile thing. Now, I have to face the repercussions to my carelessness and imbecility.

I didn’t get to hit some more guys up. Kidding aside, I just became 170 quid poorer, humiliated myself and a friend, and I left a not-so-good memory of my first ever trip to a gay bar.

Good thing Art didn’t see me at that state, but then again, it can be great thing if he would to take good care of me while I was knocked out.

After all this, I just have one thing in mind… up my alcohol tolerance by a notch.

And with the ultimatum that Britain has placed on students like me, it’s time to frequent Soho and Vauxhall.