I've just got back from my day (call that night) job and I'm fucked. To pay for my hours on the Mac I do a little bar-tending. Tonight it was the pub gig and being the 3rd Friday of the month it's dyke nite! Brighton has a very healthy lesbian population (too healthy in my opinion - you'll see why). Most of the time they blend in and go about their business like us all - a few tattoos, shaved heads, piercings etc but this could describe many women straight or gay in Brighton. But on the 3rd Friday they let their hair (and their knickers down) at a special pub party.
The landlord expects me and Deb, the other barmaid to get in the spirit and supplies us with appropriate clothes. I get a sports bra top and cycle shorts, Deb (better figure) gets a nurses outfit.
The night starts rather calmly. The usual crowd turns up then some newcomers attracted by ads in the local gay papers. It must be every blokes dream, lots of fems, drinking and flirting, but actually it seems like any other night in the pub and people talk about films, the Olympics and gossip about friends. But as the cocktails go down so do the morals.
The music starts, fems dance, dope gets smoked, and suddenly Deb and I become targets. In this business you expect blokes to come on to you but even pissed they're nothing like drunken dykes.
We have to move fast to dodge the gropers. Deb gets asked about taking temperatures and giving bed baths and I, once again, realise how revealing cotton cycle shorts can be. As I step around the party goers cracks are made about my cracks,back and front, and fingers probe. My bum is now very sore from pinches - lesbians used to be more laid back but now they're very laddish.
Deb's nurse's knickers get pulled down ( it's a tradition). We both get several pissy propositions. A couple of the fems are very attractive but pub rules dictate no naughty stuff on the premises.
And then it's over for another month.
After I finish this I'll be in the bath nursing my bruises and my bruised ego - Deb got far more flirting and telephone numbers written on her hand. Perhaps I should try a naughty nun's outfit next time.
Still writers have to start somewhere. Orwell worked in a kitchen, Amis was a librarian, Grisham was a lawyer and I am a bar-slut in spray on pants!! Still I'll laugh about it when I'm famous - and that's a laugh too.
Love and sore cheeks Sadie