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A Tourist In A Tranny Bar / Not your ordinary 'girls' night out' lands Violet Blue in legendary Tenderloin establishment
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A Tourist In A Tranny Bar / Not your ordinary 'girls' night out' lands Violet Blue in legendary Tenderloin establishment
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Sometimes you have those sudden moments of total clarity, and they often find you in circumstances that could best be described as "timeless." I found mine on my knees in a dingy and dark club in the Tenderloin at about 1 in the morning Saturday night -- I was, in fact, in a spotlight, on bended knee, sliding a size 15 Lucite stripper heel onto a slightly belligerent, bewigged tranny emcee, who, microphone in hand, was sitting on my date's lap and admonishing the crowd for not tipping enough. While also publicly admonishing my date for being a tall drink of boyish cuteness and being decidedly straight. I was the drunken Cinderella's footman, and it was well past midnight in a neighborhood far from mine. It was one of those Barbary Coast nights. Again.
When I walked into Divas (divassf.com), I had a vague idea of what to expect. I mean, it's a tranny bar that's been around for a while, so I figured it would be rough around the edges, packed with trans girls and the guys that chase them. Being a San Francisco girl, I've had many a t-girl gal-pal mention her time at Divas or, before that, the Motherlode, the now-shuttered Post Street reform-school-for-girls that many surviving trannies might prefer to forget. By all accounts, it was a rough place, blending in quite well with the commerce of the neighborhood.
But there's hearing friends talk about a modern Barbary Coast tranny tradition, and then there's actually setting a platform boot in the place. Women are free before 11 p.m., which is when I got there, so only my date had to cough up the 10-buck cover charge.
Stepping into the darkness revealed what could best be described as an "old man bar," except the stools weren't warmed merely by old men but also by a roster of tough-looking old broads who eyed me just as suspiciously as the dudes did the minute I walked in. The bottles on the top shelves were visibly dusty in the dim light. When I got too close to his stool to order, one old guy in a retired-military ball cap shoved me aside. There was no doubt I was a tourist in a tranny bar in my own town, and these hard-boiled characters wanted me to know it before I even tried to get a drink.
I wasn't in Divas just on a sex-tourism lark; it was a night out with the girls, with my boy-toy arm candy along for one hell of a ride. "The girls" happen to be my adopted mother and aunt, openly transgender Police Commissioner Theresa Sparks and Cecilia Chung , respectively. They were shocked I'd never been to Divas, a cornerstone of the trans-girl community in a variety of ways, both good and bad (and now part of my family culture), and they wanted me to see it. So I did get a drink, but they ordered for me, as was the custom for the rest of what became the extremely fun night.
The dank and sleepy downstairs juice joint was just the first floor. The girls led me upstairs to the next floor, where a decidedly younger, hipper crowd was congregating around another bar and a loud dance floor. I would never have known it was there from my cursory cruise downstairs. Finding it too loud, we continued to the third floor, with a much homier, almost hotel-bar atmosphere with a big-screen TV, a pool table and a warmly lit wooden bar with couches off to the side. Ripped couches, but still.
We ventured one more floor up, but, sadly, the karaoke room was closed. For a minute I wistfully imagined a rip-roaring, cosmo-soaked night with ultra-femme, big-boobed tranny girls singing karaoke. Mind you, my ideal of hot, fleshy females wasn't downstairs, but it certainly materialized on the upper floors.
By the time we settled on the third-floor bar with its tall, skintight-catsuit-clad femme fatale barkeep and overly weathered couches, I couldn't decide if I was underdressed or overdressed (read: too much clothing on), or if I should just shut up and drink. I chose the last one. Sitting with Sparks, Chung and a cute boy, there was no want of attention by some of the most beautiful, jaw-droppingly sexy, curvy, femmed-up girls I'd ever seen.
One of the Divas dancers who stopped by before her set, Christina, made a trip to Mitchell Bros. look like a trip to a Β
tranny bar. She smiled and grinned and teased her mom, Cecilia, while we all ogled her crazy-curvy rear cleavage -- she was wearing a rhinestone thong. Cecilia admonished her: "You ride the bus like that? With your ass hanging out?" Christina smiled and sheepishly replied, "Yes." Cecilia deadpanned, "Aren't you worried about germs?"
We sent our male companion to the bar for drinks, as only he merited the heavy pours from the flirty brunette barkeep, whose entire look made Hefner's stable look like, well, a stable. Then we made our way back downstairs to the bar with the most attitude -- where the step-up stage and its glitter curtain promised us choreographed, costumed, lip-synched striptease shows performed by the girls of Divas.
At showtime, the worse-for-wear downstairs bar was an entirely different place. Now it was packed with an audience and every seat in the room was taken (we were honorably placed stage-side); overflow patrons stood waiting for the show. There were couples, there were single girls dressed from goth to trashy to dressy casual and there were pairs and trios of slightly macho but shockingly ordinary guys in groups.
Our esteemed emcee, former Empress Alexis Miranda, launched into exactly the monologue you'd expect (and that I've heard) in strip clubs, a spiel designed to get your focus on the girls and your money out, but with a twist that became even more apparent as the evening and alcohol soaked into my brain.
As new waves of men came in -- some obnoxious (like the business-suit guy I could've sworn was Barack Obama), some nice (like the working-class dude with the Bakersfield sweatshirt on) -- she made it clear that giving up a couple of bucks for titties and tequila in Divas made you not just a spectator but a participant in transgender culture and history. Miranda heckled, flirted and teased the audience, but she sent clear messages to all visiting patrons: This is our place. We remember getting beaten for wearing wigs. Tip well.
And Miranda said all those things, and more, in between sets of young women lip-synching BeyoncΓ©, each showing off jiggly choreography and pretty smiles for a few bills in her G-string. Which is why when her humongous shoe flew off and she landed in my date's lap and asked, "Honey, can you help me out?," I didn't mind parking that huge, clear boat back on her foot. It was clearer than her stripper heels that even though the guys in Divas seemed intimidatingly normal and even a bit macho, there was no doubt that this was a place where the women were in charge.
Later, when I mentioned my observations of the power dynamic to Sparks, she told me: "You're absolutely right. For them, it's the only place in their lives where they have power. The Stud and Trannyshack used to be a place many trans women went (Tuesdays), but we were totally displaced by primarily gay boys. Kind of funny, trans women performing for almost entirely gay men. When they're 'off duty,' the girls are just like young girls everywhere -- just young girls. They're trying to get by, live their lives, survive, gain some validation (same for all of us) and make it in this very difficult world for t-folk."
It was a bar experience like any other, except it wasn't at all. Normally in a bar, I deal with varying degrees of male attention, largely unwanted and unsolicited. For the night I spent in Divas, I was largely ignored as I made my way to the upstairs bathroom, going by another bar crowd that in any Mission-Marina frat boy hipster dive might have been a gauntlet. I was, in fact, off the menu altogether by all patrons -- and for the guys there to cruise, it was crystal clear that I was "not the 'droid" they were looking for. Well, OK, I was about 2 feet shorter than all the other girls. In the bathroom, I was startled when a hot, skinny, jeans-and-T-shirt Latina walked in on me. She apologized and I laughed and told her, no problem, I was just fixing my lipstick and go right ahead. There was no stall, and we chatted as she relieved herself. Glancing in the mirror, I saw a pretty girl's back as she let loose a torrent -- standing up.
I don't know why I expected her to sit down.
And considering the state of janitorial affairs in the Divas restroom, I was more than a bit envious.
Violet Blue is a Forbes "Web Celeb", notorious blogger ( Laughing Squid ), high-profile tech personality and one of Wired's "Faces of Innovation." She writes for outlets ranging from Forbes.com to O, The Oprah Magazine. She is regarded as the foremost expert in the field of sex and technology, a sex-positive pundit in mainstream media ( CNN , The Oprah Winfrey Show ) and is interviewed, quoted and featured prominently by major media outlets. Violet has many award-winning, best-selling books , a famous podcast , is fun to follow on Twitter , and is a San Francisco native.
Blue headlines at conferences ranging from ETech, The Forbes Internet Leadership Conference, LeWeb and SXSW: Interactive, to Google Tech Talks at Google, Inc. Her tech site is Techyum ; her audio and e-books are at Digita Publications .
For more information and links to Web sites discussed in Open Source Sex, go to Violet Blue's Web site, tinynibbles.com .
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A Tourist In A Tranny Bar / Not your ordinary 'girls' night out' lands Violet Blue in legendary Tenderloin establishment
Shopping
Live updates: Amazon's 2-day October Prime event is live now
Shopping
Amazon announced that (almost) every Bond movie is...
Shopping
Costco is selling a life-sized Mickey Mouse Nutcracker...
Shopping
Live updates: Amazon's 2-day October Prime event is live now
Shopping
Amazon announced that (almost) every Bond movie is...
Shopping
Costco is selling a life-sized Mickey Mouse Nutcracker...
Please log in to view your profile.
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We and third parties may deploy cookies and similar technologies when you use our site. Please review the information below and select the cookies that you want to enable. You can continue to the site without accepting these cookies but certain features may not be available or function properly.
Editorial, Functionality and Social Media Cookies
We use third-party services for commenting, videos, and embedding posts as part of our news coverage. The providers of these cookies may use the data as explained in their privacy policies.
Twitter ( Privacy Policy ) Facebook ( Privacy Policy ) Select All
Performance, Content Recommendation and Personalization Cookies
We use our own and third-party services to provide content recommendations and customize your user experience and advertising. The providers of these cookies may use the data as explained in their privacy policies.
Taboola ( Privacy Policy ) Nativo ( Privacy Policy ) Blueconic ( Privacy Policy ) Realm Select All
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We use cookies to analyze and measure traffic to the site so that we know our audience, what stories are read, where visitors come from, and how long they stay. You can opt out of these analytics cookies by unselecting the boxes below.
Parsely ( Privacy Policy ) Google Analytics ( Privacy Policy ) Chartbeat ( Privacy Policy )
A Tourist In A Tranny Bar / Not your ordinary 'girls' night out' lands Violet Blue in legendary Tenderloin establishment
More stories to check out before you go
Sometimes you have those sudden moments of total clarity, and they often find you in circumstances that could best be described as "timeless." I found mine on my knees in a dingy and dark club in the Tenderloin at about 1 in the morning Saturday night -- I was, in fact, in a spotlight, on bended knee, sliding a size 15 Lucite stripper heel onto a slightly belligerent, bewigged tranny emcee, who, microphone in hand, was sitting on my date's lap and admonishing the crowd for not tipping enough. While also publicly admonishing my date for being a tall drink of boyish cuteness and being decidedly straight. I was the drunken Cinderella's footman, and it was well past midnight in a neighborhood far from mine. It was one of those Barbary Coast nights. Again.
When I walked into Divas (divassf.com), I had a vague idea of what to expect. I mean, it's a tranny bar that's been around for a while, so I figured it would be rough around the edges, packed with trans girls and the guys that chase them. Being a San Francisco girl, I've had many a t-girl gal-pal mention her time at Divas or, before that, the Motherlode, the now-shuttered Post Street reform-school-for-girls that many surviving trannies might prefer to forget. By all accounts, it was a rough place, blending in quite well with the commerce of the neighborhood.
But there's hearing friends talk about a modern Barbary Coast tranny tradition, and then there's actually setting a platform boot in the place. Women are free before 11 p.m., which is when I got there, so only my date had to cough up the 10-buck cover charge.
Stepping into the darkness revealed what could best be described as an "old man bar," except the stools weren't warmed merely by old men but also by a roster of tough-looking old broads who eyed me just as suspiciously as the dudes did the minute I walked in. The bottles on the top shelves were visibly dusty in the dim light. When I got too close to his stool to order, one old guy in a retired-military ball cap shoved me aside. There was no doubt I was a tourist in a tranny bar in my own town, and these hard-boiled characters wanted me to know it before I even tried to get a drink.
I wasn't in Divas just on a sex-tourism lark; it was a night out with the girls, with my boy-toy arm candy along for one hell of a ride. "The girls" happen to be my adopted mother and aunt, openly transgender Police Commissioner Theresa Sparks and Cecilia Chung , respectively. They were shocked I'd never been to Divas, a cornerstone of the trans-girl community in a variety of ways, both good and bad (and now part of my family culture), and they wanted me to see it. So I did get a drink, but they ordered for me, as was the custom for the rest
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