Esmie Remembers: My night as a gay German

In this series, our “timefull” and monogamous writer Esmerelda remembers her curiously unexpected and provocatively delightful girlhood adventures. She started the night as a straight American girl. She ended the next morning as a gay German woman.

The sun began to rise as I walked down Colfax Avenue, my pigtails askew and hippie-fab technicolor sweater flopping open with each ginger step. The soreness at the space between my legs satisfied me; while last night’s “finger fucking” was as smooth as it sounded (not smooth at all), I was undeniably smug about the fact I’d said “yes” at all.

My purse smacked the back of my ass as I walked. It’s not a bag not intended for sunrise cruises down miles of Denver’s notorious Red Light quarter. Wearing a ridiculous version of a “german wench outfit” and laughing to myself, I camouflaged well with the other colourful characters along ​Colfax Avenue​, the “longest and wickedest street in America.” Although I wasn’t high like them, I was just hungover. And, for the first time, gay. As the clouds lifted above the struggling sun, so did lights shine onto my blackout-tinged memories of the rambunctious evening before…

(Photo by B​rooke Cagle​ on ​Unsplash)

It all started with those gay German boys. I’d randomly made friends with a cohort of fabulous men of varying levels of German-ness. The only thing to do was a host a German-themed party to connect them. I themed my outfit as German wench; short skirt, suspenders, white shirt, high socks, hair in pigtails under a little scarf. The result was more wench than German, but I had sausages to consider. After three+ hours twerking, eating cheese, and drinking mulled wine, we were giddy enough to call a taxi. The destination? ​X Bar​, Colfax’s hottest gay dance club.

It was only 8PM when we slammed our bodies against the svelte bouncers wearing eyeliner that put my smudged lashes to shame. Flashing my newly-minted 21-year-old ID, we quickly filled the empty club with our dramatically innapropriate dance moves– one of my German cohorts was a professional avante-garde ballerina. We treated Britney like Chopin and Beyonce like Bach, high-kicking and shasaying and arabesquing. Imagine Mariah Carey as the Sugar Plum Fairy and you’ve got the image. Although I spilled more booze than I

drank, the edges of my vision started to become fuzzy……hours later, the bar was packed. Not knowing or caring where my friends were, I flitted around in my sleezy barmaid get-up. Someone handed me a drink…was that when I met her?…

…in my next memory, I was sitting with my friends, smiling so much my face hurt as half-naked girls gyrated in front of me…

…and then someone’s tongue was in my mouth.

At this very “ah-hah!” moment I found myself standing in front of a coffee shop. I’d been walking at least 30 minutes. I realized that if I was going to be totally honest about my memories from the night before, I needed coffee.

“Ahmarriagechano,” I mumbled to the barista as I entered the empty shop. “What?” she balked. It seemed as if last night’s ice cubes were still in my mouth. On my second attempt, I managed to croak out: “​Americano. Big.​ ” The barista nodded her head without saying a word. Just another morning in the ‘hood…

I went to the bathroom. Over the toilet I peered at the insides of my legs. No blood. My piss came out fine, the standard boozy smell that follows a long night. With slightly shaking hands, I turned the sink faucet and looked into the mirror. My face slid to the right, makeup smudged on one side. My eyes were the color of an Arizona sunset. And my teeth were stained red. I laughed out loud. ​This​ is what she wanted to take home?!

Back on Colfax, coffee-in-hand, I continued to connect the dots. So I was dancing with friends. Someone started grinding me from behind. I put my hands on their head, feeling short hair. They were wearing jeans with a belt and a white shirt. We kept dancing. I remember this person handing me a drink; and then pushing me against the wall, painting the back of my throat with their tongue. And then I remember pulling away bashfully, looking at them, and seeing the face of a woman.

I was kissing a girl for the first time. More specifically, a girl was mouth raping me and I wasn’t saying no.

I recalled my shock, and then amusement, and then wholehearted acquiescence. Memories flashed like lights on the dance floor. We danced and drank and danced and drank. Did we shut the bar down? The final bar scene was clear as day. I was standing out front of the bar. My “date” had one foot inside the back door of a taxi. She and the taxi driver are staring at me; her eyes, begging, his eyes, weary. I looked to my right. My ballerina boy was standing there, watching over me. He smiled widely. “Go!” he said.

In that moment, I felt 100% sober. I looked up and down Colfax, oh epic street of dangerous delight. I looked at my ridiculous outfit. I touched my chapped lips. I smiled wide. “Let’s roll!”

I didn’t remember the drive. I didn’t remember the walk to her apartment. I didn’t remember if she offered me a drink, or some water, or the loo. Vividly, I remembered this:

She was laying on top of me. I was completely naked. My legs were spread wide. She had more fingers in me than I cared to count. I was yelling like a banshee, not because I was physically enjoying myself, but because I wanted to be the star of my own porn!

At some point I really couldn’t take anymore. I’d already faked something like 3 orgasms. And she still had her pants on! Her belt buckle was grinding into my hip bones. This was my opportunity to be gay– I wanted to go down on her, try 69, see what all this hooplah was about! Why was she still in her bra and jeans?!

“Will you lick me?” I asked.

“Just let me finger fuck you,” she said.

Five minutes later.

“Why don’t you take off your pants?” I asked, trying to open her belt buckle.

“No,” she said and stuck her tongue in my ear.

“Are you embarrassed?” I asked, trying to understand my situational disillusionment.

“I just want to fuck you,” was her exasperated reply.

There you have it: I was the slut. I sighed, committed myself to the moment, and promptly blacked out again.

My next memory was the morning. From underneath white sheets I pried my eyes open. A light sun poked from behind closed blinds, was Dorothy in Kansas anymore? The messy studio smelled like ham and cheese sandwiches. I finally got a good look at my accomplice. Her thin frame was still wrapped in jeans and a simple white bra. She was pretty, with dark cropped hair and big eyelashes. ​Not too shabby​, I thought with pride. Smooth as butter I slid from the bed and onto the floor, pulling my thigh-high socks back on. Just before leaving, I found the only writing utensil available: a paper towel and Sharpie. My hand hovered over the counter, WTF did someone say to their first gay sexual partner after a night like THAT?!

Thanks so much for last night! You’re super SEXY! Call me?

Rushing into the weak morning sun, the first road sign I saw outside her apartment was “Colfax.” Oh, sweet baby of lucky happenstance, how happy was I to see this epitome of raunchy adventure, a perfectly straight beacon that led, many blocks onward, to my very own apartment. On this red-tinged Yellow Brick Road, I clicked my heels and headed toward home, braver, wiser, and more WOMAN than before.