And the feeling's right

He dances alone up on the stage ignoring all. Absorbed in the beat, he crazily waves his glow-sticks to the music like a maestro conducting a philharmonic.. to fucking Cher. Rivulets of sweat bleed down his face. He's short, toned, and from what I can tell, Asian. He's dressed in a policeman's uniform: striped pants, riding boots, mirrored aviator sunglasses, an authentic looking badge, and even a knight stick dangling by his side. I expect to see a biker, an Indian, and a construction worker at any moment. However, tonight isn't Halloween. It's a hot evening in the middle of September. This isn't a costume party or a masquerade ball. It's any Friday night at the club I bounce at.

What's on the menu? Usually an unrelenting barrage of repetitive house and trance music. Tanned, shirtless, roided out fags with perfect hair and perfect complexions aimlessly wandering about the club rolling their balls off, bottled water in hand. Drag queens and transsexuals with sexier legs than any woman you'll ever find. Blowjobs, rimjobs, and cocaine nose-jobs in every bathroom stall.

All of the freaks come out on Friday night.

They're harmless. Aside from catty fits of drunken name calling, finger pointing, and drink throwing, they never fight. Ever. Friday is the only night we can really relax. Instead of testosterone the air is filled with plur, celebration, and estrogen. A lot of the bouncers will drink or smoke weed. Why? Because we can. Because we don't have to be at 100 percent. We don't have to be perfectly in tune to the crowd, ears and eyes pricked to detect shit talk or a thrown punch. Being out of our heads, out of our consciousness, helps to pass the time as we're stationed at the different doors or left alone on our carpeted boxes surveying the odd display of excess taking place on the dance-floor before us. Everyone always seems to be in a more relaxed mood on Friday night.

It counterbalances the extreme homophobia a lot of the dumb-as-shit bouncers invariably wear on their sleeves.

A lot of beautiful women come in on Friday night. It's a great night for an enterprising bouncer or a resourceful bartender to hook up... believe it or not. You see, these pretty girls feel safe around all of the non-threatening gay men. They feel bolder. They become hornier. As the night progresses they get drunker. They all think they'll be “the one” who will convince their fag friend (every pretty girl has one, it's like a purse – an accessory) to bat for the other team. Light flirting and harmless innuendo turns into brazen, desperate begging and pleading. They realize their wily charms are having absolutely zero effect on the obviously homosexual men all around them so they turn their attention to the hetero bouncing staff. I've taken many girls home after my shift on Friday night. The key is to flirt with their protective gay friend who brought them. To build a level of trust. To slip their party a round of free shots.

We call these girls "fag hags." Ironically, so do the fags themselves.