RESOLVED, that lesbians have the right to create and maintain lesbian-only spaces
The Lesbian Bill of Rights
Introduction
Because of the forced teaming of “Queer” with lesbians, no lesbian bars that exclude men have existed in the United States for about 25 years. As a result, an entire generation of lesbians has never experienced that kind of space.
When a particular demographic is targeted for persecution, one of the first aims is usually distortion, suppression, and destruction of the group’s history. The WDI USA Lesbian Caucus is not going to cooperate.
So here’s our Pride gift of ten lesbian bar stories — freshly uncovered lesbian history, presented anonymously to support truth telling, and unedited. Happy reading, and Happy Lesbian Pride to all!
The WDI USA Lesbian Caucus
Lauren Levey, coordinator
Katherine Kinney
Brandi Kochan
A. Schams
The Saints
My bar was the Saints, in Boston. Fittingly, it was on Broad Street. Every lesbian I knew went there. I discovered it when I ventured into the Lesbian Liberation rap group at the Cambridge Women’s Center. After that meeting, we all went to the Saints. After every meeting at the Cambridge Women’s Center, everyone went to the Saints. The anti-nuke dykes. The dykes who ran the battered women’s crisis line. The Women Against Violence Against Women dykes. The Bisexuality Rap Group dykes. The dykes from the Women’s School. The dykes from the yoga class. The Take Back the Night dykes. And of course, the softball dykes, the dykes who ran the wimmin’s restaurant, Bread & Roses (on their nights off) and the dykes from Gay Community News. Pretty much everyone (except the dykes from the AA meeting) went to the Saints. After you did the heavy lifting of fighting the patriarchy, you went to the Saints for a beer, some music and conversation, and a dance or two. (Good luck getting to use the pool table, though. It pretty much belonged to the same group, who were very protective of it.)
Most of the dance music was on the jukebox, but every now and then, one of the “Women’s Music” crowd would roll into town and cram themselves and their gear onto the tiny stage. It was glorious! Groups like Be Be K’Roche, the New Harmony Sisterhood Band, the Berkeley Women’s Music Collective, and Jasmine. Singers like Deidre McCalla, Cathy Winter & Betsy Rose, and Connie Caldor. Songs about women-loving women that we drank in deeply. Later, we would hear these artists, and many more, at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival, which we learned about at the Saints, of course. (And at the Cambridge Women’s Center, and New Words, the feminist bookstore).
The bar was run by a collective of working-class dykes from Boston: Donna Boucher, Donna Senay, Merry Moscato, Sandra Monroe, and Sandra Goings. They were always there, every night, pouring drinks, rinsing glasses, wiping down the bar, and generally being very approachable, which was important because I summoned the courage to go there by myself once. When I walked in alone that first time, there were several butch dykes lined up at the bar. SERIOUS dykes. Old-school dykes, who probably had a lot of tattoos and arrived on motorcycles. The kind of dykes who could tie a maraschino cherry stem into a knot with their tongues. (I stole that last one from Alison Bechdel.) Their heads swiveled when the door opened, their eyes took in the baby dyke, the fresh meat, and inspected me from head to toe. Then they turned back to their drinks. Phew!
Sadly, in September 1980, the collective lost their lease. That last “Last call!” was a very tearful affair. An angry tearfulness. But the 2 Donnas, the 2 Sandras, and Merry were not deterred for long. They started fundraising to buy a building of their own, by holding dances that were always packed. Their plan never panned out, unfortunately, but fortunately, every year the whole bunch would pack up and head to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival to operate the snack bar called, of course, The Saints. For twenty-five years, if memory serves. The morning concession stand became The Saints by Day, and grew into a second stand called The Saints by Night. Even after the original Saints no longer womanned the stand, it still retained their name.
During one of the last years of the festival, I ran into Donna Boucher at the Main Kitchen eating area. We were chatting when Marie Cartier (author of Baby, You Are My Religion, a history of lesbian bars) passed by. She asked how Donna and I knew each other. “She was my bartender!” I replied. Then I told them about being scrutinized by the butch dykes. Marie memorialized the moment when she signed my copy of her book: “Michele – Thank you for your story of the Saints, my all-time favorite bar.” It was my all-time favorite bar, too, even when there were 2 other lesbian bars in Boston. Thank you, Saints Collective, for all your service to “our beloved cuntry” (I stole that from Tallon Kiehn Nuñez), and May Lesbian Bars Rise Again!
P.S. I still have ticket stubs from some Saints collective dances. (Hey, let’s resurrect lesbian dances, too!)
Aardvark in the Zoo
I will tell you about a “Lesbian” bar in Kansas City, Missouri that was called Tootsie’s. This was back in the 1980s, early ’90s. When I heard about this bar, it was the first time I learned what Gay women had to put up with in their gathering places. Long story short: When a Lesbian walked into Tootsie’s she had to understand that she was going to be put on display. She was an exotic creature, like an aardvark in the zoo. The owner of Tootsie’s encouraged “swingers” to patronize the place – married or partnered heterosexual men with their wives or lovers. These kinksters were interested in “three-ways” with a woman. Lesbians were expected to “play nice” with them and be open to their offers. I understand that money was often involved, so basically the place was a take-out brothel. Let me tell you, women HATED it! Numerous Lesbians vented their anger in an article about Tootsie’s that ran in the local Gay press. The owner was interviewed, and he was completely unrepentant. I paraphrase: “The swinger couples bring a lot of money into the club.” If Lesbians didn’t like how he ran the place, tough titty! “They can go elsewhere,” he said. A few of them did; there’d be private parties in the suburbs for women who didn’t want to be ogled like pieces of meat. But for years, Tootsie’s was really the only game in town for Gay girls, so young Lesbians who weren’t connected to the community often ended up in that dump. Needless to say, there were numerous Gay men’s bars in town and while you could always count on some Straight patronage, it wasn’t the same thing at all. I’m not aware of any Gay men who got propositioned in those clubs.
Bonnie and Clyde’s
It was a warm summer night in the Village, and I walked over to Bonnie and Clyde’s.
In 1970-something, Greenwich Village felt to me like the gay and lesbian center of the world. Straight people lived and worked there too of course, but young gay men and lesbians were joyfully driving the style, the economy, and the politics. We had won at Stonewall, and we were out, and the streets were ours now, Baby.
You could tell who your people were at a glance. Young gay men in faded jeans, boots, mandatory mustache. A bomber jacket on a cool night. Maybe a coded bandana. The young lesbians in men’s shirts, faded men’s jeans, and messy hair. Bras were not encouraged. For us young New York lesbians, androgyny was key. Butch-femme represented the oppression of our 1950s childhoods; and we wore our liberation with defiance as well as pride.
I turned onto West Third Street and then into Bonnie and Clyde’s. I ordered a beer and took it with me to the area near the pool table. One of the pool players caught my attention right away. Her men’s button-down shirt was bright white. Its collar was turned up, providing a contrast with her dark shortish hair. The front was unbuttoned more than I was used to seeing on casually dressed lesbians in public. When she bent over the pool table to take a shot, the effect was enhanced. It’s not like I’d never seen breasts before. The thing was that she was so comfortable and casual while apparently knowingly allowing them to show from time to time. She wasn’t obviously flaunting, she wasn’t girly, she wasn’t porny. She was just playing pool. It didn’t even look intentional at first, but it was.
I couldn’t stop watching her. I mean, all women’s breasts are perfect, but hers were also perfectly framed. And her conscious display of unselfconsciousness was contagious. I couldn’t help staring, and I knew I was staring, and after a while I knew she knew I was staring, and it was all more than fine, so the whole deal took on its own energy.
The pool game ended, and I definitely hoped she would play another match. But instead she rested her cue against the pool table, her eyes met mine, she strode over to me, and we kissed, bodies touching. We hadn’t exchanged even one word. But eventually we did.
How Much of an Outlier You Are
I was sheltered my entire life, homosexuality wasn’t addressed as a negative..it was just never addressed much at all, or if done so, only briefly mention in passing, usually with hard eyes and turn-up noses.
I had no role models, no access to media. My brief introduction was through online communities, which came with their own cautionary risks as men hunted like dogs in those spaces. I was shy, always minimized myself, and always attributed my sexuality to being a ‘broken’ human being. It was tough on 16 year old me, I had nothing to run to or anybody to talk with.
I made a leap of faith one evening post-18 to attend my first lesbian bar. I think it was within the 25 year mention of this post, however, still an all-female turn out, and the vibes very much reflected that.
It’s hard to understand how much of an outlier you are in general society, until you’ve experienced what it’s like to NOT be one. And in that space, during that time. The realization of me NOT being the black sheep nearly reduced me to tears. It was like I’ve been spending my entire life holding my breath, navigating through het-culture like I was dodging landmines and practicing elements of hyper vigilance. It was eye-opening to be on the other side of the script.
I have such a level of grief for upcoming lesbians who will now be forced into inclusive spaces against their choosing. They aren’t even worthy of being called lesbian spaces anymore, and PALE in comparison to what they once were.
Remembering T.C. & Co.
We knew we were lucky, but I don’t think we knew just how lucky. West Hempstead, New York. Late seventies.
This nice little bar had opened up in a nondescript strip mall, and somehow we all heard about it instantly. It was called T.C. & Company. Friendly owners — Trish and Chris, young women like us.
A pool table, a pinball machine, a little dance floor, chairs and tables. That was about it, but oh my goodness, it was heaven to us. We went almost every Friday and Saturday night. Year after year.
Flashes from my memories:
- Dancing, dancing, dancing. The heyday of disco. “We Are Family!” Bawling the lyrics at the top of our lungs.
- In the middle of winter, my jock friends rehashing last summer’s softball tournaments, play by play, until an English major could have just died of boredom, but didn’t because she loved them.
- Flirting, falling in love, breaking up, coming back for more. I don’t remember any fights but maybe I was just oblivious. Although there was that one time …
- A group of young men invaded, smirking and leering. The bartender, Carol, got up on the bar and yelled, “Are we going to let them take over OUR BAR?” Without a word, every woman in the place stood up and walked grimly toward the door, herding the men out into the parking lot. And that was the last time we saw them.
- Two middle-aged cross-dressing men called the owners to ask if they could come to the bar. They said yes. The men sat quietly at a table and didn’t interact with anyone.
- There was, incredibly, a play Off-Broadway called “Last Summer at Bluefish Cove” that was about a lesbian community. Inspired, I finally did something I’d been wanting to do since I was 15. I wrote a play, a little one-act comedy called “The Lavender Elephant.” It was about five lesbian friends whose lives were turned upside down when a gorgeous newcomer had a threesome with one of the couples. I showed the script to Becky, who’d majored in theatre. To my astonishment, she produced a performance of the play and put it on at the bar. The place was jam-packed. The performance was superb. The laughter and applause are still ringing in my ears.
- Often, when it was almost closing time, the DJ would play “I Will Survive.” Everyone, and I mean everyone, got up and danced. And sang. And then we went out into the cold night and drove home, smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke.
And we did survive, or some of us did, anyway. I wish I could take you back there for just one night.
Posse
It was always my attitude that got me in trouble. I had plenty of reasons to be defensive even aggressive. Pegged as a lesbian by strangers since before I knew what that was, let alone proudly admit I was one, quite a few people had targeted me especially young men. But that afternoon it was just a beautiful day in Roger’s Park. Anderson was an easy but dangerous bike ride away. Lesbians had claimed some of this neighborhood. Boy’s town was too expensive but here there was a lesbian bookstore and a few doors down a small bar with a pool table that catered to women. I had a couple of beers and engaged in some small talk with the bartender and sparse patrons. I didn’t really notice the couple of women playing pool in the front. I don’t remember why I was on foot when I left. The nearby Red line was my likely destination. A young Hispanic man approached me in the sidewalk from the opposite direction. There was always some tension between the largely Latino community and the lesbians who had both made the neighborhood their home. We locked eyes. Some people say I have a look. I tensed. Wordlessly he punched me in face just as I had exited. The next thing I know several lesbians who had seen the altercation from their vantage point at the pool table reacted seemingly instantly. They were at my side in seconds. My shock soon turned to anger and with the courage of my new found posse I felt brave enough to challenge him. They chased him off without further escalation. What I’ll never forget is those women quickly shutting down my desire for retaliation and their unhesitating bravery in defending me against the unknown assailant.
Caught a Crush
Temptations in Franklin just outside Chicago was my place. There were a couple of other places in town but I never got any play there. Always androgynous with my barely there breasts and affinity for men’s clothing that never managed to be stylish, most women never gave me a second look let alone the possibility of more.
Temptations was a bit different. Situated in a small strip mall with plenty of parking it drew women from all over the metro area. I could almost always have a couple of beers and conversation over a friendly game of pool.
There was that one night though. I had made friends with one of the regulars who ‘just liked to dance’. It wasn’t anyone’s fault I caught a crush. I knew better but I made a pass at her anyways that night. The result was predictable and I proceeded to get drunk. Very drunk. I got in my car that night.
The drive home was a dangerous cartoon of coffee and rolling down the windows and closing one eye to see straight. I was 5 minutes or so from home when I got stopped.
The cop asked me where I’d been. Fresh from the sting of rejection and with only half a thought about the implications I blurted out drunkenly ‘Temptations’. Every cop around would know it was a lesbian bar. I’m not sure if I cried but I know I yelled it. Maybe he felt some sudden urge of compassion and understanding. Maybe he had a sister or aunt. I will never know. He let me go that night. I made it home safely. I’ll never forget that night or the chance that cop took on me that night.
The Lib
I was barely legal to drink in New York, and I’d never been in a lesbian bar. But my friend Rose knew of a bar called The Lib near the UN, so we went. It was crowded with women. I was excited and nervous. Rose suggested I get a drink. I drank most of two bloody marys, not slowly. I was surrounded by bodies of lesbians. I didn’t know them. I noticed that most of them were quite attractive. Some of them touched me for an instant, in passing. Accident? On purpose? Thrilling and terrifying. I saw a couple in a corner, one was slowly stroking the other’s body. The bar was filled with cigarette smoke, which I contributed to. The bar’s air conditioning wasn’t real effective. The bloody marys were, though. Suddenly I knew I had to leave in a hurry, because there was a line for the restroom. It took a torturously long time for me to weave through the women’s bodies to the door, but I made it. The cool air came too late to reverse my digestive distress. I staggered to the curb and kneeled down and threw up for a while. At some point I noticed Rose walking quickly down the sidewalk, away from me. (My understanding deepened at that moment about why we weren’t lovers anymore!) Finally it stopped, and I noticed about 6 or 8 scary-tough lesbians standing just outside the bar, leaning on the wall, smoking and posturing. I remember thinking that all I needed to perfect my utter humiliation would be for my uncle and aunt from the Upper West Side to stroll past. But they didn’t. But then it got scarier when one of the smoker dykes looked right at me, and walked/swaggered to the curb where I was still on my knees. I thought that dying in the street couldn’t be worse than the existing humiliation, and I couldn’t move anyway, so I stayed there. To my surprise and confusion, she held out a glass of water and clean paper napkins: “Here ya go, Honey, it’s water.” She was a lovely sister. I never did return to The Lib, obviously. But soon after I did visit some other bars, without Rose, and I did better.
What’s Your Sign
…well, the year was 1967, September I believe. I walked into The Study in the Haight in San Francisco with a woman I’d just met through the Berkeley Barb. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Prior to this I’d read about lesbian bars in The Grapevine, but I still couldn’t believe it. All those women interested in women. My kind new acquaintance and I went our separate ways and I ended up sitting on a bar stool ordering what I think was called a 7-7. anyway, it was bourbon, which I never even liked. very soon a young woman with long black hair and big brown eyes sat next to me and asked my sign. I’d never thought about it one way or another but I guess in retrospect it was a good opening gambit. Anyway, we discussed supposed traits and our respective origins and so forth. She became my first partner and lifelong best friend. I lucked out!
The Red Spot
Choosing to go to college in Buffalo, New York in 1969 was an auspicious decision. Buffalo is a working class town. In those years, the factories were booming. But the university was a progressive institution. Students For A Democratic Society protested the Vietnam war. Adjuncts introduced us freshmen to the communist writings of Herbert Marcuse and Franz Fanon. The birth of Women’s Liberation and Gay Liberation were part of the zeitgeist. Along with them came the Radical Lesbians.
By 1971, I’d had a series of tragic crushes on women. I was passive, not a risk taker. Thank goodness for Radical Lesbians. They gave me the nerve to come out and introduced me to the lesbians, who were warm and accepting. I met grown-up women who belonged to the local chapter of a national gay rights organization called the Mattachine Society. Buffalo was unique, in that women as well as men were members of Mattachine.
In the early 1970s, trans was just starting to be on our radar. Leslie Feinberg, future author of “Stone Butch Blues,” was from Buffalo. She had recently transitioned, which sent trauma waves through the lesbian community. Back then, being a butch lesbian was a point of pride. There was nothing more offensive to a butch than the accusation that “she wants to be a man.”
We had two avenues for socializing: our living rooms, and the bars. Some bars were co-ed, but the guys had way more money, and therefore more bars of their own. A few exclusively women’s bars came along later. One of the most popular was called The Villa Capri, which, it was rumored, was owned by the Mafia.
However, the first gay bar I went to was called The Red Spot. I wanted to go, but I had trepidation. It was a co-ed dive bar located in the town of Lackawanna, set back from the road in the shadows, across from the steel mill. I was 19. I’d never been in any type of bar, and I’d never had a drink. That Saturday night, The Red Spot was crowded, noisy, and smokey. In one room, a barefoot woman in a bikini go-go danced on top of the cigarette machine. In another room there was a male go-go dancer wearing tight swimming trunks. The walls were decorated with black light posters of naked couples making out.
In order to fit in, I decided to drink something alcoholic. I heard someone ask for a “Seven & Seven.” I had no idea what that was, but it sounded sophisticated, so I ordered it. The 7-Up masked the taste of the whiskey, and I drank the whole thing. The next day I was violently ill. It was the first and the last time I ever drank hard liquor.
What I remember best about The Red Spot was its romanticism. Despite the noise and the bustle, intimacy permeated the atmosphere as the hit song of the day, Perry Como’s “It’s Impossible,” played on the juke box. Violins soared as couples swarmed the dance floor. They didn’t dance, exactly, they more like swayed, barely moving, with their heads on each others’ shoulders, clinging to each other for dear, dear life. I was transfixed. I’d never seen that kind of intimacy among women in a public place before.
To the world at large, we were bull daggers and faggots, pedophiles and perverts, who hooked up in bathrooms and back alleys. That’s what I thought I was about to become. That’s why I was afraid to go there. Would I be raped in the bathroom by a big, ugly dyke? Amazingly, that thought did cross my mind. I had met only lovely, affirming, welcoming women of all ages and races; yet, I was as ignorant and fearful as a straight person.
Now I know I’d had a revelation. For a few hours on a Saturday night, we had permission to be ourselves in the company of other lesbian and gay human beings. All at once I understood: The Red Spot was about love. That’s when I came out.
This made me tear up, especially hearing about the Saints. Boston is my hometown and has become a cruel place for lesbians. I am forever grateful for the strong womyn who continue to share these stories with my generation.