The Honest Truth

Ray looks like he just woke up in a place he didn’t fall asleep in. He surveys the room, bug-eyed. The walls are covered top to bottom in pink fur and plastic beads. Bright pink, like the inside of a neon uterus and light up by gaudy chandeliers. Techno music pulses and the room is sweaty with men standing around, anticipating sex. Ray is fresh meat on a conveyor belt.

Walking into Roses Bar is being transported into another world. From the street this place is unnoticeable; a door with a small rose lit up like a seven eleven sign. Inside gays, lesbians, oddballs and eccentrics bump elbows under the pink glow. There’s no windows, just a small front and back room, packed wall to wall.

We’re in Berlin. It’s a crisp September night, and I’ve dragged two Australian boys, Ray and Adam, and a Montreal-Canadian girl I’ve just met at the hostel for drinks on my birthday.

None of us know the city, but my friend who spent a year here compiled a list of must-do’s. Going to Roses was number one.

I didn’t consider that Zack’s favourite bar would obviously be gay, over-the-top and a shocker for these jockey Australians. I was more focused on navigating us through the metro, and streets with numbers that jump randomly from 4 to 187.

We b-line it to the bar and squirm our way through the crowd to find a place to sit. We squeeze half a buttcheek each a small couch in the corner beside a table. Ray sits on a stool, facing the entire room. He’s higher up than the rest of us, and there’s a picture of a lit-up baby jesus behind him.

He sits with his arms crossed sheepishly across his tight white t-shirt that says “Viva Vida.” He’s a big guy, with bulging muscles from working on his parents’ farm and a full head of brown hair. His face, with chiseled cheekbones, a strong nose, and gooey blue eyes, always has an innocent expression. He looks tasty as a wiener schitznel and doesn’t even know it.

“I can’t look up,” he says through tight lips in his soft Australian accent.

“Why?” I say, sitting beside him on the couch.

“People keep staring at me.” People meaning men. “I’ve never been to a place like this,” he says, genuinely frightened.

“You’ve never been to a gay bar?” his friend Adam says loudly, with a harsher accent. He’s rounder than Ray and has spiky hair and crooked teeth. “You never been to (insert Australian gay bar name) back home?” he asks, surprised.

Ray shakes his head.

“I love gay bars,” says Adam too enthousiastically to be true, and casually leans back on the couch.

I’m feeling, and pardon the pun, cocky. I’m high on the fact that I brought these kids to this strange place because I have a cool friend who lived in Berlin. I feel in-the-know, and like this is exactly where we should be in this pulsing city.

I remember Zack saying the bartender at Roses loves giving free drinks to cute girls. After spilling my gin and tonic after a few sips, I confidently strut up to the overweight bartender with a buzz cut and slicked back hair. “I spilled my drink,” I say, coyly. “Can I get another?”

“No problem,” she grunts, in a thick German accent. “But you have to pay for it.”

“Of course,” I say nonchalantly, trying not to hide my disappointment. 8 euros in the hole and no birthday buzz.

I walk back to the couch beside Ray, who is sitting on his stool with the expression that someone might throw a pie at him any minute, and start chatting up the German guy beside me.

“There’s an old man staring at me,” says Ray, tugging at my arm.

“Pretend I’m your girlfriend,” I say, laughing, and brushing him off.

Across the room I notice an older Indian women and two young German men looking over at me and whispering.

One of the guys is gorgeous. I smile flirtatiously, and raise my glass.

I’m  feeling more than happy to indulge some attention, and the trio and I shoot glances back and fourth.

The woman flashes me a flirty smile, and gestures me to come over. I realize the cute guy is gone, and her other friend is playing wingman.

Even still, I’m a few gin and tonics down the shoot and decide to play along. I make some Italian gestures with my hands that mean “what do you want?” but can easily be interpreted as “you’re driving me crazy.”

Ray, who’s been watching the whole interaction, leans down from his stool. “Now you’re in trouble,” he says.

I laugh confidently, as to say, don’t worry about it Ray, I can handle myself at a gay bar.

The woman keeps waving me over and I’ve indulged the attention too long to ignore her. I  sheepishly gesture that I can’t, pointing to Ray and implying we’re together. I try to keep talking with the German beside me, but I’m drawn in by her hungry stare.

It’s my birthday, I’m feeling good, and in Zac’s honour, I decide to walk over.

“I’m going,” I say suddenly to Ray.

“I don’t think you should,” he says. “Anyway, if you’re going to do it, at least find someone better looking.”

Ray just doesn’t understand. The Indian women is beautiful. Sure, she’s older and a little short n’ squat with that over 40 haircut, but, she has really nice eyes..? I take a hard swig of my drink g&t, which may be to blame for this whole situation, and strut confidently towards her.

When I worm my way to where she’s sitting I smile and give her a kiss on both cheeks. She pulls me in close and asks me where I’m from.

“Italy,” I hear myself say, in a weird accent I think sounds like an Italian speaking English but which someone later informs me sounds Russian. Apparently after having spent the last month and a half only speaking Italian I’m reluctant to switch back.

I don’t catch where she’s from, but she has a strong accent of some kind. I give a kiss to her friend, and he smiles knowingly at me. Her eyes burn holes in my back and after some small talk she pulls me in close.

“You’re so cute,” she says, and her eyes twinkling at me. “I have a hotel room…”

I shake my head shyly. “No, I can’t.”

“C’mon,” she says, pulling me in tighter. “Do you like women?”

“Uh, yeah,” I hear myself say to be “open.”“ I like men too though,” I add, quickly.

“Have you ever tried it with women?” she asks, flirtatiously.

“Yeah,” I say, lying. “But I have a boyfriend here.” I point vaguely to where Ray and the German guy are sitting.

“Which one?” she asks, intensely.

“The left,” I say, pointing at Ray.

“Him?” she says, disapprovingly. “Too bad.”

Now she has her hand on my thigh and is whispering “C’mon,” in my ear.

I look desperately at her friend and say “She’s crazy.” He nods, and gives me a look like, “you asked for it.”

After a series of false promises: “I’ll come back and find you tomorrow nights” and “I just can’t get away while he’s heres,” I pry myself from her grip and say bye.

“You know it’s a gay bar,” says her friend, as I pass by and shoot him an overwhelmed expression.

Back at the couch I sit down and lean into Ray who’s been watching the whole thing.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” he says, laughing.

“Shut up,” I say, tight-lipped. “Act like my boyfriend.”