San Diego Unseen: An Urban Portrait
- Photo by Alex Zaragoza
“We have to go to a tranny bar,” he said.
I looked at him with those same hungry eyes and said, “Hell yes,” and all the talk of taped-back penises and Selena with stubble came to a head on Friday night.
We stepped onto Avenida Revolucion and made our way to Mike’s Disco, the least-tranny name for a tranny bar in tranny history. Not a single dick or Bette Midler reference. I mean, who is this Mike, anyway? Is he even wearing glitter?
We grabbed a seat with a full view of the long stage. The backdrop was two glittering Mexican flags draped down to the ground. El tri never looked so glorious.
A queen dressed as Mexican singer Juan Gabriel came out. He lip-synched to one of his classics while taking dollar bills in his crotch. With the lights, the fog machine, the terrible wig on Gloria Trevi -- who gave me the roughest lap dance of my life and then refused to take a dollar bill from my mouth -- my heart swelled with patriotic pride. A single tear fell from my eye.
As the cherry on top of a sweaty-testicle sundae, out came a male stripper in a silver space jumpsuit. Gay Buzz Aldrin struggled with his shoes and had to hop on one foot to get down to his tiny bottoms, but once he did, he grinded on anything within reach: a chair, a few girls, the stage and then himself with a moment of simulated masturbation. His extravaganza ended as all extravaganzas should -- he ignited sparklers and stood looking like an Adonis who still lives with his mom.
After all the hype, I was worried the TJ tranny experience wouldn’t stack up. I should’ve known better than to doubt a man in fuchsia lipstick.
