The music was what I'd been led to expect when I walked through the door of the bar. That, and spotting the smiling friend who'd tipped me to the show, oriented me somewhat - enough to place feet carefully as I moved through unfamiliar tables and their occupants to my friend's end of the bar.

I wound up leaning at the bar's very end, to the minor annoyance of the staff. The volume was just enough to prevent real conversation, but not so loud that I couldn't shout for one of whatever was on tap to the barkeep edging around me. As the beer arrived, my friend conducted shouted introductions of me to the one I had not met. Head nods and smiles would have to do for that - we'd finish up later. Soon we all returned our attention to the music, with a special slice of mine going to my beer.

All of that was worth appreciating, and settled the jangled nerves I'd brought in. I was glad to have landed slightly behind the crowd I was joining, with the cover of music played in a way that drew the eye. I managed to get through several deep breaths and into my second draft without drawing any discussion about what was on my mind. Knowing it would soon be time to start tailoring my remarks to my audience, though, I began to survey the room.

Despite having been out of the bar game for decades, I still reflexively count the ratio. This time, there were about four boys for every girl... but I did notice one thing important for my continuing orientation. Many of the boys appeared willing to play the other side as needed to make up the difference. I nodded to myself - I knew coming in it was campy music on an artsy street downtown - I should've prob'ly guessed 'em gay. Okay, good to know. It's still a game I'm out of.

My attention returned to the show, which was still doing powder-blue-tuxedo violence to the central concepts of songs by Guns 'N' Roses. It was amusing to say the least, and the full lounge-singer happy birthday to the grandmotherly type who joined them for the female vocals seemed fittingly ridiculous. Just the thing for a night that hadn't made any real sense yet.

When the show finished up, I turned to conversing with my companions. The one I'd not quite met had won one of the band's door prizes, a pail of sufficient size to milk every cow within ten miles, which is always good for a remark or two. We were soon interrupted by a man shouldering between my two friends.

He set in front of them ample slices of the singer's birthday cake, which I'd noticed being cut and distributed a couple of tables away from us. He accepted their surprised thanks with a nod, smiled, and said "Anybody else interested?"

Looking at me, to my dismay.

I pushed back quickly from the bar I'd been leaning on, saying "Nope - matter of fact, it's time for me to hit the men's room." Hoping there'd been no language problems there, I disengaged and began winding my way through the crowd in that general direction.

He'd turned to face me by the point where those damn tables constrained me to pass by him, well within arms reach. He tilted his head back just slightly and spoke at the volume he knew would have me leaning in to hear.

"It's OK, sweetie, I just came out last Christmas."

I drew back slightly to regard him. Wavy brown hair aspiring to curl, just at the level of my chin. Eyeglasses some stylish variant on horn-rims; blocky, clean-shaven jaw. Mouth set in some kind of defiant line - half a challenge, and half a stance in defense of his lifestyle, which my rapid departure appeared to be rejecting. Rather a nice mouth, it must be said; a sculptor would have been passably proud.

"Good to know," I responded in the same tones, and moved on past without pausing. My mouth was doubtless set by then by the annoyance I'd rather not have felt; I was glad to have room to move within a few steps, room to begin letting it go.

You asshole.

I'm not homophobic, I'm diabetic.