Camille Paglia always said that lesbians are boring, and I’ve tended to agree with her. But Gloss—the weekly party hosted by superhot chicks Rachael and Chloe—offered me a glimmer of hope that the girls don’t all look like gas-station attendants and go home by midnight. The party’s had some success with its three-year run, so I figured that the saucy ladies featured on its Web site were not just a ploy to get you to come.
I visited Gloss a few weeks after the WTC tragedy, and it was an admittedly “strange” evening, even by the promoters’ standards. Arriving at 11:30 p.m., me and the Pussy Posse (the Librarian, the Butch Princess, the Bisexual Street Urchin, and Chelsea Peretti, for whom there is no appropriate pseudonym) watched as three young men, in various degrees of drunkenness, attempted to push their way inside. The two less-inebriated fellows tried to calm their out-of-control friend, who decided that calling the burly bouncer “a fat bitch” was a surefire way to get inside an all-ladies club. Her response: She socked him on the chin. He left. Rachael, handling door duties, rolled her eyes and shook her blond head. “Every time we get a write-up in a magazine, boys come flocking: ‘Oh, glamorous lesbians!’ We want to be open, and let men in if they’re with girls, but sometimes . . . ”
Not exactly the most uplifting way to start an evening, but it wasn’t Rachael’s fault. The post-WTC mood definitely hit the girls at Gloss: The crowd wasn’t as thick or as rowdy as usual (according to Tristan Taormino, make-out sessions usually happen in the bathrooms), and mostly consisted of college-age girls (slightly on the femme tip) who came to be with their girlfriends. As for me and the roving singles Pussy Posse, we were fixated on the fantastically talented go-go girl Maine, who bumped and ground to DJ BK Brewster’s music. Brewster was in a hip-hop state of mind, playing the Missy track “Get Ur Freak On.”
We might’ve had high hopes of getting laid, but alas, we had our usual success rate: zero. The Librarian and the Butch Princess chatted amongst themselves (like always), the Bisexual Street Urchin chatted with her friend, and Chelsea Peretti and I still gawked pathetically at Maine, who was gyrating in a silver tube top, a black mini miniskirt, knee-high black leather boots, and a long, silky black wig. It was hard not to stare. A little later, after shedding her wig, Maine was suddenly upside down, doing vertical splits and then moving muscles in her ass I didn’t know existed. To the beat. “If I shook my ass like that, it would just jiggle, and people wouldn’t pay me dollars,” said the Librarian. “Actually, they’d pay me to stop.” The finale featured her straddling the pole with both legs and pulling herself upright. Applause all around, and lots and lots of bills made their way into Maine’s mini, including some of my own. Oh, to be in Maine!
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on October 23, 2001