By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
Once in a blue moon, the Jettster and I catch hell from some fossilized old feminist who hasn't worn a bra since 1973, doesn't shave her ham-hocks, and, in general, looks like she just stepped out of the Shire in The Lord of the Rings. It's always the same song: that we "objectify" women, and that they don't like the fact that Jett's such a sexpot with an eye for both the squalies and the stickmen.
Listen up, the J-Unit is P-town's bi-Jessica Alba and glories in attention from both gals and gents. Don't be hatin' on the girl just because she doesn't loathe her sexuality, like you do. That ain't gonna happen. She's a dime and at the height of her attractiveness. You'd have better luck getting Britney to stop showing off that pregnant belly of hers.
On the objectifying tip, have you watched TV, listened to the radio, or picked up a mag other than Mother Jones lately? Like it or not, just about everyone wants to be a sex object these days. And in clubland, you might as well raise that to the 10th degree. Guys checking out girls. Girls checking out guys. And about every other combo under the sun. That's the deal. If you're from Planet Old and can't get with it, I feel sorry for you, I really do. Have fun sitting at home watching the animal channel.
This week the J-girl was lookin' to rub up on some hot boys, so we decided to parachute into the Tuesday night 2-4-1 at the PHX's premier gay sports bar, Roscoe's on 7th, at 4531 North Seventh Street, to be precise (online at www.roscoeson7.com). Roscoe's is basically what it says it is: an alternative-lifestyles sports pub, where the servers wear umpire uniforms. There's little, really, to differentiate it from many other sports bars, save for a rainbow flag on one table, and a few copies of Echo about. There are big-screen TVs all over the place, which this night are tuned in to a boxing match. And on the floor are a number of pool tables and dart machines, as both pool and dart tourneys take place at Roscoe's on a regular basis.
Though the crowd at Roscoe's is mostly gay male, there are a number of het males, lesbians and bis who make the scene on Tuesdays for that 2-4-1 special. Like at BS West's Wednesday night 2-4-1 special, you get a chip for your next drink as you order one. And nothing breaks down the inhibitions like a double dose of firewater for your scrilla. When the Jettster and I step to the bar, the first cats we meet are stud muffins Ryan and Brett, arm-in-arm and mackin'. Seems Ryan's a hair stylist and Brett works for America West out of its corporate offices. They've been a couple for two years now.
"Two years! That's like being married," says Jett. "So how do you keep your mojo in check on a night like this with all these hot doods in here?"
"The rule is look but don't touch," smiles Ryan, as Brett nods his head in agreement.
"Yeah, you gotta look if you're a guy," I comment. "Or you'll go nuts. Most chicks don't understand that. Right, Jett? Uh, Jett?"
Next to us, there's this blonde bombshell with cavernous cleavage who's giving the J-unit a case of whiplash. We quickly establish that this curvaceous honey's name is Kim, and she's hangin' with a crew of three others: Dustin, Christian and Jen. Jen's more boyish, with closely cropped hair, a baseball cap and a red tee on. Apparently, she plays for the home team and is trying to get next to Kim, who's bi. Dustin and Christian are a couple, however, and have been dating for six months now.
"I'm a girl, I really am," announces Jen, suddenly, after we've taken her pic. "So far I've had three guys come on to me here."
"But this is a gay bar," I say. "So they were gay guys who thought you were a boy?"
"Yeah, it's a little annoying," sighs Jen. "But then, I think, 'Well, I am at Roscoe's.' But what am I, the only butch lesbian in this city?"
"There are one or two others, but I guess they're not here tonight," I state. "So where do you normally hang? The Biz?"
"Ugh, I hate The Biz, because they all look like me! I like the E-Lounge. It's such a meat market. When I'm horny and lonely, I go there. You walk in and go, 'I like you, you, you and you. And I'm going home with . . . you!'"
"It's the same way here," offers Dustin. "You can choose who you go home with, but I already have the person I want to go home with." He eyes his paramour sexily, and squeezes his hand for emphasis.
"I love you, too, Christian," coos Kim. "Christian's my ex-boyfriend, actually."
"Really?" wonders Jett. "I'm all confused now."
"I go both ways, but I prefer girls. Thing is, I like girls who look like me, but that's hard to find."
"So how did you and Christian hook up, despite his now obvious preference for the fellas?" I ask.
"He and I used to go to church retreats together and stuff like that," Kim confesses. "This is when we were younger. I was like 16. Anyway, that's where we dated for a brief moment. It's also where he started experimenting with men."
"Catholic," says Kim.
"Of course!" I state. "It's the world's sexiest religion."
"Christian, tell us what went down in the bunkhouse with all the boys at these retreats," queries the J-unit.
"Yeah, I did it with this guy named Kevin," grins Christian.
"So did you introduce him to, uh, Christian love?" I crack.
"Sort of. I was desperate and very horny. Everyone else was off on their little praying session when it happened," he confides.
"And he was doing a different kind of praying," I smirk.
"Well, he was on his knees . . . ," Christian trails off.
'Bout this time, Jen announces that she has to bounce. Unlike us knuckleheads, she's got an important job, as a medic for the Scottsdale Fire Department, and is on the front lines treating her fellow fire-persons as they battle those intense summer wildfires. Big ups to Jen and all her comrades for risking their asses for us.
"Kreme," whispers the AC/DC Rachel Bilson. "Look at those two hotties over there. Let's hogtie 'em and take 'em home with us."
We approach said twosome, force 'em into a corner, and have our way with them. Which, for us, means a photo and an interview.
The first is a Latin looker named Ramon. The other is a white boy named Ethan. They're about to leave for a bite at Hamburger Mary's when we stop them. Muscular Ramon is a dance choreographer, wrapping up his degree at ASU. Saintly Ethan is studying nutrition. This night, at least, Ramon is Mr. Personality.
"I want to be in a company for modern dance," Ramon tells us. "I want to go to New York, Chicago, or anywhere in the Bay Area."
"What do you think of Paula Abdul?" asks Jett, out of nowhere.
"I think she's great," replies Ramon. "And if she had sex with that American Idol contestant Corey, that's even better."
"He has a thing for a different judge on American Idol," offers Ethan of Ramon.
"Who?" inquires the Jettster.
"Simon," admits Ramon. "I would do him so hard. I love his hairy chest. I'd make him my bitch. Though Ryan Seacrest is hot, too."
"Hey, I wanna run an idea by you guys," I say. "You know that new MTV channel for gays called 'Logo'?"
They both shake their heads, unaware of the channel, recently released by MTV's parent company Viacom.
"Anyway," I continue. "What about a gay sports channel, like a gay ESPN? Not that many of the athletes would be gay, but maybe the announcers. And the advertising would be gay-friendly. That way the announcers could ogle Lance Armstrong."
"Yeah, he only has one testicle, but he's hot," purrs Ramon, dreamily. "One's enough, though."
So much for the test marketing. You listening, Viacom execs? Remember, Kreme gets 10 percent.
The Jettster and I go back to the bar to cash in our chips on a couple more vodka-cranberries. There we run into revelers Chad and Tameia, out celebrating Tameia's being off for the summer from teaching sixth grade. Chad's got a smokin' bod, and seems to have some Latin blood running in him. Tameia's a gorgeous black woman with skin like dark, creamy chocolate. They're pals, and I ask if they've had luck hooking up lately.
"Me, I don't hook up with anyone," says Chad.
"Well, I'm very happy because I just met a nice Rastafari man," Tameia relates. "I met him at that club Next in Scottsdale."
"Just let it be said you've got to watch out for Rastafaris," advises Chad. "You know why, don't you?"
"Because they smoka tha big spliff, mon?" I answer.
"No, because they have big dongs!" he cries.
Tameia just rolls her eyes. "I don't know. I've never dated a Rastafari before. I have dated a man from the Islands in the past, from St. Croix. I just find them very gentlemanly. They're not like guys from the States. And the accents, oh my God!"
"Not that what Chad's talking about would be a bad thing," suggests the Jettster, rubbing her jaw with a perverse gleam in her peepers.
"But what about inner beauty, Jett?" I suggest, however facetiously. "Emotional maturity, compassion and intelligence. Surely all that's more important than our external attributes."
"You mean Stephen Hawking," I retort.
"See, my point exactly, most people don't even know the guy's name!"