Author Michael Lowenthal travels across 12 time zones to find a gay experience as foreign as the culinary delicacies his hosts won’t stop serving.
August 29 2010 11:00 PM EST
February 01 2023 7:28 AM EST
By continuing to use our site, you agree to our Private Policy and Terms of Use.
At the next spot a street cleaner seemed to confirm the address. She pointed into the lobby of a residential building, brought her palms together, raised four fingers. I suck at charades. Her palms looked like?an elevator?s doors? Fourth floor? The club must be a hide-and-seek speakeasy! I rode the lift excitedly to 4, but when the doors pulled back, a padlocked metal grate kept me captive.
Damn it. Had her hands meant "closed"? Four somethings ago? Weeks or months?
I wandered the streets, feeling a gloom I?d thought was years behind me: a chokehold of confusion, emotions inexpressible, every hopeful turn a new dead end; it felt a bit too much like in the closet.
I gave up and was headed down the way to my hotel, when unexpectedly I recognized a street sign from my list. An eensie one-room market was the only shop still open, its wizened keeper slumped, head in hands. I showed him the bar?s address, and he did a funny double take, then shrugged and pointed across the little alley. (It struck me that my alienation in China had a flip side: Because I wouldn?t be able to understand a stranger?s scorn, I didn?t suffer my usual fear of asking.)
A doorman whisked me in, to the strains of a Chinese torch song, whose singer, in a miniskirt and four-inch bright-white heels, danced a slutty pole dance as she crooned. She winked at me with tarantula-legged lashes.
Lordy, what relief I felt, at last to have found this!
And then, just as fast: disappointment.
The queen on stage, peddling her cartoonish sexuality?her stringy wig?the cheesy disco lighting: The club resembled ones I?ve seen from Kansas to Cape Cod, from Copenhagen to Lisbon to Havana. It called to mind the set of RuPaul?s Drag Race.
Gayness can be a great connector but also a cultural eraser, a lowest common denominator of customs. Not that I?m opposed to queens (I watch Ru?s show devotedly), or disco dives, or strutting sluts (God knows!). But I had crossed 12 time zones to a vast, exotic land, had braved its maze of mystifications?for this?
A craving for belonging, a horror of conforming: That has always been my gay conundrum.
Twenty or so Chinese guys were clustered around five tables, smoking, drinking, shaking cups of dice. They turned to stare?all of them did, at once?with no compunction, but sent me smiles and friendly little waves.
OK, well, you don?t get that in Boston.
I made the universal thumb-and-pinkie gesture to get a beer. When it came, a man got up and took the chair beside me. He clinked his beer-filled shot glass to my bottle, and we drank. He was maybe 40, wearing chunky black-framed glasses that I doubted he knew would make him hip where I live. We smiled and clinked and drank again, smiled and clinked and drank. That was all the language that we shared.
Lowenthal is the author of the novels Charity Girl, Avoidance, and The Same Embrace.
He moved away, only to be replaced a minute later by another guy, another toast—a pickup? No. Politeness. These men seemed less flirty than the ones who?d snapped my photo.
Meanwhile, on the stage, a new queen was performing: "If You?re Happy and You Know It" in Chinese.
Beside me sat the first singer, sweaty from the spotlights, who kissed my cheek and took my hand in hers. She had the classic chevron-shaped Chinese face, cheekbones sharp enough to hang your hat on. Her lipstick shade, if there?s any justice, should be called Mao?s Little Red Book.
"Hi!" she said. ?What your name? My name Ming [something] [something].?
I tried but couldn?t pronounce it.
Fine, then. Just "Miss Ming."
Fawningly, she told me, "You so handsome."
Broken English sometimes does the opposite of breaking! To hear my native tongue was like a balm. (But wait, wasn?t I seeking the unfamiliar? See: conundrum.)
She asked me where I came from, my age; she stroked my arm. And then, in a tone that seemed a mix of pride and wonderment, she leaned in close and whispered, "I am boy."
I?d known, of course, but somehow this still rang with revelation: that someone could be other and the same, all at once; that I too, so far from home, could be so much myself, wrestling with the same old set of questions.
I had a chance, later, to confirm what she?d confessed. The show had ended, and ?Play That Funky Music? now was blaring. I had to piss, so I walked past all the tables, to the bathroom. No sooner had I started, at one of two flanking urinals, than Miss Ming materialized beside me. Tilting on her too-high heels, she lifted up her miniskirt, wrenched her stockings, and out flopped the proof.
Next I knew, Miss Ming smashed her lipsticked mouth on mine. I started to resist: Sorry?not into drag queens. But how would I know? When had I ever tried one?
I had journeyed all this way, and finally, here I was.
Westerners in China tend to panic at the toilets: little more than open holes in the floor. But now, when Miss Ming pulled me into the single stall, I learned a key advantage of squat toilets: nothing to obstruct a snogging couple.
We were in there for only five minutes. (OK, 10.) Miss Ming was an ardent kisser, her face and falsies smooth. The whole time, I was thinking, I am boy!
When we emerged, the club was dark, the tables cleared, no patrons?as if I had dreamed the whole thing up. There might as well have been mice and pumpkins.
Miss Ming said, "I want make love in bed with you tonight."
My hotel, though it was one of the slickest in Nanjing, did not allow visitors after 11:30 at night, nor sharing of rooms by "a male and a female who are not bound my marriage."
But that was just the excuse I gave. I didn?t want her. Why? Maybe because it wasn?t fair to use her as "exotic"? Or my taste buds, after all, are just too timid.
"Sorry," I said, and pulled her close—the next day, I?d find glitter on my collar—and kissed her in the darkness, one last time. Her tongue was like a tiny, salty lollipop of flesh.
Lowenthal is the author of the novels Charity Girl, Avoidance, and The Same Embrace.
Lodging
Sofitel Galaxy Nanjing is a 48-story high-rise, very modern, luxury hotel; Jon Jiang Hotel has 24-hour check-in and budget-conscious rates.
Exchange Rate
$1 = 6.78 yuan (also called RMB)
Regional Delicacy
The city is nicknamed "Duck Capital" for all the waterfowl eaten here, whether it?s prepared as baked duck, duck?s blood soup, or Nanjing salty duck, which has been made here for more than 1,000 years.
>Gay Hangout
Gay bar Ye Shan Teng (48 JianKang Lu) draws a more sophisticated 30-and-up crowd, while the patrons of Red Bar (2 Beijing Dong Lu, at Beijige Square), which features nightly performances, is typically younger.
Don?t Miss This
Dr. Sun Yat-sen?s Mausoleum. Often regarded as the father of modern China, he was instrumental in overthrowing the Qing dynasty?yet they still built him an imperial-scale tomb.
Ultimate People-Watching Spot
Gongyuan Street along the Qinhuai River was historically a spot for nobles and businessmen to visit the restaurants, dance halls, and brothels. Now it?s a popular destination lined with shopping, temples, and restaurants.
Best Splurge
Cloud-pattern brocade satin, named for the woven pattern as beautiful as clouds, is an ancient Nanjing specialty and was traditionally given as a reward or a gift to honored guests.
You Might Not Know
Nanjing has been China?s capital at various times. The first emperor of the Ming dynasty rebuilt the city as the capital in 1368 and ordered the building of the world?s longest city wall, which took 200,000 laborers 21 years to finish.
Lowenthal is the author of the novels Charity Girl, Avoidance, and The Same Embrace.
Exclusive: Lady Bunny releases new 'Hot To Blow' video