Club Stars was the last of the 3.2 alcohol gay teen bars in 1990, located just west of lower downtown Denver in the railroad yard just off the old 20th Street viaduct. My friend Kyle, a 24-year old blond guy that I had met at the Aurora Mall, suggested it would be a good idea for me to go there and meet some friends my age. The club itself wasn’t that spectacular. It was an old tire warehouse that had been painted all black on the inside with a dance floor at the far end and a bar, lit with Christmas lights, along one wall. Tom, the owner, was a large German man in his mid-thirties with broad shoulders, paunchy stomach and one semi-lazy eye. Situated at the cashier door, he intimidated the hell out of me with his towering ego, large crossed arms and a thick, throaty laugh.
“And just why should I let you in?” he scoffed at me as I stood in front of him in my latest rayon paisley print with black MC Hammer pants to match. I told him that I wanted to meet friends. “Friends? In here? That’s cute. Good luck.” Often, though, after I convinced him to allow me in, I would pull up a bar stool next to the cashier cage because I was too scared to venture past on my own. I tried not to disturb him too much with what I felt were stupid questions, but in some sense I thought of him like a friendly pit bull. As the night would wear on he would often give me a clue or two about the patrons that passed through the front door.
One night a large maroon Mercury stretch limo pulled up outside the door. From it emerged three very tall and glamorous looking women. I was in awe and asked Tom who the women were. “You’ve never seen drag queens?” No, I answered. “They’re not real women,” he continued in his deep voice, “they’re men dressed up like them.” With that the first of the three entered through the front door. Dressed in a blue sequin cocktail mini, adorned with large earrings, glossy lips and a mass of curly hair, she resembled something of a Diana Ross knock off. “Bitch,” said the sparkly lady to Tom, “wha cho up to?” Tom said something about business as usual. Then she turned to me, her tarantula eyelashes widened with delight. “Well hello baby,” she flirted while lightly scratching the side of my face with her long, red nail extensions. “I’m Brown Sugar.”
Completely star struck (I was after all under age in the illusionary presence of a Motown legend) I could only think of one question. “Is that your limo?” She looked at me, then Tom, and laughed. “‘course that’s mine. Why? Would you like to go for a ride?” she asked. I couldn’t contain myself. I had never been in a limousine before and I couldn’t believe that I was going to now. Boy, if the kids at school knew what I was doing on a Friday night, I thought. Having sipped down half a pitcher of beer while seated at the door, I leapt with excitement from my bar stool. I flashed Tom a big happy grin. He shot me back a silent raised eyebrow with a tilt of his head. “Girls,” said Sugar to the other two, “I’ll be right back. Come baby,” her nails now scratching the top of my head.
The driver opened the rear door and I bounded into the back seat. What few parking lot lights there were looked like muted stars against the sky through the dark, tinted glass. Brown Sugar slid into the seat next to me. Before the driver closed her door, she instructed him to take a few laps through downtown Denver and then we were sealed into the dim lit cavern. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked as the car lurched forward over and around the potholes in the parking lot. I told her no, I was fine, but the reality was I had no idea what kinds of cocktails were available. All I knew was beer. “You got the face of an angel, baby.” I smiled with embarrassment and looked out my window as the car started to weave among the streets lined with high rises. I asked her if I could open the rooftop window. She obliged and as the dark glass slid open, I noticed the black privacy window rise between us and the driver.
Instinctively I knew something wasn’t right as Brown Sugar slithered over to me and onto the floor. “Pull down your pants,” she growled. “I want to suck your cock.” All of a sudden I realized I had to pee really bad and that it wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, she was starting to frighten me. I attempted to be coy and said something like “what about the driver, we can’t do that back here.” She laughed at my naivete and in an instant had my pants half way down around my thighs. Oh god, I thought, this can’t be good. From my crotch this mound of synthetic wavy hair started to rise and fall, but I just couldn’t get hard. My bladder started to really throb. Crap, I worried, I’m going to piss in her mouth if I strike up a boner. Several times she looked up at me with a sneer and I just sat there with a terrified toothy grin. “Why don’t you close your eyes,” she whispered. That made it even worse for me because all I could think was I didn’t want to be known as the guy who took a leak in Brown Sugar’s mouth.
After several minutes, Brown Sugar sat up in a huff and ordered me to put my pants back on. She then lowered the privacy screen and barked at the driver to return us to Stars. I sat in an awkward silence as we returned to the club. When the car slowed to a stop outside, I thanked her and exited quickly before the driver could open my door. I sped past Tom at the cashier cage to the toilet to relieve myself. When I came out of the bathroom, Brown Sugar and her groupies were seated at the bar shrieking in hysterics while they stared at me. What little self-esteem I had was shattered and I bolted out of the club and went home ashamed of myself. For the next two weekends I avoided Stars, and when I finally returned, Tom asked where I had been. I lied and said busy with school. Before we could continue anymore conversation fate would have it that the maroon Mercury limo pulled up to the door again. I panicked, but stood next to Tom as Brown Sugar and company entered.
She said hi to Tom and made sweet talk conversation as her crew hovered and passed without paying cover. Then she looked at me. “Wanna go for a ride?!” She howled and hissed in laughter. Her minions jumped in on cue and I felt the blood rush to my head. I wanted to run, but luckily they moved on into the club and I sat mortified next to Tom. After about five minutes of silence, I felt Tom’s meaty left arm weigh in across my shoulder. “Brown Booger?” he said in a low gruff with a squeeze of his elbow. “She’s a tired bitch.” Grateful for his support, I then only had to wonder what “tired” meant.
Robert included a photo with his story and I thought it’d add a nice, personal touch.