My friends have been laughing at me all weekend: I went to Hooters, and I couldn’t bring myself to leer at the waitress’s breasts.
Not that she didn’t try. She leaned over quite a few times, serving my drink, my refill, my chicken wings, my bill.
I was determined to look her right in the eye – every time.
I wondered if I made her uncomfortable. She’s working at a restaurant where you’re hired to show off your boobs – and I blew it.
Then again, I was a bit embarrassed about the thought of flirting. She’s working it at this “family restaurant” for the frat boys who frequent the Entertainment District, not for the dykes.
What a terrible revolutionary I am.
The atmosphere might have influenced. The boys didn’t bother me – I just felt odd. Not afraid, just that I’d somehow stepped into a place that wasn’t for me.
All my lesbian friends agree they wouldn’t step foot in Hooters. Though, they add thoughtfully, they’d sure check out the scenery if they did.
I decided to try some hooter watching around the corner – and checked out this month’s World Wrestling Federation’s pay-per-view Fully Loaded, on the Paramount Theatre’s huge Imax screen.
The breasts of muscular WWF babe Trish Stratus are taller than I am, wrapped in pink spandex, and very noticeable. Surrounded by a nearly full house of guy’s guys, I had no trouble staring at all – in the dark.
Trish and Lita are mid bitchfight – they throw each other through tables and such. On Sunday night, Lita won in the ring. Trish took revenge by whipping her unprepared opponent with a leather belt. Some clothing was removed, too….
Just like the waitress’s carefully planned leaning, this, too, is a well-choreographed evening’s entertainment. It’s a stunning ballet of blood, assault and soap opera. These guys go after each other with sledgehammers and garbage cans.
The devastated Rikishi, fighting to regain some title or other (fans of WWF will help me with the details – it was all very confusing for a first-timer) wears tassels down his thighs. He slaps his huge butt cheeks and likes to sit on the other guy’s face.
His opponent is named… Val Venis.
Edge and Christian are two long blond-haired brothers – with one too afraid to fight, so faking food poisoning. He is caught by the WWF commissioner (a charming bear), who peers over the stall wall to see Christian making pretend vomit noises and tossing slop from a cup into the toilet. Even the colour commentators mention the faggy sunglasses the brothers wear as they march to the ring.
Their opponents, the Acolytes, announce they are going to make the brothers “our bitches.” They’re big fans of that hold where you put your opponent’s head in your crotch and squeeze your legs.
The punk/raver wrestler is hassled for his pink hair. One of the hyper-masculine WWF guys won’t go anywhere without “the Head,” a mannequin skull with wig.
Meanwhile, US Olympian Kurt Angle’s costume consists of a girlie-looking suit with his medals hanging down. He’s a screamer, running scared from The Undertaker. And though he’s petrified, he dumps plaster on the The Undertaker’s Harley; eventually, daddy catches up with the naughty boy and whups him.
Finally, the main event: The battle for the WWF top title itself, between good guy hunk The Rock and upstart Chris Benoit.
Many of the other guys come out with girls hanging off them. The Rock arrives alone. Benoit, the challenger, is wearing neon blue pants and walks out with Shane McMahon (who says the two are “just…. uh… friends”). Whenever McMahon comes out, the crowd chants: “Pussy! Pussy!”
Benoit is the bad guy: He cheats, smashing The Rock over the head with a metal chair he’s picked up from the stands. But in the end, The Rock triumphs. The good guy wins. The rat homos lose.