About fifteen of us are outside a
restaurant on Eighth Ave, trying
to decide who will go in which car
or cab to the dyke bar. We're in
a loose circle and a middle-aged,
balding, paunchy guy is on the
edge, looking at us with an out-
raged expression. Everyone quiets
down for him: some kind of out-
burst seems imminent. Finally he
splutters out, "Where's the men?
Where's the men?!"

We all variously laugh or groan and go back
to talking. I watch as he turns to Maria,
next to him, who's smaller than he is, and
starts shouting--furious at having been
ignored--something about fixing flat
tires. I move across the circle and step
in front of Maria, about six inches from
the old guy, and look down into his
hostile, possibly drunk face, his pale blue
eyes. Ignorance and stubbornness lie like
a badge across his forehead. For a beat
he's still yelling at Maria; then he
readjusts and starts screaming at me,
"What are you gonna do when you got a flat
tire, hunh? Who's gonna fix a flat tire?"
Maria says quietly, "But we don't have a
flat tire." I just stare at him.

He's working himself into
a watery sort of frenzy.
I watch him imagining
himself speaking for all
the wounded, wronged men
out there whom, in his
mind, we lesbians have
rejected. He looks as
though he's thinking about
hitting me. Luckily he's
short.