Platial | Who and What's Nearby
Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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by Sherilyn Connelly
Billing itself as San Francisco’s Premier Transgender Nightclub, Divas is flanked by a fire station and the dealer-infested southeast corner of Polk and Post. Though primarily a market whose meat consists of Tenderloin sex workers, it’s also a popular and safe hangout for all manner of non-professional cross-dressers and transvestites, as well as transsexuals such as myself.
I was at Divas one slow Tuesday night in early May. The upper floors were closed, and there were seldom more than half a dozen patrons in the room. My improbable mission was to hook up with an attractive stranger. The improbability stems from the fact that I like girls, not boys, but boys go cruising for trannies at Divas; (genetic) girls, as general rule, do not. Where can genetic girls and tranny girls go to hook up? It’s a question that nobody else seems to be asking. At a dyke bar like the Lexington Club, I’d be tolerated but ignored. At least the male patrons of Divas would objectify me. While I didn’t want them to touch or really interact with me, knowing that I was turning them on did my ego good, even if I’d surely be sleeping alone that night.
A narrow, multifloor letterbox, the ground floor features the main bar and a small stage. A dance floor and lounge collectively known as “Dragon” occupy the third and fourth floors.
My favorite bit of décor is the purple neon Motherlode sign hanging behind the bar. It’s a remnant from different, if not necessarily simpler, times. Divas grew from a much smaller establishment at the corner of Post and Larkin called – you may have guessed – The Motherlode. The ever-crowded bar moved to its current, more spacious digs in ‘98 after five years of neighborhood protests, legal challenges and far more obstacles and roadblocks than one might otherwise expect in an ostensibly queer-friendly town, let alone in as dicey a neighborhood as the Tenderloin. Though the prostitution issue was frequently cited by opponents, it’s probably not altogether inaccurate to say that the sex workers were not so much the issue as the tranny clientele in general.
For some reason, writing at Divas can be like hanging a “Please Disturb” sign. Presently, a man approached and said, “You seem nervous. Are you German?” As I processed that, he followed up with “Are you a transvestite or a transsexual?” That stung. I may not have the silicon hips and tits or surgically-reconstructed face of the average working girl, but after eight years of estrogen, with my own head of blonde hair and nary a follicle of facial hair to be found, I’d like to think I’m obviously not simply a man who dresses as a woman, especially to a Divas patron.
I was about to leave when a genetic girl entered, an event akin to a streak of lightning in a clear sky. She was on a mission as improbable as mine, and neither of us slept alone that night.
by Sherilyn Connelly
Billing itself as San Francisco’s Premier Transgender Nightclub, Divas is flanked by a fire station and the dealer-infested southeast corner of Polk and Post. Though primarily a market whose meat consists of Tenderloin sex workers, it’s also a popular and safe hangout for all manner of non-professional cross-dressers and transvestites, as well as transsexuals such as myself.
I was at Divas one slow Tuesday night in early May. The upper floors were closed, and there were seldom more than half a dozen patrons in the room. My improbable mission was to hook up with an attractive stranger. The improbability stems from the fact that I like girls, not boys, but boys go cruising for trannies at Divas; (genetic) girls, as general rule, do not. Where can genetic girls and tranny girls go to hook up? It’s a question that nobody else seems to be asking. At a dyke bar like the Lexington Club, I’d be tolerated but ignored. At least the male patrons of Divas would objectify me. While I didn’t want them to touch or really interact with me, knowing that I was turning them on did my ego good, even if I’d surely be sleeping alone that night.
A narrow, multifloor letterbox, the ground floor features the main bar and a small stage. A dance floor and lounge collectively known as “Dragon” occupy the third and fourth floors.
My favorite bit of décor is the purple neon Motherlode sign hanging behind the bar. It’s a remnant from different, if not necessarily simpler, times. Divas grew from a much smaller establishment at the corner of Post and Larkin called – you may have guessed – The Motherlode. The ever-crowded bar moved to its current, more spacious digs in ‘98 after five years of neighborhood protests, legal challenges and far more obstacles and roadblocks than one might otherwise expect in an ostensibly queer-friendly town, let alone in as dicey a neighborhood as the Tenderloin. Though the prostitution issue was frequently cited by opponents, it’s probably not altogether inaccurate to say that the sex workers were not so much the issue as the tranny clientele in general.
For some reason, writing at Divas can be like hanging a “Please Disturb” sign. Presently, a man approached and said, “You seem nervous. Are you German?” As I processed that, he followed up with “Are you a transvestite or a transsexual?” That stung. I may not have the silicon hips and tits or surgically-reconstructed face of the average working girl, but after eight years of estrogen, with my own head of blonde hair and nary a follicle of facial hair to be found, I’d like to think I’m obviously not simply a man who dresses as a woman, especially to a Divas patron.
I was about to leave when a genetic girl entered, an event akin to a streak of lightning in a clear sky. She was on a mission as improbable as mine, and neither of us slept alone that night.
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