The doorman gave my ersatz driver's license a quick glance and waved me through the door. I stood behind them, underage and unbearably nervous, my hair glued in a perfect wedge, my fake I.D. When a fairly large group of fairly large women approached the door, I took a big gulp of air and joined their ranks, hoping to go unnoticed.
I circled the block for an hour, heart pounding, stomach fluttering, trying to summon the courage to enter my hometown's only gay bar.
