Wes at Home - Play - Gay Bars - The Bolt, Sacramento

I actually stopped in on Christmas night because I was bored just sitting in my hotel room post family dinner. It was deserted after around 11, so I just went back to my hotel.

The next night, I went in again and the place was fairly crowded. I signed up for pool, of course, and I ended up playing a round with a nice looking guy who could keep up with me drink for drink and shot for shot. Not an easy thing. Anyway, as the evening wore on, I thought it might be nice to take this guy back to to the Sheraton with me, most likely to sleep since I can't have sex when I'm drunk. So, I went through my normal spiel about how I grew up in Sacramento to see if he was interested in chatting. The first quesion he asked was I went to high school, and I said Burbank. He said, "Oh, you must know Steve." And, I did. It turns out that this guy, John (who I kept calling Richard) was Steve's boyfriend for something like seven years.

So what? Well, it just goes to show that the gay community is in fact a small town. A small town in Iowa. Everyone knows everybody eventually, and has probably slept with them.

Wes Visits The Bolt In Sacramento Again (July 4, 2003)

A far more subdued visit this time, mostly because I was dog tired and there were a zillion CHP cars zipping along Hwy 50.

I met two excellent pool players, Henry and Glenn, and tried not to be too obnoxious. That lasted for a good fifteen minutes. By the second giant Glenlivet (served in a square glass for some reason), I was back to my usual showoff slamming and cue balancing.

I will say that the men are good looking, although it may just be because I don't know them nor will ever see them again. I like that. I wasn't particularly horny so I just played pool and flirted with the cuter goatees around the place.

Interestingly, they stay open on Fridays until 2:30, although few people stay that late. The other weird thing is that you can only take your drink out back until 12:30. The bulk of the crowd left before 1 a.m., and I don't think they ran to Faces for disco dancing.

Wes Visits The Bolt In Sacramento (Christmas, 2002)

On my annual I-just-spent-3-hours-with-my-family-so-hand-me-a-drink decompression period at the local gay bars, I paid a visit to The Depot in midtown because I can basically smoke inside. My interest lasted for about three sips of my Manhattan, so I headed for The Bolt, Sacramento's only remaining levi/leather bar.

I used to hang out at The Wreck Room which closed about five years ago mostly because they let me smoke inside (see a trend here?). The Bolt has an equally odd layout: the room is dark, long, and narrow, then opens up near the rear where there's a pool table and a stage(?).

Since I'd just come from my aunt's house in Folsom, I wasn't wearing leather or anything remotely in keeping with the theme other than my cowboy boots, so I decided to drink straight Jack Daniels (trailerpark butch) instead of my usual Manhattan (chichi 50s doyenne).

After suffering through the bartender asking if I had 'been here before' (i.e., do you know you've wandered into a gay bar?), I noted that his Levis were slit up the back from the crotch so that they hung open like a loose tent flap, exposing his perfectly-formed, furry butt, which reminded me that I should send a note to my old boss at Sony.

As opposed to my first visit to this bar where I was invisible, I got my usual round of confused glances. I attribute this to the goatee, which makes people think that I'm Mexican, Rudy Galindo, or both.

The men, also unlike my last visit, were uniformly attractive—muscular, masculine, moustached. I'm not usually distracted from bear hunting by pretty boys, but these boys was dern purty in a sexifying way. I like that. They were so good looking I thought for a second that I should move back and find a hubby. AAAAARGH. I punished my brain for this ridiculous conceit by slamming the rest of my Jack, ice and all.

After the third or fourth Jack, I was beyond caring about anything, so I headed out back to have a ciggie. As the off-duty bartender (John, I think; nice butt and sexy forearms) had described, there was a fire going in a vast 1/3 acre backyard. I started yammering with a couple of locals while trying to stay out of the smoke, and noticed that I was talking so loud that my attempt at smalltalk was ricocheting off of the shipping containers stacked in the auto yard next door. Bad sign. So I headed back inside and asked the off-duty bartender to show me his ass.

[INSERT TIME LAPSE WHERE WES DRINKS BLACK COFEE]

I eyed the pool table and finally worked up the nerve to challenge the locals. True, I could still barely see straight, but I reminded myself that I no longer live here...so who care. I had a couple of decent games and even tossed one just to see if the guy would notice (he did). I ended up making out for a bit with the last guy I played that night. He was my height and moustache-less, but he introduced himself by saying "You're intimidating." And I can't resist THAT kinda shit.

A great bar. Visit soon.