I Was Offered a Blowjob at the Republican National Convention

Walking through Ybor City last night, looking for somewhere to go, I overheard a parking attendant explaining to some convention-goers, hesitantly, that Ybor is kind of Tampa's gay neighborhood, but that it is great for nightlife.

“That's good,” the visitor said, adding, upon reflection, “unless it's just guys in thongs.”

Unfortunately, Ybor was devoid of guys in thongs altogether—or anyone in thongs for that matter. In fact, for the strip of bars that several locals described as Tampa's Bourbon Street, it was a fairly quiet night. I met Aster Norwood, of Tampa, who was handing out cards for free entry into a nearby strip club called Skins. Describing himself as “almost homeless,” he explained that he hands out the cards “all the time” to make some extra money. Tonight, apparently, was not off to a roaring success. Aster still had a large stack of cards, and he told me that this evening was nothing special. I watched Aster get rejected by a couple of passersby. He explained some of the indicators for who might be a waste of effort.

“If I see a guy with a girl, that's a no-no,” he said, adding that fat guys also seemed uninterested. He had pegged me as someone with potential, though. “When I saw you, I knew,” he said. “You're dressed like a Republican.”

I was banking on my outfit—blue shirt, red tie, khakis, boat shoes—getting me some access. I had given up on the official Jeb Bush- and Marco Rubio-headlined Ybor party, the entrance to which was surrounded by several hundred disorganized people trying to flex their credentials, but, emboldened by Aster's revelation, I headed to one of the least empty bars I could find (it had at least ten people!) to make some friends. I fell in with a group of delegates from Kentucky who were dancing “Genie in a Bottle”-style to Jay-Z's “Dirt Off Your Shoulder.” The Kentucky group had been drinking all day, and they revealed some choice gossip (like, for instance, the Kentucky delegation's bus lavatory was not equipped with toilet paper). I talked to Dave, who, when he found out I was a writer, would only identify himself as Big D. While he did share his views of tax policy, he mostly wanted to get across one major political point.

“Kentucky people are the most fun,” he told me, repeatedly. The next bar where the Kentucky group led me had a few more convention-goers, but these guys, wary of their jobs, were cagey, refusing to reveal even what state they were from. I finally put together the facts—that two guys from Ohio were drinking beer—but that was the juiciest scandal I could unearth. This is what I've discovered so far about RNC nightlife: Everyone seems very attuned to the danger of revealing too much or saying something they shouldn't, people will give you fake names if you tell them you're a writer, and nobody is taking cards from Skins.

This is why I liked Dave/Big D and his group, which also included Lil J and Sparkle (who, because she was wearing a name tag, was the only Republican I met that night willing to share her full name: Virginia Gray). Confronted by a local in the bar sharing his negative views about capitalism and later by several hundred protesters passing by in what was easily the most exciting event of the night, Big D was circumspect.

“We're apolitical, though. We just want to have fun,” he told me. This I understood, standing behind the fence of the bar patio and looking out on the protesters like the cloistered-off Republican I was for the night. Drinking beer seemed better than the messy business of politics. I wished Big D's plan for the convention were more widespread because it might mean less arguing (and a more interesting scene in Ybor City): “We're gonna party like there's no tomorrow, and then we're gonna elect Mitt Romney president,” was his official concluding statement.

The Kentucky delegates left, with Big D briefly offering to let me stay with him (was that a gay thing? Who knows!), and I chatted with a few off-duty restaurant workers who had been working a convention event. Also concerned about their jobs, they asked to remain anonymous, but they noted that the convention-goers were generous tippers.

“They spend a lot of money, and that's all they do,” one guy told me. “That's what they're known for, spending money.” Another said the whole experience with the convention made him want to vote Democrat.

And so a quiet night in Ybor City with the Republican Party wrapped up, true to everyone's most careful intentions, scandal-free. I left wondering if maybe, like the danger to Tampa of Tropical Storm Issac, the potential for Republicans behaving in not-so-conservative ways had been wildly overstated. My thoughts were interrupted by some guys calling out to me, asking if I was a Republican because of the way I was dressed. Curious to hear what they had to say, I walked over. One guy grabbed my arm and led me into an alley, and only then did I realized that they had been yelling to ask if I wanted a blowjob.

At that moment, I kind of wished I were a closeted Republican, so at least something interesting could have happened as a result of the convention. But I wasn't, so I apologized for the misunderstanding. The guy clarified that he was not a prostitute and I said I still wasn't interested. We both headed our separate ways.

@KyleKramer

Previously - My Rap Tumblr Got Me Kicked Out of an RNC Event