The bouncer asked me if I had a membership. I wasn’t expecting that question. But South Carolina blue laws only allowed private clubs to serve liquor on Sundays. So every bar in South Carolina called itself a private club. I was expecting to have to show my driver’s license. But I didn’t want anyone to notice it was my birthday, least of all this bouncer with bad skin and frosted tips that made him look like a youth minister.

   I told him I was not a member. “Well, you gotta sign up here. Fill this out.” The bouncer handed me a card. Name. Address. Driver’s license number.

“I can’t fill that out,” I said. “I’m military. I can’t be on a list at a gay bar.” My paranoia wasn’t unfounded. I’d heard rumors of witch hunts at other bases, though so far, it seemed no one suspected me.

There’s an oft-repeated maxim about women in the military: you’re either a whore a dyke. You hear it first from your recruiter, as a warning. You hear it thereafter as an accusation—sometimes it’s meant to be a joke. But even so, if there’s a useful side effect to homophobia, it’s that most people who find gays abhorrent find it rude to assume someone’s gay, despite all obvious signs. Which is why any gay person could have told you Ricky Martin was as queer as come on a mustache. And yet people were shocked. It’s not gaydar. It’s the ability to see reality without the constraints of judgment.

On base, all it would take was one person, the wrong person, the wrong grudge, the wrong rumor, and my career was over. I was still new to the Air Force, where most of the training is intended to make you paranoid. Operations Security, OPSEC—you never know who’s listening. A name tag left out, a penny wedged under a table leg, a class schedule—anything could be a security violation. They had us keep a list of the serial number to every goddamn bill in our wallets. I wasn’t taking risks. And I sure as fuck wasn’t putting my name on a list at a gay bar.

   The bouncer said, “Honey, I don’t care what you write on the card.” His voice sounded like he’d smoked a pack of road flares. “You put a name down there, and when you come in next time, that name will be on this list. You point to what you wrote. And I put a little check mark by it. I don’t give a shit if it’s the name your mama gave you.” He coughed. Swallowed something large. “Look, babe,” he said and pointed to the list. “We got Mary Jane, Trent Reznor, Anita Dick, Cherilyn Sarkisian, Sam Iam, and that’s just the obvious ones. You sure as shit ain’t the first military we got.”

I stood there trying to make up my mind. Trying not to ask if Cherilyn was Cher’s real name, afraid he’d laugh at me. Part of me wanted to run back to my car, drive back to base, and forget about gay bars. I’d sat in my car listening to the radio for a good ten minutes just trying to build up the courage to walk in the door. I’d been waiting months, for my birthday, just to come here.

Even if I gave up now and turned around, it’s not like I felt any more at ease on base. Sumter, the town nearest to Shaw, was a scattered tableau of churches, trailer parks, and used-car dealerships—“No Credit, No Problem (32% APR).” I didn’t bother trying to find a gay bar in town. Even if there were, I’d have been too afraid someone would see my car, or worse, I might be seen by some airman who liked the music and the drugs, and would sell me out to save his ass when he was popped on a piss test.

At work, I tried to stay invisible. Sometime around ten, Major Coffindaffer would hand me the half-filled-in crossword from the USA Today he bought on the way to work. He’d switch his radio from the John Boy and Billy show to the right-wing AM channel.

   The guys in my office loved John Boy and Billy. There was this clip they’d play for anyone who hadn’t heard it. Sergeant Peters played the clip for me my first day—some guy from the radio show, their serious news guy, reading what was supposedly a news story about queers and a gerbil. I got grossed out, made a gagging face, asked which desk was mine. But Peters blocked my path and said, “No, wait, this is the best part.” I’ll spare you the “best part” (there was an airborne flaming gerbil). The guys were all looking at me, waiting for a reaction. I smiled and tried to force a laugh. I wasn’t angry. I was just sad. It’s easy to hate what you don’t understand.

Funny thing about Air Force officers is they’re basically an evangelical cult—something to do with the Air Force Academy being next door to Focus on the Family headquarters. The result is an officer corps that trends more religious and more conservative than any other branch.

All day long, I’d listen to Rush Limbaugh and friends debate the president’s latest treason and gay scout leaders and gays in the military. Major Coffindaffer would mutter about how we should just go ahead and hold public hangings like back in the good ol’ days. And I’d fill in the crossword.

One fear never left my mind, that at any moment, any one of them would look at me and recognize what they hated. But the good thing about the little office where I worked was that the officers like Coffindaffer mostly ignored me. So that Friday, no one knew or cared that it was my birthday. No one had to know I was going to check out a gay bar.

   Standing outside the bar, I told myself, Just walk in, don’t be obvious, get a drink, look around. Then you can go home. I wondered if I’d worn the right clothes.

Someone came up behind me and asked what was going on. I turned around. He was about my age. Just a kid. Military haircut, the unmistakable ill-advised mustache that, following military regulation, always rests one shaving mishap away from Hitler lip. He lived in the same dorms I did. Not my floor, or I’d know his name. But I’d seen him in the laundry room. I felt better seeing him until I realized this meant I might see others from the base. They might see me. I hadn’t considered this. I’d driven thirty miles to have a drink where no one would see me. I told him I didn’t want to put my name on a list.