“The Tale Of Gay Ferguson”…A Bouncer’s Story

Featured, Humor — January 28, 2013 at 2:51 pm by


“You never know when inspiration’s gonna’ come. You can’t touch it, you can’t see it, you can’t buy it. It’s something mystical. It opens you up to new possibilities.” These are the wise words of Gary from Nickelodon’s Are You Afraid of the Dark.   My next story is inspired by the doppelganger of another Nickelodeon icon: Ferguson from Clarissa Explains it All, albeit a bit older and a bit more beardly.  So, presented for the approval of the Charm City Society… I call this story “The Tale of Gay Ferguson.

It was 8:30 PM on a Thursday night. Early by bar standards. Myself and a co-worker were sitting by the front door. He was eating his dinner, and I was waiting for mine. Outside on the phone, we spotted what looked to be a ginger in distress. He was obviously having a bad day and a heated conversation on his cell. “Ferguson,” we dubbed him, due to the aforementioned resemblance.

Now, it’s important to note something here. When people enter the establishment for the first time, we will card them and mark them with a stamp on their hand, verifying that they are 21 years old and thus old enough to drink. On busy nights, people hold their hands up over crowds while re-entering so that we can see that they have been verified. On slower nights, though, people will instead just shoot us a glance of recognition. A wordless “Hey, I’ve been here, do you remember me?” And generally we nod and both parties carry on about their business. Ferguson, upon re-entry, did the same. Shot us a quick glance. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. It was the mumbled “Fucking faggots…” that caught our attention.

He couldn’t have, could he? He wouldn’t have been so bold as to… Nah. It must have been a misunderstanding. A combination of our interaction and the aftermath of his cell phone conversation. That must have been it. He must have been looking at us for recognition that we had ID’d him, and commenting on what had transpired on the phone. Yeah, that was it. Myself and my co-worker agreed. That must have been the case.

Harder to mistake, however, was what I heard and saw when I turned around. “Fuck you, you fat fucking faggots! Stuffing your fat faces! Suck my balls! Suck my balls!” Whoa, what? Ferguson was miming out stuffing his face and doing the “marbles” move a-la Isuro Tanaka from Major League II. That settles that. Time to leave.

I approached Ferguson and he knew what was coming next. He tried to take his last shot of RumChata before getting kicked out. Much to his chagrin, I grabbed it out of his hand mid-shot, leaving him with a thick white mess all over his face. A normal Thursday for him, I’d assume.

After he’d made it outside, he became frantic. “My man has my keys! My man has my keeeeeeeeeeys!” His “man” was a tall, athletic fellow who followed him out the door onto our patio. I didn’t hear the words that followed, but Ferguson was hopping around like a red-furred field mouse, wiry and spry.

What happened next was unexpected. The two lovers embraced one another. But not a normal embrace. No, a very different embrace. The kind of embrace where one dude holds another dude by the throat. My co-worker and I watched for a moment or two and decided to break it up.

So, the two men separated, we had Ferguson go on about his way and allowed his man to go back inside. Ferguson was frantically checking the ground for his phone, wallet, and anything else he may have dropped in the fray. Assured he had it all, he headed off down the road. About 15 feet away, he turned around to leave us with a line that as long as I live I will never fully understand.

“Hey guys, I’m sorry if you thought it was something between me and you. It’s just… It’s been a very rough day, and I’m dealing with a lot of baby mama drama right now.”



“…and I’m dealing with a lot of baby mama drama right now.”

Okay, that’s what I thought you said. I understand that some people don’t admit to themselves that they’re gay until later in life. That’s fine. What I can’t understand is the woman who would allow this to transpire. I mean this guy was what I call “S’s gay.” The type of dude that ssssssssssstretchessssss out his S’ssssssss. And I know gay dudes… I spent 8 months as a bartender in a gay bar. This guy was a twinkly as they come.

Regardless, though, and I’m sure much in the contrary to the baby mama in this story, I wouldn’t trade those 15 minutes with Ferguson for anything in the world. It was one of the most enjoyable drunken interactions I’ve ever had while sober.



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