Babes of Carytown
I get to Babes at almost 9 pm on the Friday before Virginia Pride and the place is nearly empty. This is the first bar so far where I’ve been charged a cover.
I show the bouncer my ID and they greet me with “another damn Yankee!” I laugh and say I haven’t heard that one yet, and they proceed to explain the difference between a “Yankee” and a “damn Yankee.” They say they’re from Massachusetts and a “damn Yankee” because they’re a northerner who moved south and stayed to “ruin a good southern family’s life.”
The crowd here is the oldest I’ve seen so far, patrons are mostly 30s and up, sitting at rickety tables in groups of two or three. Three Black elders hold court in the center of the room at a low top that’s actually a folding table. As the night goes on, the crowd gets younger and whiter, but I imagine these earlier folks are a good indication of what the place feels like on a typical weeknight.
The space is huge, with two bars inside and one outside on their enormous patio. All of the drinks are served in plastic cups and the “$8 Cocktail menu” is practically a tasting flight of flavored Red Bull. Rainbow flags, streamers, and rope lights coat the ceiling. The front bar is a little quieter, with big wooden booths, compared to the dance floor bar with wide open space and easily movable tables.
The space is covered in branded decor, you’ll never forget where you are
An announcer tells us that the drag show is starting in 30 minutes, wishing us all a Happy Pride. As the clock ticks closer to 9:30, the space fills up quickly. Many of the queers are wearing their best and gayest clothes, embracing this opportunity to celebrate. There are quite a few gay men here, and I wonder if that’s just because it’s Pride or drag night or both.
The MC does an excellent job hyping up the crowd, introducing call and responses, and encouraging everyone to scream “YAAAS QUEEN” at the top of their lungs. She opens the show, getting up close and personal to the crowd, especially when they wave their dollars in the air.
“How many of you are of the homosexual variety?” The entire crowd screams. “How many are not?” Utter silence. “Because we have two exits! How many of you are fantastic allies?” Still silence. “Oh my god is it all fags?”
Literally gravity defying
There turns out to be at least one straight, who says into the mic that he supports us loving who we want to love. He looks like Criss Angel with a sky-high blonde bouffant, so maybe check back in a few years
Okay, so remember how I said I don’t know what makes good drag? This is great drag. I don’t give a fuck about the Queen of Fracking that shall not be named, but local, down-home drag like this? Sign me up. The performances range from exuberant pop numbers featuring cartwheels and death drops to soulful renditions of Tina Turner.
Two of the queens are Black elders, one of whom, Una Vidalia, has apparently been doing drag in Virginia for 37 years. Her first number is a sweet southern song and she comes out wearing a silky turquoise fringed one-piece, a cowboy hat, and Uggs. God bless Miss Una.
Team Miss Una forever
The MC has technical issues with the mic throughout the show, joking about creating a GoFundMe for a new one. At one point she screams “fuck this mic!” and mimes blowing it, and then taking it in the ass. “Oh sorry Lesbians, this is for you,” before miming it going in the front. “Don’t say I say I never did anything for Lesbians!”
She also makes sure to emphasize how much we owe to our Black elders, “none of us would be allowed to be up here if it wasn’t for them.” The show is a beautiful reminder to honor where we came from and to go boldly forth into the future.
I watch a group of flirty dykes grab each other’s asses and grind on each other as Miss Una comes out as a pregnant nun. One dyke in particular is going for it, running hands over hips and brushing lips against necks. I can’t tell if it’s a big polycule or if they’re just very touchy friends.
A Dyke dressed like Beetlejuice (intentionally or not, I can’t tell) gives what I assume is a particularly big tip and the MC screams and picks them up, spinning in a circle, all while wearing four-inch platforms.
After the show, I step outside and am blown away by the sheer size of the patio. Half wooden porch and half sand, there are two cornhole games, another bar serving $1 jello shots, and plenty of seating. The 827 square feet of Cubbyhole would fit in its entirety on just half of Babes’ outdoor space.
As the night continues, the space fills up with more and more gay men, particularly outside. The Dykes seem to be mostly concentrated on the dance floor, but even they get outnumbered by gay men at some point. Perhaps it’s just because of Pride, but the space feels distinctly more queer than it does Lesbian. There are also an annoying amount of straight folks, c’mon people it’s Pride! Come back next week.
At least three couples are making out on the dance floor, and I watch a group propel their friend up to swing on the center support pole. A hot femme in leather pants whips their hair into a bun while grinding on their partner.
Someone asks if I’m a writer and if I’m making observations about all this. I say yes, and they emphatically thank me and give a double thumbs up. Claiming to be a writer feels odd, I don’t feel like I’ve earned the title. Oh, hello imposter syndrome, how are you today?
Babes reminds me of West Hollywood if it were dropped into a more rural area and given a slightly lower budget. Excited to be there, open to everyone but slightly overrun with cis gay men and straights at Bachelorette parties (I do spot at least one golden sash.) By the time I leave, the bar is almost entirely populated by men.
Happy Pride Babes!
Flannel Count: 9
Richmond, VA
