Pearl Bar

For once, it’s bigger on the outside. Pearl is empty inside at the beginning of the night, but outside the patio is packed with Dykes enjoying the 76° weather. The inside space is open and modern, with leather couches and industrial hardware. A large stage is lit with flashing LEDs, prepared for the DJ later on in the night. Neon signs and black and white photos of historical Dykes serve as primary decor, a melding of old and new. 

The bartenders wear Pearl merchandise and greet me with a smile. I get a local draft IPA for $4.75, a welcome reprieve from endless domestic lagers. There is a cigarette vending machine where you can buy a variety of Marlboros for $9 each, matched by a machine outside where you can buy nicotine gum, tampons, and Takis.  

Once I head to the patio, I am greeted by a cacophony of Dykes laughing and playing jumbo Connect4 (the third I’ve seen on this trip.) A wall of neon signs is the backyard focal point, encouraging selfies and photo ops. The back patio is certainly the crown jewel of Pearl (get it?) With tonight’s temperate Texas weather, this is the place to be. The second bar outside is covered in U-haul merchandise and cheeky joke placards. 

The crowd is mixed between young queers clearly looking to party and older regulars in jeans and tees. They mingle effortlessly with one another, in fact, I’m pretty sure a group of three elder Dykes meets with a trio of younger ones in a “Big Sister, Little Sister” situation. I hear them lament about the lack of Lesbian bars left, they mention Sue Ellen’s in Dallas and complain that it’s the only one left there for women.

The employees all have earpieces, bar rags, and carabiners, and clear tables with razor-sharp efficiency. And of course, they’re all hot no-nonsense butches who move with speed and competence, my ultimate weak spot. Even though they’re not in any kind of uniform or dress code, they’re easy to spot in cargo pants and loose graphic tees. 

The crowd is mostly white, with a strong BIPOC contingent. Primarily a younger crowd here to mingle, all wearing variations on tees and jeans; tighter and shorter for the younger folks and femmes, looser for the elders and butches. For the majority white demo, there is a disproportionate number of songs playing with the n-word. 

There is a not insignificant number of non-Dykes, but Dykes still feel at the forefront of it all. Pearl’s is an “LGBTQ bar that specializes in Lesbians,” which is a phrase I’ll be stealing when I open my own bar someday. 

Inside, the bar starts to fill up around 10 when the DJ starts, but that feels almost entirely separate from the outside crowd. On the patio, folks chat with their friends, mostly sticking to their own tables when they can find one. Seating is primarily picnic tables, and I feel a little bad claiming one as a singleton, but I’m holding out hope for someone to come and flirt with me. 

There seems to be a trend of younger Dykes meeting with their elders, which warms my heart. We forget that they paved this way for us, and have so many stories to tell. There is certainly a strong contingent of regulars, who greet each other from across the way and exchange quick hugs in greeting. Not so much as Herz, but certainly a strong sense of community in a city that isn’t well known for its queer scene. 

A pair of Dykes ask to share my table and proceed to pull out a deck of cards, shuffling better than all of my poker-dealing relatives. I restrain myself from asking them to teach me their ways and resolve to spend a few nights practicing. 

As the night goes on, the crowd gets younger, more diverse, and more fashionable; thigh-high boots and platforms, tiny skirts and loose sweater vests over bare chests. It’s hard to pin down a demographic with this crowd- causal butches, stylish clubbing femmes, couples that look like they walked off of The L-Word, punks, button-down Dykes, leather jackets, heels. All kinds and all Dykes are welcome here. 
Inside the space has filled up a bit, but people haven’t quite begun dancing. They mostly stand in loose circles on the dance floor, swaying to the beat and looking around nervously.

Outside, two cute Dykes ask to join me, and they both say they’re looking to make the other one friends. They introduce themselves as Darby and Nova, and we hang out for the rest of the night. 

Nova moved here from Tulsa, and when I ask why she says “for Pearl.” Even before Yellow Brick Road burned down in August, she says the community there was dying, and that she needed to be around more queers for her mental health. We chat about our families and our traumas, swapping stories of what we were like at seventeen. 

They ask me to come dance with them, and Nova buys us a round of Fireball shots, the first I’ve had since I was in high school. Mercifully, it’s not as bad as I remember. I dance a little awkwardly at first, I never know what to do with myself when I dance, but I feel comfortable being goofy. I’m not trying to impress anyone, and I’m glad I got roped into this. 

The music is bumpin’ now, and the crowd grows and cheers along. Dancers mostly bob in unison with their friends, occasionally twerking on each other to shrieks of delight. The sound is now a constant low roar of top 40 beats and laughing Dykes. 

We head back outside and play three rounds of Connect4, and I vindicate myself from Atlanta by winning two out of three. Darby is sweetly competitive, and we quip at each other over green and yellow pucks. When we move on to jumbo Jenga, both Nova and Darby tease me for being so focused, but I never lose any of our games, so obviously it worked out. 

Apparently, I’m excellent at Jenga

Like any good Lesbian, Nova whips out a tarot deck and does a reading for each of us. I got The Lovers, Five of Cups inverted, and The Hermit. Like my own tarot reading in September, I think about my trip, and this reading hits hard. 

Both of my new friends are instantly comfortable with me; we warm our hands on each other's faces, share cigarettes and secrets, and hold hands as we navigate through the dance floor. I feel instantly welcomed and a part of something, one of my favorite things about the queer community. 

At 1 am, the bar is full inside and out. There is every flavor of Dyke, every variation, age, race, gender, and style. Everyone is having a good time, the neon glow feels a little bit like magic in the air. We dance for a final song, grinding and swaying as hands find hips and thighs. When I close my tab, tequila wafts like perfume. 

Neon signs: 24

Baseball caps: 12

Houston, TX