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I'm not sure whether it was the sight of the 12-inch dildo merrily displayed in the storefront window of the boutique "Gay," or whether it was just due to the anemic Pad Thai we had just eaten at Joy Yee's. Whatever the reason might have been, by the time the two of us reached Roscoe's on Chicago's Halsted Street, Mike's stomach was turning somersaults, much to the consternation of the butterflies who had recently taken up roost there.

"I'm scared!" he blurted out, his fear partially shrouded in feigned laughter. "Do you know what kind of people are in that place?"

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I resisted the temptation of stating the obvious: "Why yes, Mike, I do-- your people." This was inappropriate for two reasons, the first being that I didn't really know who exactly those people were, the second being that, even if I did, I was not sure that Mike wanted to be included in that category. Just as an acquaintance waits until their host has brought up the tender subject of erectile dysfunction, so too did I decide to restrain myself from social commentary until I had received the green light from Mike. Getting this signal, however, might take a while. After all, he was a rookie. He, like me, had never ventured into such an unfamiliar venue, had never glimpsed what lie behind those fogged windows, had never been hand-stamped into the land of the alternative-lifestyle.

The title of my e-mail I sent a few days ago said it all: Baby's first gay bar.

"Mike," I told him for the hundredth time. "We don't have to do this if you're not ready. We can go back to my place, have a few drinks, watch some movies, whatever."

I said these words as much for his comfort as mine. Though I wasn't quite as apprehensive as Mike was, I remembered the Police Academy movies: Big, burly, aggressive men forcing the unsuspecting, straight police officers to engage in whatever style of dance the big, burly, aggressive men deemed fit. True, the Blue Oyster bar was dreamed up by a screenwriter weaned on the Village People, yet the vision was still nevertheless disconcerting. It's fine and well for someone who has bungee jumped off the Eiffel Tower to say it was "no sweat." It's quite another to actually stand atop that architectural monstrosity, with a rope tied to your ass, peeping down at all the scurrying berets passing to-and-fro like so many ants.

Still, I wasn't really scared-- just slightly anxious. I imagined this to be double for Mike. For, in addition to losing his Boys Town virginity, he was also surveying the unfamiliar terrain of a new lifestyle, a landscape he had not had much time to probe in his past, being from rural Missouri and having attended college in an arch-conservative Midwestern university.

I was proud of him: here he was, ready to take the first step. And I was with him all the way. All the way. Well, at least until he had consumed enough drinks to start grinding on the dance floor with another dude-- at that point, he was on his own. Straight man exits stage right.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked him. Mike paused, his brain weighing the decision "Let's do it."

And so, with those words, we prepared to cross the great seal.

I handed the bouncer my ID with all the trepidation of a college freshman who has just recently been inducted into the brave new world of beer. Mike played Buzz Aldron to my Neil Armstrong-- I led the way and was the first to set foot on the foreign soil. "One small step for man, one giant opportunity for my fraternity brothers to tease me," I thought, taking my license back from the bouncer. I shoved my wallet into my pocket and traversed inside. With the notable exception of three lesbians at a center table, it was raining men-- "Hallelujah!" for Mike, and "How'd I get here?" for me. Nevertheless, I was anxious for my lesson to begin, even if my classmates didn't exactly speak my language.

We proceeded to find a place at the bar. Even though it was still early, most of the stools were already occupied. The only two adjacent seats were at the end of the bar. The debate as to which us got which seat was easily settled: I reasoned that, because I was a riding shotgun (a straight shooter, if you will), I had first dibs on all decisions, major or minor. The way I saw it, it was necessary for me to be as out-of-the-way as possible; after all, I wasn't just playing left bench-- I was batting for the opposite team.

I choose the seat next to the wall, with Mike being the designated buffer zone between the field and myself. Now under no circumstances was this a matter of my being afraid of the boys in the opposing dugout-- far from it; I was the only one of Mike's heterosexual friends who had even considered, much less consented, accompanying him on this excursion. No, the way I saw it, this was Mike's day, Mike's scene, and the farther I was removed from his action, the better. Besides, Mike had a better ass. Or at least that's what I assumed judging by the leers he was receiving from the 40-something to his left.

Properly settled, we proceeded to order drinks. I chose the relatively manly Budweiser, Mike opting for the decidedly more fru-fru Cosmopolitan.

After a few sips, my eyes scanned the surroundings-- on the whole, Roscoe's was, almost disappointingly, relatively tame. Save for the glaringly unnatural guy-to-girl ratio, the place resembled a normal bar with all the trappings one would expect at an Irish Pub or college watering hole. Contrary to some of my friends' expectations, there was not a Liberace Lite on tap, nor were the pretzels dyed in pretty blue or pink. Not that everything was the same, mind you. I was hard-pressed to think of another bar that substituted vintage concert clips of Elton John and Freddie Mercury in drag in place of ESPN's Sportscenter.

But even this barely phased me; in fact, I preferred watching these glam-rockers belt out vintage 70s anthems than have to endure another highlight reel of my Alma Mater getting drubbed my the powerhouse state schools of the Big Ten.

"This isn't so bad, huh?" I said to Mike.

He didn't answer my question. He was occupied.

"What happened to your hand, honey?" asked the 40-something to Mike. I took a gander at the happenings. Judging by his age and level of confidence, I deducted that the leather-jacketed, pony-tailed man was no spring chicken at this game. His pick-up line, I had to admit, was indeed commendable-- innovative and suggestively subtle. Noticing that my friend had a small abrasion on his left hand, the conquistador took it upon himself to gently caress it at the precise same time he fired off his question.

I made a mental note to try a similar approach the next time I saw a girl with a hole in the back of her jeans. Mike, however, was on the defensive. He countered the nimble attack with a shrug of his shoulders, and sealed up any further offensive with a turn toward me. Whether Mr. Butterhands choose to end his pursuance because he thought I was Mike's boyfriend, one will never know. I doubt it; the 40 year-old could have clearly kicked the crap out of my heterosexual ass. I didn't spend much time thinking about it, though; my thoughts were across at the other end of the room. A group of men, all of them about 30, were being greeted by a tall, black-haired man in a turtleneck. What first caught my attention was the method of introduction: not a fashionable low-swooped handshake, but kisses on the lips all around. Mike, who by now had shed his attacker, was amazed. "I would love for those guys to do that at the Lake of the Ozarks," he mused, referring to a popular recreational area near his hometown.

It was remarkable. Not just the fact that they had kissed-- even the most close-minded, Bible-belting puritan has, through any number of unavoidable media outlets, witnessed a same-sex romantic encounter at some point in their narrow lives. No, it wasn't just the kisses; it was the nonchalant, almost mundane manner in which the greeting was conducted.

This may seem like a patently obvious observation to someone who frequents same-sex bars-- or to someone who does not, yet realizes that sort of behavior is tolerated, even welcomed.

However, watching it first-hand, I felt like a child standing in the shadows of the steel skyscrapers that he had previously seen only in picture books. Incredible in the glossy photos, but even more so standing on the concrete toes of the beast itself.

I ordered another beer and continued to observe. Jennifer Lopez began singing on the jukebox, and immediately all four men began to dance, as if the singer's voice was a clarion call for action, the cap-gun signaling the beginning of Saturday night. Rhythmically, they bounced, gyrated, and swiveled to the beat of the song, enjoying themselves, unabashedly belting out J-Lo's lyrics to themselves. I was impressed: I hadn't thought it possible for so many white guys to stay in sync. Mike was beaming like a proud parent, as if he had just seen his youngest hit a homer off the tee-stand.

"Look at them! They're so cute. God, I love them!"

It was somehow endearing watching my friend, from the cloistered cove of the bar, lip-sync in time to the guys across the bar. For they were uninhibited, debutantes with their coming-out party already under their belts.

Mike had not had this luxury yet; in time he would, but for now, he would have to be content reveling silently in what I could only believe was relief. There was a place for him. Maybe he didn't know all the rules yet: the truths, the taboos, the happiness, or the heartache. This would come later in the more advanced seminars of his next few years.

But for right now, Mike was simply enjoying the picture, basking in the sight of the men, knowing once and for all that Dionysius revelers exist in all walks of life. They were happy and they were proud, which was what Mike wanted to be but could not yet thanks to his stifling environment. Yet now, here, this small scene seemed to delight him greatly. I was amused myself, although I would have much rather preferred the sight of two supple brunettes in short skirts holding each other really close, drink in one hand, open invitation in the other, bumping and grinding to a hip-hop beat on Rush Street, with-- where was I?

"That guy, the one in the tight black shirt." Mike says.

"Which one?"

"That one. He is Hot!"

I smiled. In another life, maybe I could see him through Mike's eyes.

"Uh, yeah, he, uh, certainly is a fine dresser!"

Mike finished his drink and checked his watch. It was only ten. We had been in Roscoe's for about an hour. Mike knew as well as I that the bar area was just a warm-up, the hors d'oeuvres to keep the customers happy while the main meal-- the upstairs dance floor-- simmered, waiting to be tasted by the masses near midnight. Already, the place was filling up, and with new, younger guys, guys that I could only assume were more appealing to my 21-year-old companion. Nevertheless, after checking out the object of this affection once more, he said:

"You want to take off?"

I nodded, pounded the remaining foam of my Bud, and grabbed my jacket. As I left the bar, I took one final look at the gay men singing and tried to think of the last time I saw a group of people so at-ease and happy in a social setting. Not counting the shitfaced guys I had once seen urinating on a jukebox in a Nachodoches, this was a difficult task.

As Mike and I walked the short distance to the Elevated, I asked him if he planned on going back to Roscoe's again. He nodded, and proceeded to list other bars on Halsted Street that awaited his eager discovery. We turned the corner onto Belmont and passed by Spin, the last gay bastion of Halsted. Outside the club, there was a sign that read, "Shower Contest $500!"

Mike's eyes lit up and he looked at me like a dog wanting a treat.

"Baby steps, Mikey," I said laughing. "Baby steps."