Alyson Wonderland must have been the best gay bar in Tennessee, because we were miles from anything, on a Main Street with nothing but a hardware store and a dog grooming salon, and the place was packed. A huge, wood-paneled cavern with a bar, a couple of booths, and nothing else. It was standing room only, and John, behind the bar, could barely keep up with demand for pitchers and peanuts. Fat guys, old guys, guys in sagging jeans and muddy mesh hats—it was like Jeremy’s favorite twink bars in Seattle and Sydney on opposite day. There were two token stereotypical faggots in the bar, and we were they. Every other stereotype was turned on its head and draped in flannel. Farmer’s tans, trucker guts, lumberjack beards—I would have turned at the door and fled for my life, except half of the du
