All photos courtesy of Divas.

It's one of those bits of San Francisco lore which frequently makes the rounds, within the City and without: most of the hookers aren't real women!

Your humble correspondent's favorite bartender. Photo courtesy of Divas.

I don't know. Maybe. I've never taken a census of San Francisco sex workers, nor would I be inclined do the chromosome testing which would be necessary to determine realness -- it's never as simple as just looking inside the panties -- and I find the concept of "real" to be rather offensive anyway.

Should you find yourself driving around some night between Van Ness and Union Square looking for trade, however, there is a good chance that you'll pick up a Motherlode Girl. Or, if you prefer the direct approach, you can go straight to Divas.

Located on Post between Polk and Larkin, and impossible to miss unless you're colorblind to purple neon, Divas is the big tranny bar. It's market whose meat consists of the tranny hookers who populate the Tenderloin (the aforementioned Motherlode Girls) and a largely non-professional myriad of male-to-female crossdressers, transvestites, and other transsexuals such as myself. The female-to-males of the spectrum are welcome, but seldom seen. No point, I suppose, when they have the Lexington Club and/or more mainstream gay bars.

Hanging behind the bar on the first floor is a smaller, more stylish purple neon sign from The Motherlode, their former incarnation in a much smaller space down the block at Post and Larkin. It was The Motherlode when I first got to town, and I still tend to think of it as such, in that pointless "things were so much better __ years ago" sort of nostalgia which San Francisco hipsters indulge in so damn much.

Before I came out as trans I only went inside The Motherlode a few times, mostly because I was shy and scared. It seemed like such a special place where it would all be cool, which would be safe when I finally had the courage to become myself. It was a strangely comforting thought to an inveterate middle-class expatriate Fresnan as myself that this little dive bar in the Tenderloin might be a place where I'd feel at home.

A Naughty Schoolgirl. Photo courtesy of Divas.

As it is today, Divas is narrow, multistory letterbox. The ground floor contains the main bar -- still referred to as The Motherlode, hence the sign--and a small stage for performances, such as the famous Midnight Show. A dance club is on the third floor, and a lounge on the fourth. There's a second floor which is always locked, and... well, the less said about it, the better. Forget I brought it up. Move along to the next paragraph, citizen.

There are theme nights and shows, including the aforementioned Midnight Show on weekends. It's like a drag show in the most superficial, reductive sense: genetic males lip-syncing to a sometimes stultifyingly predictable arrangement of songs. (Ooh, "If I Could Turn Back Time!" Cher's always a nice change of pace!) Yet it isn't drag show, because Divas isn't a drag bar. If that seems like hairsplitting, you probably aren't trans. Drag queens and recreational crossdressers are welcome, and arrive en masse on some nights, but the only drag bar I know of left in town is Aunt Charlie's Lounge.

If I go from Aunt Charlie's to Divas, as I did one night, it becomes rather obvious. Aunt Charlie's is an old-school, gay-men-in-dresses "We miss you, Judy!" kinda bar. That is not a diss, and I'm glad it's still alive and kicking, even if it's in a neighborhood which makes the Divas block of Post feel like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.

Divas is a creature of more recent decades, of current medical technologies and social progress, of ingestable estrogen and artificial bewbage which comes in the form of silicone baggage and is not removable at the end of the day, or after lip-syncing to "I've Never Been To Me" for the eighty gazillionth time. Because, you see, at the end of the day the majority of the denizens of Divas -- including but not limited to The Motherlode Girls -- identify and live as and simply are female in all the ways that matter. Don't call them boys or use scare quotes when you deign to call them girls, plzkthxbai. I'm shaking my paw at you frackin' Yelpers.

A Divas Darling. Photo courtesy of Divas.

In addition to the stage show, there are other events and theme nights. My personal favorite is Naughty Schoolgirl Night. Aside from the obvious eye candy aspect, the fourth floor lounge is blocked off with a sign reading "Private Dances Only," followed by what may be the greatest sentence ever in the history of the English language (especially now that Kurt Vonnegut is dead): "You must be accompanied by a naughty schoolgirl." Oh hell yeah. I want that on my tombstone.

Since such things are not legal and they would prefer not to get shut down by a vice cop having a slow month, there are signs which read "Solicitation for any illegal activity is strictly prohibited within this establishment." On at least one occasion I was out front with a murder (gaggle? nah, murder) of Motherlode Girls when the ever-vigilant bouncer-type guy asked us to please disperse, so we wouldn't be so damned obvious.

Because it's a bar in America, the most happenin' nights are weekends, when both the girls (Motherlode and otherwise) and the trannychasers are out in full force, packing both the bar and the dance floor. The chasers, much like the men who frequent the Power Exchange, get something of a bad rap from many trannies and the world at large. They're a necessary evil neutrality, really; the majority of the money spent is by the men, not the girls. I sure as hell don't have the disposable income necessary to keep the place open. There isn't anywhere in town that genetic women go to pick up on M2F trannies. Must be a zoning issue.

I'll admit the chasers sometimes feel creepy to me because I don't like boys. It can be annoying to be fixated upon, and why is it always the short ones with the bad rugs? Plus, guys, seriously -- when I'm writing in my notebook, it means I'm not in the mood for small talk.

But they're harmless. They're just looking for sex or love or even just connection with another human being, and they happen to be wired to like trannies. There's no foul in that, any more than in the fact that I'm wired to like dark-haired genetic femmes. Liking M2F trannies is probably the only consenting-adult "love that dare not speak its name" left on the books. I'm not even sure it has a name.

But it has a home: Divas.

Divas - by Sherilyn Connelly

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