Wild Side West
The bouncer is sitting at the bar of Wild Side, and when they say hello, at first I think they’re flirting with me. After checking my ID, their partner leaves the bar, and the two kiss and hold each other at the end of the bar. The bartender has a mane of salt and pepper curls and hands me a High-Life with a no-nonsense attitude. The bouncer is young with curly hair, tight dress, and chunky heels, they play rounds of pool in between checking IDs.
The bar itself is sat with mostly elders, a group of stylish queers in mesh and leather occupy a large table, rapidly speaking over each other in Spanish. Folks mostly wear jeans, flannels, and sweaters, casual, not trying to be anything they’re not.
The decor is divey to the extreme, my favorite kind. Framed photos and illustrations of women, vintage and haphazard cover most of the walls. San Francisco Giants merch and alcohol paraphernalia is dotted throughout. The ceiling is hung with oil paintings of nude women, watching over the crowd with placid gazes. Light is provided by vintage chandeliers and glass lampshades. Like any good Dyke bar, there is of course a pool table. The seating is mismatched and worn but well-loved.
One TV plays black and white movies, the other, a sports game. There are a handful of straight couples and the place is honestly pretty dead for a Saturday night. According to the sign on the door, they’ve recently changed their hours, closing at 11 pm on the weekends. The music is a mix of Riot Grrl and classic rock. If I listen, I can hear others' conversations over it, even in the back corner.
Wild Side originally opened in 1962 and moved locations a few times before ending up at its current location in 1976. By my calculations, that makes it a lot older than Henrietta Hudson’s 31 years, though Hen’s claims to be the longest-standing Lesbian bar in the country. I don’t see anything in my research about Wild Side closing or rebranding that would make it younger than Hen’s, so I’m going to chalk this up to gays not being able to do math.
This is definitely a beer-drinking bar with a very white demographic. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern of mingling, and the space is spread out in a way that makes it hard to spot other folks looking to chat. Wild Side is a neighborhood dive/sports bar and feels like a gathering space. Even on a Saturday night, the energy is relaxed and casual.
The crown jewel of Wild Side is the backyard beer garden, sprawling with an eclectic combination of benches, lawn chairs, and rickety tables. Fairy lights hang from trellises and there are small divided nooks for groups of all sizes. Trees and plants are everywhere, offering canopies and corners to hide away. The ashtrays are abalone shells and the air smells like jasmine and cigarettes.
There are a plethora of hidden-away spots of varying privacy, including a particularly dark spot behind saloon doors. Small trees grow out of a bathtub and ceramic lawn statues and mosaic flower pots are in every corner. The space has been built up and moved around and grown over time, each generation of Dykes adding their signature. I could spend many a summer night back here, drinking beer under the stars.
The music doesn’t drift outside, so it’s easy to eavesdrop. I hear a lot of people who are here for the first time and don’t notice anyone who seems like a regular. I overhear a Dyke tell their friend this place has been on their list for a long time and tells them about the Lesbian Bar Project documentary.
I’m the only one outside alone. This trip has been an exercise in loneliness, for good and for bad. There is loud laughter and quiet conversations all around me. I feel like a melancholy observer, always looking in. I have purposefully not tried to be anyone different than who I am on this trip, and I do love going to bars alone, but there is a certain otherness to being alone in these kinds of spaces.
I will say, this bar is not nearly Dykey enough. There are a lot of men, both straight and gay, and there seem to be several groups composed of only straight people. Sure, this is a neighborhood bar, and welcoming to all, but I’ve noticed on this trip that sometimes people seem to view Lesbian bars as an aesthetic, not as a place for a distinct demographic. If you’re a group of all straights, or even majority straight, go somewhere else. There are so, so many bars of all persuasions, you don’t need to be everywhere. At no point in the evening have Dykes outnumbered non-Dykes.
Waiting in line for last call at 10:30, a group of Dykes come in and make Sbagliato jokes to one another. I decide to get a Macallan to celebrate, and it’s shockingly affordable. Say what you will about San Francisco, but I like any bar where I can get two beers and a Scotch for $22, including tip.
There are so many memories here, collections of the past on every surface. The wooden bar is scratched and dinged, old kegs hug the walls, and a collection of cultural masks decorate the back bar. Items are collected and displayed, and you can tell each one has its own story. This place was built over time and each generation will only add to it.
This is the kind of place I’m happy to end my journey at. I appreciate the symmetry of beginning and ending with a neighborhood dive.
Sitting at the bar, sipping my Scotch, it feels weird to now say I’ve been to every Lesbian bar in the US. It is shocking that this is something achieved in just under a month. Sure, that’s a long time, especially when you do it back to back, but it would be nearly impossible to go to everyone one of the 800+ gay bars in the country. This should not be something that is possible, it should not be easy. There should be as many Lesbian bars as there are cities with Lesbians, and then some more besides.
My Scotch and my trusty travel companion
“Alright, finishing up, thank you, goodnight!” The bartender shouts as they cut the music.
I finish my Scotch at exactly 11:11. I did it, and my last sip is for me.
Leather Jackets: 6
San Francisco, CA
