Last night I became Candy - a sixteen-year-old lesbian looking to find her way into a drag show after hours. I was clad in my lime-green, floor-length coat and my sequin-covered vest looking to score some amyl and free beer. So naturally when the beautiful blonde woman on stage asked if it was anyone's birthday I piped up - she sang me Happy Birthday lesbian-style (with her hands down her throat) and promptly told me to walk to the bar, where the 'lovely barman' poured me a shot of jager because it wasn't my birthday. Projectile Josh, The Hussy, BigFoot and our latest protege Forceful Consent were all in fine form - not many of us really able to take our eyes off the 'go-go-dancers' in their glittery underwear or s&m rihanna-inspired gimp outfits.
Forceful Consent is a new addition to the murder of misfits that I seem to meet and befriend. She's another Perth-kid and has approximately three dance moves: 'come hither', 'go away' and 'rape' - which she prefers to keep PC and call 'Forceful Consent'. We collected her after she had spent the evening wandering the streets of Brunswick, seemingly walking in the wrong direction the whole time.
Anyway by this time I'm fairly inebriated and meet this ridiculous dancer on the d-floor. He introduces himself to me with a name that sounds like 'Lesley'. For some reason he's not wearing a top, just a cardigan - paired with a pair of tight leather cut-offs. He has red hair and is styling the 'quiff' hair-cut that seems so trendy amongst young gays. He bends his knees and lowers his back to the ground, gyrating against my leg which he has wedged between his. He smells of sweat, and some non-de-script chemical. I quickly aim for the toilet because I'm fucking busting. Not being able to figure out if the toilets are unisex I just use whichever door is closest. When I get out there's a gaggle of girls talking make-up and boys, and as I make my way to the sink they all seem to disappear until it's just me an a beautiful blonde girl removing her top. She apoligises when I turn around and I have absolutely no problem with this girl removing her clothing next to the sink.
Heading out to the D-floor I run into Leslie again - we dance for a while and decide to go out for a smoke. Leslie's name is really Jesse and he's an interpretive dancer from Cairns. He lives in a warehouse around the corner, and lesbians tore off his shirt at Orlando. He came with the blonde-topless-girl. We went inside and Jesse handed me a small black bottle - I sniffed and smelt the chemical I had smelled before. I inhaled using both nostrils and viola! Amyl. I'm not kidding. I actually spent my night sniffing poppers every ten minutes in order to maintain a high and avoid an unbelievably painful headache. What's more I was conned into stealing $10 from Bigfoot to buy what was remaining and spend the rest of my night eating macdonalds and talking macro-economic theory with aid from amyl. Needless to say I was royally pissed off.
The rest of my weekend was spent either trawling second-hand shops on Sydney rd to find a fluro fanny-pack or buying raffle tickets in order to win a white-croqueted rug (and cover it in red-wine stains) from the yarnandcrafts festival at Brunswick town-hall. I met the Linguist's grandmother. We bonded. I ate pie.
Hope you guys had equally as eventful un-birthdays too,
Evilboy.
No comments:
Post a Comment