It’s been one irritating thing after another this past fortnight. Against the backdrop of the world’s further slide into terror-related oppression, we’ve seen the introduction of the draconian new workplace legislation, and, in Gayland, a rogue group of activists trying to start up a fight with the Red Cross (a fight that nobody here in Sydney has asked for, or wants to have).
But mainly, my life has been Misery Central these past two weeks because of some bug I’m sure I picked up while thrashing about in head-high soap suds at Arq’s last foam party.
I think gay life is finally catching up with me.
When I think back to that night, with all those bodies pressed in tight together, and with everyone breathing in and subsequently coughing up the same bubbles, I shudder to think of all the airborne nasties that were probably spread around. It’s a miracle we didn’t all come down with Ebola.
Still, it was a pretty awesome night. Lots of guys got into the spirit by donning Speedos -“ a move I always applaud, although it makes me wonder where they store their money and their house keys. And truth be told, the action tends toward the frisky when the suds get pumped onto the dancefloor. Dudes who give you the stony-faced disco glare one minute are running their eager hands down your equally eager flanks the next. I’ll grant you, there’s often some annoying straight chick on an E who wants you to pash her or, worse, become her gay shopping buddy, but for every character like that there will also be some hunky bloke in skimpy swimshorts pressing his raging hard-on into the small of your back. If you’re into that sort of thing -“ as I am -“ it’s a recipe for a pretty good night out.
Some people won’t be told, of course. One friend of mine, who’s not known for his, er, reserve in matters of a sexual and/ or skanky nature, declined to join me for my disco bubblebath, decreeing that the suds would raise merry hell on his, and I quote, delicate, rose-of-England skin. I told him to stop being so fomophobic.
But now, as I sit here coughing up a lung, he’s having the last laugh. Still, I’m looking on the bright side. I’ve been reacquainting myself with the unique awfulness of daytime TV, and counting the days until the next foam party. If you see me there, say hi. I’ll be the one in the gas mask.