René Roberts

In the past few weeks, I’ve had foreign objects in orifices and I’ve chewed and swallowed substances that resemble something from Fear Factor. It was not a whole lot of fun. Blogging took a backseat as I concentrated on breathing through my mouth in an effort not to smell my own stomach fluids. So, now that I’ve put you off your breakfast, we can carry on.

Just before my exciting journey with the gastroenterologist, we were invited to the launch of the reopening of one of our favourite old-time gay clubs. I use the word favourite loosely here. Personally, I don’t have a favourite club. To be honest with you, I look strange in a club. Like a busty prostitute in a cathedral. When rhythm was dished out, I was probably hiding away in the library. I don’t attempt anything that I can’t do exceptionally well, so I simply don’t dance. To make up for it, I drink.

You’ve all seen that girl. The slightly overweight blonde, checking her watch every five minutes. She’s on the dance floor, clutching her brandy like it’s a life jacket. She’s like a fish out of water. That’s me.

I avoid making eye contact with anyone. Drunk people always have the urge to slither down your body like you’re a fucking pole. It’s not surprising though, as I’m the only stationary object in a 200m radius. The human pole. Every now and then I forget that I’m not in my car and I bob my head to the tune of the moment, completely offbeat. Then, I realise where I am and I thank heavens that everyone around me is completely intoxicated. I vow not to make any jerking movements anyway and head to the bar.

The barman’s black tuxedo pants are so tight that I can see the veins on his legs. He wear’s no shirt and there’s a bow tie around his neck. He slides his hands down his bare chest like he’s alone in the shower, flashes me a bright smile and takes my order. Right off the bat I can tell I’ve hooked a live one. It’s one of my super powers. I always pick the runt of the litter. It’s the Universe’s way of teaching me patience. Either that, or she wants to see me in prison. I say a little prayer, apologising first because of where I am, then I beg for the barman to get this right. In return, I promise to stop swearing. It only makes me feel guilty, because I know I can’t keep that promise. I keep it simple. I order two drinks. Single brandy and Tab. The universe knows that I’d made an empty promise and she flips me off. The barman hands me one single brandy and Coke light and another single brandy with a tot of lime. Don’t ask. I like to think that nobody is that stupid, but I spent a long time trying to figure out where the fuck he got that from. The conclusion is that he is in fact that stupid. You never argue with stupid, so my girlfriend ends up with a brandy, lime and Coke light.

I clutch my brandy and scan the room.

There’s the usual cluster of teenagers. The boys are in slim fit jeans, bedazzled with diamantes. They have scarves wrapped around their scrawny necks and more hairspray on their “up styles” than the entire cast of Glee. They wear pointy shiny boots that shout “Man, I feel like a woman”. The girls have your typical Pink haircut and they refuse to wear earrings in both ears. Flannel and belt buckles are out ladies and gentleman. Gym shorts and vests are much cooler. They look like they’ve just stepped off a basketball court. I’m surprised they don’t wear sweat bands. These shapeless Yoga pants that hang between your legs like a basket is also acceptable. Sneakers should be at least two sizes too big and your lip has to be pierced. What the boys and girls have in common is the fact that most of them are just trying to piss off their parents. Those girls will end up marrying those boys and they’ll have kids. Fact of life. All they are doing is freaking out their parents. What they also manage to do, is to highlight how old I am.

This makes me drink a little faster. I figure Einstein behind the bow tie won’t fuck up a simple shooter order, so I switch to Zappa. He never gives me the colour I ask for, but I’m not particularly bothered anymore. All of this drinking sends me to the restroom.

I step inside.

It’s like a scene from Priscilla Queen of the Desert. It’s glitter and sequins and lipstick and lashes and stockings. The drag queens are all competing for a spot in front of the mirror. Every now and then there’s a little surge of Testosterone and they start shoving. Very quickly they chastise themselves, even slapping each other across the hairy knuckles, reminding each other that a lady never loses her composure. Once they’ve shuffled into the prime spot in front of the mirror, they start slapping powder onto their hairy noses, clogging their huge pores, all the while batting their fake lashes. By now, my eyes are watering. Four of the stalls are closed and have been for the last fifteen minutes. It’s safe to say that emptying of one’s bladder is not top priority behind those doors. It sounds like a low-budget porn movie or the Stormers/Bulls scrum as the girls pant and moan. My bladder is about to burst.

Finally the door opens in one stall. No, they’re not done. They just need fresh air, because some sixteen year old is wrapped around the toilet like a scarf around Elton John’s neck. It smells like Baby City in there and the vomit fumes forced her buddies to open the door. The burly drag queen at the basin quickly looks away and pats her forehead with a tissue that she produces from cleavage that she’d created with rolled up rugby socks and Wonderbra. She pouts one last time, slides of the basin and strides away, her nose tipped to the ceiling.

By now, I’m crossing my legs frantically, bouncing up and down, thinking dry thoughts. Crossing your legs does not help. Why would it? It’s one of those completely pointless things we do. Like signing a gym contract. You know it aint gonna work. I get to the front of the line and my body twitches in anticipation. I can already hear the harp music playing and angels singing. As the door opens up, an old school Flannel and Buckle dyke rushes past me, totally ignoring the line. Her abs are bigger than Pierre Spies’s and her beard puts Victor Matfield’s to shame. She clenches her jaw and rolls her thick neck, cracking something. She smiles and winks, hooking her thumbs over her belt. I shiver. Not in a good way. I do a small curtsy, encouraging her to go in my stead, despite the fact that there’s a real possibility of me wetting myself. And not just from fear. Finally, it’s my turn and relief washes over me as I let go. I realise that it probably sounds like I’m getting some solo action, but I’m too happy to care.

Afterwards, I look at the basin. My path to clean hands are scattered with obstacles. Flannel is combing her Brylcreemed hair, swaying her hips. The bunch of keys dangling from her waistband resembles that of a warden’s and I quickly banish the thought of girls cuffed in her Red Room of Pain. Three drag queens are hogging the basins, swiping lipstick off their yellow teeth and repositioning dangly parts. Fuck it. I rush to the bar and my girlfriend’s sister steps out of the male rest rooms, wiping her clean hands on her jeans. It took her five seconds to make a trip to the loo. Why? The male rest room is almost empty. The butch dykes don’t have time to fuck around. They piss. They leave. So, a few impatient femmes have taken to using the male rest rooms instead. I glare at my sister-in-law, shaking my head in disapproval. The notion makes me dizzier than it should and I realise it’s time to sober up. They always make the human pole the designated driver.

The Universe is still toying with me. I get Einstein every time I order something. I chuckle to myself as I order my still water, finally an order he can manage. He glares at me and charges me R18 for a bottle of water. Dick head. I gulp it down and order another three bottles. I join my girlfriend on the dance floor, clutching my water and probably looking like the teacher that’s supervising at the prom.

It’s getting late. I know, because the queens have kicked off their high heels and their hairpieces are sagging to the side. They have mascara running down their cheeks as self-pity and its trusted side-kick, alcohol, grips them by the bangled wrists and pulls them to their knees. They bawl and sniff and moan and groan. They start the night out looking like Madonna and they leave looking like a cross between an emo version of the clown from Steven King’s It and The Joker.

We wait for YMCA and It’s raining men. Why lesbians join in and sing their little hearts out, nobody knows. It’s like any other anthem. It brings about a sense of belonging. Or it’s meant to.

I look around me and realise that I’m just a natural outsider. It fits me like a glove.

Just not a sparkling, “sequinsy” one.