Revenge

So, no numbers, not a single one! But there were looks and those are what matter. Nothing quite beats, in my opinion, that deep penetrating gaze, the linger of the eyes as they make their way down your body, slowly. And yes, i'm proud to say, I received those in the plentiful. Gay men do it with such ease. In a single moment they can tell you that they like you, that they want to leave with you and also, if the linger lasts long enough (rather difficult in the smoky joints these gay clubs are, what it is exactly that they'd like to do to you.

The straight men of this world hold no such power (unfortunate as it is). What they have instead is an often surprising sense of self-confidence. And it is this self confidence that holds their hand, takes them to the dancefloor, beneath the ball of a thousand eyes (for god forbid anybody should not catch of glimpse of this act of slithering masculinity) and gently eases their crotch over an often unexpecting woman's ass. And this fitting of the curves is called 'grinding'. I've never been good at that myself.

What I did notice, was that the men in this club didn't grind. They simply jutted to the rhythm, were lost in their own sexuality, coming up for breath only when the glass in their hand came up empty.

Another interesting fact. The club was called 'REVENGE'. This has me thinking. Why would a gay club be called revenge. What revenge is being sought exactly and against whom? Perhaps the club (back in the day) was owned by a dangerous homophobic woman and the new owners bought if from her once she was declared bankrupt. The club was the gay man's revenge. Perhaps. Perhaps they threw a few names into a trilby.

It has me shocked, dear reader, the number of plus 40s (including one + 50 and one +80!) who came out in skinny jeans and tank tops and kissed (and necked) mid dance floor to the piping hot Madonna tunes being played by the DJ in Drag. It shouldn't surprise me that gay men who come out when it's time to go in (all puns intended) are often groping life for a chance to be what they wish they were back in the day. But really, and as admirable this sudden burst of sexual awakening is, tank tops and items of clothing which require the aid of vaseline should be stopped. I'll take care of your laundry. I can even show you the ashes if you'd like.

The reason I say this, is because, it strikes me, that age matters in homosexuality more than it does elsewhere. Old really only attracts old (unless you have some sort of fetish) and youth is the gay man's prized possession. The pick of the young crop is what being gay is all about. And can gay men dance, yes they can. They can shimmy, strut and grind all at the same time whilst balancing a vodka and orange on their mohicans. For every five gay men there is one truly inspirational sexpot who knows just what to do and where to do it. There are those gay men who could change your entire definition of queer and those who could unwind you with a single word. And in the land of the straight, the ratio works out at about 1:150.

It was eye opening, it had me curious, and I will ask The Dame if we can go to yet another gay bar tomorrow night. One thing is for sure however. That there is a feeling of safety, a feeling of being alone and comfortable simultaneously that you simply don't get at the straight club. We have to look over our shoulders, into our drinks, over at our friends and clutch our wallets (and handbags) which ferocity. And this is sad.