Alls Well That Ends
August 2nd 2006 13:20
Well what would you do!? We calmly decided not to bother waiting for a bus and fled like frightened rabbits in glittering shoes.
The up-shot of this minor excitement was some getting lost on dark sign-less streets and an encounter with some bearded guys who wanted to show us the way. But with an inbuilt magic homing beacon we found ourselves at last basking in the friendly footlights of Oxford St.
Even Oxford is a different environment on a chilly Sunday night. Darker, emptier, colder, windier and dead leaves everywhere like the set of A Walk To Remember. And places were closed!
But ARQ, we thought, ARQ would never leave us stranded, and sure enough it was pumping as we trooped in gaily two by two. One upshot of dressing in drag- the bouncers didn’t question our gay-credentials this one and only time. They just looked very closely at Taffy’s ID and waved me in with a weird look.
But was she convincing? Some very high guy did proposition her for sex, but it was impossible to determine whether he thought she was a boy or a girl, or just didn’t care at that point. But we said no.
That sort of set the tone for the night- you either loved Taffy or you hated her. The real drag queens hated her—if looks could slay she would have withered in a pile of smoking ash before my eyes. But was it professional jealousy or a desperate staking of territory? The chatty guys who wore pants professed to looove her dress, the lone girl in the club confessed lust for the red velvet heels, and a straight guy tried to start a fight with us over whether her swooshy train had knocked over his ‘schooner’ (empty glass) of beer.
But she skated through their reactions as though blithely unaware, stomping politely on the guy’s toes as she jumped onto the platform and poledanced in all her shiny glory. It was fun, I was jealous.
And then when we got tired, we curled up on the love-seats downstairs and a very happy guy tried to sell us drugs and discounted Gucci shoes.
Now that’s a satisfactory ending.
The up-shot of this minor excitement was some getting lost on dark sign-less streets and an encounter with some bearded guys who wanted to show us the way. But with an inbuilt magic homing beacon we found ourselves at last basking in the friendly footlights of Oxford St.
Even Oxford is a different environment on a chilly Sunday night. Darker, emptier, colder, windier and dead leaves everywhere like the set of A Walk To Remember. And places were closed!
But ARQ, we thought, ARQ would never leave us stranded, and sure enough it was pumping as we trooped in gaily two by two. One upshot of dressing in drag- the bouncers didn’t question our gay-credentials this one and only time. They just looked very closely at Taffy’s ID and waved me in with a weird look.
But was she convincing? Some very high guy did proposition her for sex, but it was impossible to determine whether he thought she was a boy or a girl, or just didn’t care at that point. But we said no.
That sort of set the tone for the night- you either loved Taffy or you hated her. The real drag queens hated her—if looks could slay she would have withered in a pile of smoking ash before my eyes. But was it professional jealousy or a desperate staking of territory? The chatty guys who wore pants professed to looove her dress, the lone girl in the club confessed lust for the red velvet heels, and a straight guy tried to start a fight with us over whether her swooshy train had knocked over his ‘schooner’ (empty glass) of beer.
But she skated through their reactions as though blithely unaware, stomping politely on the guy’s toes as she jumped onto the platform and poledanced in all her shiny glory. It was fun, I was jealous.
And then when we got tired, we curled up on the love-seats downstairs and a very happy guy tried to sell us drugs and discounted Gucci shoes.
Now that’s a satisfactory ending.
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