'Dancing Queen'

'Dancing Queen'

So I find myself a willing partner in the Gay Party thing, and we're off, after a coupla beers at the Sports Bar. I'm confident now - this is not going to be like the last time. The first sign of good things to come is when I get a few appreciating nods in my direction, while standing in the line before the club, and a stray hand actually brushes across my ass. I'm not the kind who would turn around and wink, but the beer made me do so, nonetheless. I'm not in, but I'm already high...

Enter club and enter butterfly slut. Would love to call myself a million things and would love to morph into all of them. Did I airkiss? No, I don't do that. Did I beam? OF COURSE. Did I say hello to my ex? Perfectly. He was nice to me, too, and for at least half an hour, we were dancing together, even with that friend of his, who had given me the persona non grata treatment a fortnight ago.

And then, like the quintessential butterfly, I switch partners. Yes, they played ABBA. Yes, they played Madonna. I wouldn't be surprised if they'd played Cher next, but they didn't. There was this creature next to me, who was quite bare-chested, but had his torso painted in bright red and blue. Welcome to the Gay Christmas Tree. Have your eggnogs free! They played my ultimate diva number, Superstar, and of course I was dancing like mad to that. I met friends, one-night stands, fuck-buddies, cherished items and the objects of my affection. I chilled out with a friend I hadn't met in ages. We yakked with his friend, and decided that at the next party, we must bring our women-friends over for a few laughs. The lesbian populace in Bombay is actually quite sharp - not as frumpy as the fat dykes that traipse into Pegs and Pints in Delhi.

Shush, Closetalk! You're not really drunk now, anymore. You just pretend awfully well.