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Battle Cry of the Disco Fag Hag

[whitespace] Drinking the nectar of the messy gods

By C. Silo

Weaponry complete: the shoes are painful, the eyeliner is perfect and the cleavage is so pumped I can use my tits as a padded neck brace (just in case). My flask is filled with nectar of the messy gods, and as Miss Donna Summer says, "I got it bad and that ain't good." After all, it's Friday night and I don't just need a man, girlfriend, I need hundreds of them. I need to be the only woman on the dance floor and I need to be adored--that's why I'm headed for Fag Fridays at The End-Up, a place where I can get my groove on and still keep my undies in place.

Three hours into pagan gospel divas shooting from the speakers, the only straight man on the premises approaches me. My flask is nearly empty and I'm working on my third vodka gimlet; in other words, this is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He is Adonis in Gucci, Narcissus in Prada. I dance around him like a Spanish fly drawn to a steaming new package of shit--tonight he is the shit, honey. At 5:30 I buy a fishy cigar from an Impeachy Puff and sadly note that my buzz is quickly wearing off. I coyly ask the newfound man for a ride home, but as we step onto the street a horrible thing occurs--daylight. Without the protection of disco darkness, this poor Burlingame-bound child is a superficial girl's worst nightmare; as he bends over to adjust the Velcro laces on his black Reeboks ("Jeez! I sure did dance up a rug in that joint!"), the sleeve of his Members Only jacket sneakily grazes my thigh, and I desperately scream, "Cab!!!"

The following evening I take precautionary measures to ensure that my next bout with inebriation does not interfere with lascivious judgment. After stuffing my face with fried calamari at Elroy's, which, on a Saturday night, is a bit like Release with a business administration degree from Cal State Hayward (you know what I mean), a tentative romantic interest and I decide to head on over to Loveworks. Possibly the City's most fierce existing house club, the Loveworks crew--Nori Castillo, Dani, Diana Jacobs, Robnoxious and the effortlessly delectable Matt Valenz (warning: in another lifetime YOU will be mine)--brings old-school values to an increasingly cheesy house scene. As the drum 'n' bass infantiles, with their cow-pierced septums and Special-Ed threads, threaten to take over the notion of a soulful groove, warriors like the Loveworks posse ensure that music with depth and beauty can still be heard--just ask Lord Martine (arbiter of top-notch taste)!

After yet another unrequited, hard-driving flirtation with the maddeningly aloof DJ Josh, I depart the club with my official date for a "hands-off" snooze chez moi. As he rests Pharaoh-style beneath the sheets, I decide to provoke my neighbors with some early morning Metallica. "Let's go to the End-Up!" I yell, after fixing two peppery Bloody Marys, sans tomato juice (like a porno star's erection, I unrelentingly come back for more bad deeds). The date, who is confused by my sudden desire to work my booty among a crowd of sassy homosexuals, sleepily acquiesces. Within minutes the sun is bursting through the blinds, and much to my glee, my date is still remarkably fine. But as the bloodless Mary swirls in my stomach, I allow the date to free his hands from his chest. He is now overwhelmingly attractive and surprisingly large in one particular region, so I decide to forsake the early-morning dance floor for this tasty young thing. Forget the Sunset Scavengers, honey, 'cause the trash is takin' me out today ... .

Small things often come in small packages: [email protected].

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From the March 15, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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