finishing off the weekend with a smile
Waking up in the same home as The Contessa is always good. For years we shared a flat in Notting Hill so tiny that everyone imagined we must be lovers. We never fell out. We became like sisters, but different: able to talk about some things that sisters never would, and no history of pre-existing childhood behaviour patterns to compromise our adult selves. We were sanity amongst the madness and regarded as the maddest of the lot for being so. She with pupils permanently pinned from nothing more noxious than staring at the sun in childhood, me with eyes often overly dilated with innate euphoria; we drew curious looks as we arrived after hours in the neighbourhood doorways that passed as bars to those who knew. This was one of those times in life that can never be repeated, and the bonds built through its uniqueness will remain with us always.
Having her here in London for my birthday was such a treat and solace for both of us, who have acquired small wounds in recent years; in the way one does with progress through life. Wounds need not be a worry though, when cared for carefully, and our time together was, most surely, part of that process.
Following my birthday party, we sleep and talk much of the day away, missing Columbia Road flower market but making the date in Brick Lane; now a Lazy Sunday place in much the way that Portobello once was place for Perfect Fridays. A quick drive to Putney takes forever, but allows The Contessa to reminisce on locations from her London life, and me to be reminded of the merits of my bike - even for such long journeys. Here, we have a quick drink with my older sister and an old friend who recovered on her couch from his extreme drunkenness at last night’s party.
Post party conversation:-
No longer drunk geezer, ‘Who was that older woman at your party?’
Me, ‘Her, she’s a recent acquaintance who would like to be a friend, but she’s off my invitation list.’
Sister, ‘You were talking to her, lots.’
No longer drunk geezer, ‘Was I? Oh yer, she was very friendly.’
Sister, ‘She probably thought she was in there.’
No longer drunk geezer, ‘Euch, no, surely not.’
Me, ‘No, really; I’ve heard her talk with great enthusiasm about the young boys she ‘does’.’
No longer drunk geezer, ‘Young boys she ‘does’, euwie. Yuek, god, I wondered why she heaved her tits out early on in the evening, but I just thought she was a bit eccentric. Y o u n g b o y s she DOES. That sounds vile.’
Me, ‘OK, perhaps not quite the phrase she used. More reference to her son's friends. But you know, I think she’s a bit of a fiend on all fronts…. She had major liposuction1 after her divorce.’
Sister, ‘She should have had Colonel Liposuction.’
No longer drunk geezer ‘Jeez, if she doesn’t stop eating, she should have the whole fucking regiment.’
The Contessa and I fail to lure others into coming clubbing (no real surprise), and head off home to feed and glorify ourselves, kill kitchen crap, and be in club in some impossibly short space of time. I admit to The Contessa this clubbing lark is a bit alien to me of late. I party my pants of in places with speakers taller than me, and end up in the back rooms behind bars where the artists throw on discs to make their mates smile, but proper, anonymous, clubbing, in one of those cavernous, mega-clubs has not been my territory in many years. I pull out a frock I had made for me in Bangladesh; orange, cotton, with green and peach and white flowers,1970’s caravan curtain style, neatly fitted, capped sleeved, with buttons down the front. ‘Is this too weird to wear clubbing?’, I shout out across the hall, giving no fuck, really, as the intention of the evening is merely to dance, and laugh and capture a few fragments of olden times.
The Contessa lightly turns, looks at the dress I wave in her direction, and titters, ‘What? Of course it’s too weird; but Silver, if anyone can wear it, you can.’
I slip it on, and as I button up the front, thoughts of cleaning women’s overalls enter my psyche and make me smile. Ten minutes later we are clambering out of a cab in front of Fabric, for DTPM - one of London’s biggest gay nights, to be greeted by Scary Door Tranny who waves us in. Inside, all is still quiet, despite warnings of the need for early arrival from The Contessa’s clubbing confidante, who proposed the location. We check out the space: main room with happy, fluffy music and visuals, overlooked by a gallery bar; low ceilinged, interconnecting space, filled with large, leather look, wall seating and double bed sized sofas to lounge on; a dark room with high ceiling, stage and a number of dance podiums, playing harder, trippier music; and upstairs an intimate room, entered through hanging chains, playing R&B and soul or some such innocuous nonsense.
We get drinks and head to the harder, darker, room, and take to the floor, oblivious to the emptiness of it all. A conversation about yoga to music leads The Contessa to take to a podium and engage in asanas. She is soon joined by competitive, yoga girl, displaying double joints, but little grace. Others watch on and a bouncer moves towards us, to stop our antics, I think; but no, he wants yoga lessons from The Contessa. She offers him advice and exercises for his bad back (this is her profession), and he leaves, thrilled by the encounter.
We move out to the main room, which is now heaving. Men are starting to remove their quickly dampening, T-shirts and we become surrounded by some of the prettiest of the boyz, keeping them sufficiently distant that their sweat doesn’t quite drip down our flesh. ‘I know that man,’ says The Contessa of a friendly faced, shaved headed, hunk, bedecked in bold tattoos, ‘from clubbing in Barcelona.’ she adds, and soon we’re surrounded by another posse of gay men who are happy to use us as their handbags. We try to determine the heterosexuals in the sea of bodies; not that we’re interested, but it seems that they must be, as we’re both receiving a remarkably excessive amount of arse tweaking for what’s meant to be a gay night.
Now hot, we head to the rest area, and recline, laughing, into a corner, surveying all around. A small, dark haired, man struts over, oggling my legs, which are stretch out in front of me. ‘Are they long enough?’ he questions.
‘Long enough for me,’ I reply, turning towards The Contessa.
‘Do you do drugs?’ he asks, ‘I’ve just had a big, fat line. Do you want some?’ I don’t even bother to reply, but he continues, ‘God… you’re hot, you’re both hot’, obviously oblivious to how indiscriminate and unattractive such ‘complements’ from cokeheads must sound. ‘The toilets here are huge, d’you fancy a threesome in the toilets upstairs?’ and he continues with some grimy details of his intentions for the toilets. The Contessa and I look at each other, containing nasal snorts of laughter, with him misreading this silent dialogue between us as assent to his request. ‘Come on. It’s not a problem; the staff don’t mind.’
We recline further into the safety of the corner, unworried, but amused by this asshole, who has the audacity to suggest that the ‘handsomeness’ of his pasty face might provide appeal. ‘OK, show me your ass, then,’ The Contessa says, in the most haughty, manner that only a Spanish woman straight from Almodova could.
He turns around, and much to our amusement, pulls down his hideous, easy access, track pants to reveal his naked butt. He then completes his turn, holding his half-hard cock, ‘Want to see my cock, too?’ he asks. But we are not looking at the repellent thing he holds: we’re lying back in our corner, looking over his shoulder, amused, at our bouncer who’s fast approaching, who grabs him by the scruff of his neck, threatening to eject him from the club, much to his protestations that he was only doing what had been requested of him.
We are now able to laugh at the complete ridiculousness of this man. I mean, threesome, with him, in the toilets. Do we look like the kind of women that would eat lukewarm, bad beef-burgers from the gutter?
The rest of the evening entails encounters with an anorexic, Asian lesbian with an oversized Adam’s apple; escape from a man sandwich on the dance floor; complements galore on my eye catching dress; and escorting some poor, scared, dread-locked, heterosexual American to the heart of the main dance floor, encouraging him in his desire to take off his shirt, and then deciding it was time to go home.
We slept well.
1 While sometimes uneasy about such things, I’m not against them per se, however, I’m increasingly suspicious of the merits of this woman’s motivations.