Happy Fucking Easter

Josh has gone to NSW. Mark and Luke have gone to the beach. Tom has shingles and kidney problems, too much chemo, after all. Fuck, I think when I think about him. David's gone to Queensland, I drove him to the airport for a four o'clock flight. On the way, my car started to cough and splutter and miss and carry on, to the point where I thought I wasn't going to make it home.
I was going to Manny's on my way back, but cancelled in fear of mechanical failure. He's just called. Give it another go, he said. Just get in it and start heading to my place. Oh, come on, he said, when I laughed. I so want to see you. Don't make me put a porno on again, he laughed.
You know, my boyfriend position is wide open, there for the taking, Manny. But you know, it is always me going to him. It's always me, Come over, come over and usually I don't mind. But, now that my car wasn't working, it was a perfect opportunity for him even the score. But no.
So, I'm home alone, for Easter, with no car to go any where.
So, I broke down and sms'd my drug dealer, getting stoned was the only option left. I haven't bought pot all year, after all. And it's Easter, I thought. It's a long weekend, why the fuck not?
No, not today, replied my drug dealer. Tomorrows good.
I could be dead tomorrow, I snapped crossly, as I tossed the phone onto the couch.
Blah! Happy fucking Easter.

So, I settled on the couch to read, defeated. My tutor, from uni, has published a book of short stories, so I was reading them. The next thing I know, it is four hours later and Mark and Luke are waking me up saying come to The Peel. They didn't go to the beach, after all. They had three lines already made on the kitchen bench. Come on, they said.

So, we went to Throb. It wasn't very crowded. Wog boys and Asian boys were predominant, just to my liking. Wog boys that is. Although, I'd have to give the cutest boy award for the night to an Asian boy, with smiley eyes and a cheeky grin. Handsome and happy, possibly aided, but who cares, dancing energetically.
The only thing I can say is the DJ at the Peel doesn't have a fucking clue. Mix songs together, mate. Try and match the tempo from one song to another, buddy. Take the crowd on some sort of journey. Any journey, it wouldn't have mattered. Take it up, bring it down, but in some kind of seamless direction. The music was some kind of retro naff, era in determinant. The crowd didn't even seem drugged out enough not to care.
It's a sad day when Knock on Wood is the only song to get me dancing.
As I sat and watched over the dance floor, I wondered if any of the younger guys thought that any of it was new. Here they were out, hip and cool, grooving. Nirvana ending their school life and childhood, adults finally. I wondered if anything had changed in gay night clubs for the previous forty years, other than hair? Imagine being a part of the club scene when it really was new? Now that would have been cool. There must have been a pure energy, joy, if you like back then replacing the cynicism and the jaded club land we now have. Imagine hearing all those songs for the very first time.
I imagined getting all the gay guys from all the clubs from all the eras and having a party right across Australia. A party along a ninety mile beach. A huge dance floor built across the desert on a perfect night. Imagine having all of those men together in one time. Now that would be cool.