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say. “Every hole is a goal.”

  Beyond the titillation and humour, it occurs to me that I’m still wearing my red boa. I don’t want Scarlet to see me like this. The beauty of cross-dressing with accessories is that they are easily removed and voila, you look like normal beer-guzzling, sports-obsessing, pussy-loving heterosexual. I wouldn’t want Scarlet to see me in a boa, for she would mock me to no end. She does not understand my twisted humour and I do not want to be ridiculed by a woman of slim virtue.

  “Are you dogs done gawking yet?” Bal asks.

  “When those two girls are done dry humping each other, I’ll be done watching them,” Johan says. I can only nod in agreement.

  “Did you even notice that David Duchovney is here?”

  “Big deal,” I say. “David Duchovney is always here.”

  I tear my eyes off the show and scan for the star of the X-files. The show was an instant cult favorite in this city, because it’s filmed here. Our dark, cloud-ridden skies make a perfect setting for any horror movie or TV show. Every Vancouverite has an X-files story, i.e. “they filmed the scene where the alien obliterated the FBI agent in my building” or “I saw Gillian Anderson drinking a coffee in my Starbucks.” David Duchovney hangs out in Celebrities about as much as the bouncers do. For a while it was rumoured that he must be gay. But as of late, he’s been seen dancing with a hot, skinny, blond girl and all rumours have been put to rest. Still a few queens hold out hope.

  Back to the real show. Scarlet has her hands up Mya’s dress. Even the copious amounts of alcohol can’t stop the blood rushing to my erection. A hard-on in a gay bar is not a good idea, so I take my hands out of my pockets. Think about hockey.

  Suddenly Scarlet releases Mya, like a vampire who has fully drained her victim. The show is over. Her eyes meet mine. She knew I was there all along. Maybe she wanted to get my attention or maybe I have an over-inflated opinion of myself. Either way, Scarlet is coming my way.

  “You enjoyed that, Eric?”

  “Enjoy what? Did you see that David Duchovney is here?”

  “Who?”

  “Fox Mulder from the X-files.” I tell her, but none of this means anything to her. Damn woman has no grasp of current pop culture. Maybe that’s a good thing.

  She picks up what remains of my blue gin and tonic and drains it. “Bal, what are you doing with these degenerates?”

  “I just met them, they’re interesting,” he says.

  “My dear boy,” she says. “They’re anything but interesting.”

  “We’re sitting right here,” Johan reminds her.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.”

  “You can be real bitch, sometimes,” I say.

  “You too.”

  Damn, she saw me in the boa.

  A waiter arrives wearing less clothing than I would wear to the beach. His abs are like steel, and I guess if I had his chest I’d probably walk around shirtless too. He sees our empty glasses and asks if we want something more.

  “Do you want a drink?” I offer Scarlet. I try to forget that she knows, if I ignore it and maybe she will too.

  “Sure thing, pretty boy,” Scarlet says. “Get me a red drink.” She won’t ignore anything; it’s not in her nature.

  Johan laughs. “I’ll have one too.”

  Blood, I think. Blood is what they want. Like piranhas in the water.

  The only red cocktail that I can recall is Bloody Caesars, but it seems inappropriate at this level of the evening. Bal comes to my rescue and orders us four strawberry martinis.

  “It’s crazy in here tonight,” I say, trying to make conversation that doesn’t involve my indiscretions.

  “It’s actually kind of tame,” Scarlet says and Bal nods his head in agreement.

  Nothing more is said until our waiter returns, carrying four red martinis high above his head, he parades himself like a peacock high on Prozac. He presents us with our drinks and Bal requests that they get put onto his tab. Bal turns to us and says, “Perhaps tonight we will drink all the colours of the rainbow.”

  “It seems fitting,” I blurt out.

  We raise our glasses and Bal toasts, “to new friends.”

  “And old ones,” Johan says.

  The red concoction is very sweet and yet seems stronger than the blue gin. I’m getting dizzy. These highballs are quickly gaining a very strong hold on me. They are playing with my head and toying with my thoughts. I take a second sip and instantly have the incredible urge to purge myself.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” I say. “Johan, do you want to come with me?” I hate going to the boy’s room alone in a gay bar.

  “No,” he says. “I don’t want to break the seal.”

  My stomach is turning. A strange noise emerges from my gut, but only I can hear it over the blare of the music. Like it or not, I need a toilet, fast.

  “I’ll take you,” Bal offers. “If you want?”

  “Nah, I’ll be fine.”

  I wander through the crowded bar, weaving like a snake, trying not to touch anyone. I move as quickly as my feet can travel without looking conspicuous. I arrive, push through the door and find a free booth. I pay little heed to the lovers in the stall adjacent to mine or the condom that had been discarded on the floor. At least they were being safe.

  I am quick and efficient. My sole super power may seem trivial to many people, but in my chosen lifestyle I have found it extremely convenient. It is the ability to throw up and keep going as if nothing happened. The entire process takes thirty seconds. I rinse my mouth and re-enter the maelstrom of beats, feeling renewed and rejuvenated.

  Upon returning to my comrades I discover that our red drinks have been replaced with yellow drinks. What’s with these people? Scarlet is looking fantastic, perched in her chair, legs crossed and sipping from a martini glass. I had barely noticed earlier, but her hair is perfect and her evening dress, which on any other woman would have looked plain, draped on her it becomes haute couture. It accentuates her every curve. The very same curves that I once enjoyed in my teenage years. Oh, the fond memories. I try my best to forget all the pain she caused me. But how can I? She was my original muse, the reason I started writing in the first place.

  Two hundred years ago they would have burnt her at the stake, from plausible accusations that she was a witch. But today, she is free to wonder the earth, entrapping men and women alike, offering us everything and nothing, all in one breathe. She is my past and when applying my previously mentioned attractiveness equation, I can determine that I must have been one good looking kid. Regardless of the contradiction that my grad photos provide.

  I drink from the yellow swill and it tastes like butter-scotch. It’s repulsive. And yet I keep drinking it. My freshly emptied stomach requests that I fill it again.

  “Let’s dance,” Scarlet says. I watch her legs as she rises from her chair.

  Are you insane? The DJ has been playing the same song since we walked in here, only louder and more annoying. Johan and Bal get up. Really guys, you’re going to follow her. Scarlet turns to me and says, “Don’t forget your little boa, pretty boy.”

  I want to dance even less now, but I don’t want to be left alone, so I take a solid pull of yellow butterscotch and join my friends on the already crowded disco floor. I move and pretend to enjoy myself. Eventually, I pretend enough that I forget that I’m not supposed to be having fun. The rhythm travels inside of me and nestles itself in the cavity where the emptied gin and tonic once sat. I forget myself, I forget where I am.

  I’m quickly reminded when Alphonse, the wealthy Communist, enters into my personal space. He grinds himself into my haunch. “I’m with that guy,” I tell him, pointing towards Johan.

  “He’s obviously straight,” Alphonse counters.

  “So am I, we’re experimenting.”

  “Why don’t you experiment with me?”

  This isn’t going well. But then I remember my research. Gay men love to hit on straight m
en, and it’s our own damn fault if we enter into their domain. Claiming you’re straight is not an adequate argument. Entering a gay bar insinuates that at the very least we are open-minded and perhaps gay-curious. I need a better defence. As much as gay men can be very aggressive, they are also very catty. They tend to brutally honest, which is one reason why women love them so much. They are prone to telling you the truth, even when it may hurt your feelings.

  “Walk away,” I tell Alphonso. “If I were even remotely considering switching teams it wouldn’t be with you. Go to the gym before you talk to me again.” Maybe that was a little too much. It was difficult for me to say, considering my good Canadian upbringing, and I regret it instantly. But it works. Alphonso departs with a shrug.

  Everything gets blurry from there on. I remember Bal speaking directly to the DJ and shortly after the techno music eases into a dancier version of Rebel Rebel, by the immortal David Bowie. This pushes me further into my stupor. We all holler, “Hot tramp, I love you so.” And all eyes point to me. I accept my designation and I prance like a dandy, adorn in my red boa. I remind myself of Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. I am limitless.

  Slowly everything fades to black. It is a perfect mash of harmless fun and foolish revelry. These are the moments we all dream of, surrounded by good friends, life’s worries buried far back into our egos. We are free of society’s constraints. We dance like shamans at a voodoo ritual. Blood may be sacrificed tonight, but it won’t be ours.

  I have a vague memory of Bal