Liquid On A Saturday Night

Central Market on a late Saturday night, 90% of the city’s party-going gay population had yet again gathered for another parade of designer labels, bodies and cosmetic products.

We reached just in time for the dance floor to open. My sister Gary once advised that those who reach before midnight are there to watch the crowd, where else those who reach after midnight are there to be watched.

We formed a line trying to squeeze through a small gap that had formed between the dancing crowd (on our right) that was already frantically shaking their hands, legs, bodies and all on, and the drinking crowd (on our left) that had gathered at the bar, some seated quietly watching the action on the dance floor, while the most of others were gathered in groups, talking and laughing enthusiastically.

Halfway through, this Gucci uncle caught sight of me, and all of a sudden, raised his arm to part his friends in one grand sweep, revealing a tiny miserable empty spot on the cushioned seat by the bar. (Moses incarnated? Perhaps.) Then he started gesturing that I go sit there. Sensing his rather comical and half-hearted intentions, I just gave him a blank stare and continued to brave the crowd.

“So young!” He exclaimed animatedly at the top of his voice, making one last effort to catch my attention. He was facing his group of seemingly fashionable uncles, but his eyes were permanently fixed on me instead.

I turned around, waited for a brief gap between the deafening bass of the disco beat, and then proclaimed in a similarly animated manner, “Not really laaaa…”

I could have said “THAT is gross misjudgement of my maturity”, but that would have lengthened our interaction by 200%, something I could not afford as the human traffic built up behind me.

We eventually managed to find a spot on the dance floor. Didn’t take me long to realise why I had waited four months before visiting again. As I was yawning to another monotonous number, my back hit against what felt like a brick wall. I turned around, and was graced by a ‘muscle wall’ indeed. A bunch of hunky and topless musclemen had gathered next to us. They believe that after spending countless hours in the gym, the queer crowd deserves to feast their eyes on their anatomy, and had thus proceeded to occupy 50% of the dance floor for their social outing that were peppered with incessant hugging and kissing. Never mind if they were not dancing.

Kent eventually led us to another area of the dance floor; we were suffocating from the growing mass of muscle that gradually engulfed us. Another monotonous number started playing, and we’re done for the day.

Think we will go Frangipani next Friday.