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Podium Transvestite

July 5, 2011

Hear, Gods of Revenge! Hear a mother's oath!

You’ve been on the liquor since 11am; before you got on the plane. The flight is a blur of rum and air hostesses, wiggling down the aisles in their tight little uniforms. You arrived – somewhere, urban, on-trend, Iquitos, Valencia, Tel Aviv – were hit by the heat, your skin an immediate slick of sweat. You had to endure an agonising half an hour without a drink waiting at Passport control, but then you were in the back of a car –leather, air conditioned – with miniature bottles of pre-mixed martinis. Then: friends, reunions, an apartment, wine, music, salted corn. Suddenly you’re street-side, outside a bar, a glass goblet of gin and tonic in front of you. The gin isn’t over-purified – it’s sweet, but you can still taste that deliciously unique gin muddiness. The night speeds up. There are bars where you drink cava; bars where you drink margaritas; bars where you drink mojitos, so icy they give you brain-freeze; bars where you drink absinthe, topped with something blue and steaming. There is a moment – vivid amongst a quagmire of laughter and shouting – when you almost vomit on the floor in front of a group of strangers. From the ashes rises a new location: it is loud, hot, busy. You are dancing, pressed against new friends, unable to fall over so densely packed are you into this space. You look upwards. Above you, goddesses, writhing. They are wearing the frameworks of brassieres, absent fabric exposing coral areolae. Glorious creatures; from behind lithe and willowy, moving as if liquid. You know, somewhere, that strapped down inside their thongs are ashamed peni, but that doesn’t matter. They are the queens of this night.

Verdict: You’ll never again be able to find that nightclub, but the image of podium transvestites waving their arms in the air is forever, fondly, scorched in your memory.


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