because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Monday, 25 February 2013

My next lover is an air guitar player

Last night my brother discovered me swaddled in a cashmere blanket, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, and listening to Frédéric Lodéon at full volume as I devoured even more feminist literature and the last of the Boursin.

He observed that, in that exact and perfect moment, I was a metaphorical pig in shit. I was in my element. And until last Friday, had I the means for a foot massage and the privacy for a wank, I’d have been inclined to agree with him.

But, what I learnt this weekend is that until you have looked a stranger in the eyes at three o’clock in the morning and screamed at him BABY THIS IS SERIOUS, ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT YOU- OR US? circa three minutes twenty-one seconds into Celine Dion’s Think Twice, right when the key change comes in, then, quite frankly, you’re doing Fun wrong, and no amount of creamy French cheese will take you back to that level of euphoria.

Extra points if in that moment your friend double-handedly spanks your singing partner as she jumps up and down.

I have glimpsed a world so perfect to me, Internet, so profoundly catering to exactly what I need in this life- what I crave for my being- that since Friday my existence has been in black and white. Colourless. Void of anything that could match the unadulterated joy I experienced as Saturday morning crept upon me and revealed things I never even knew existed.

My life was changed by a power ballads club night.

I’m talking women dressed a Bowie, and men in wigs. I'm saying scrunchies and inflatable microphones and air drumming. I mean WHITNEY HOUSTON and LIONEL RICHIE and OHMYGOD THIS. IS. MY. SOOOOONG!

Roughly once a week my living room becomes a dance floor as I make my brother’s fella dance to Culture Club and Gloria Gaynor as Jack cooks our tea and shakes his head in embarrassment as I try- again- to master the art of vogue-ing in my pyjamas. But add in a couple more thousand people and a few pitchers of margaritas and buggar me with the greatest love of all if that ain’t a party like no other party I’ve ever been to.

Making eye contact with a stranger as you simultaneously both do a power fist thrust in the air to the beat of Total Eclipse of the Heart is one of the hottest things they never teach you in biology class.

Flinging your arms around a couple of girls who, up until the opening bars of Against All Odds were as unknown to you as Kate Middleton to vodka watermelon, and hitting every. single. top. note. in unison and with perfect timing will make you proud to be a girl.

Laughing until you cry with one of the more mental mates you’ve got when she understands, without words, just a simple widening of the eyes, that Bohemian Rhapsody has only the most special memories for you, will give you pangs of appreciation not even rice balls match.

At one point it was all just too much. I had to excuse myself to go to the loo, and on realising that there was a balcony overlooking the dance floor (SING FLOOR) I stood, watching the crowd, transfixed, overwhelmed, mesmerised by the thousands of fist-pumps and air guitars and shaking palms and… cum faces?  

When my friend came to find me suddenly we were singing together once again, and then Meatloaf’s I would do anything for love (but I won’t do that) came on, and a man approached us from behind, and he started to mouth the words at us.

It was the most erotic moment of my adult life.

The twelve minutes of the extended version of that song opened up to us like a gift from the musical, lip-syncing gods with interpretive dance, spinning, and magic eyes. His friends joined us and the five of us span and chased and improvised into lyrical crescendo, banging fists on walls and chairs and pulling at hair and clothes and fucking feeling it.

I can’t even get into what when down when Shakespears Sister came on. 

When I got in a cab to go home the driver was all, have a good night then, love? and I was like, good night? I can barely speak and I think I’ve slipped a disc in my lover back- I’ve had an outstanding night! He was all, well that’s wonderful to hear- most people just shrug and say ‘yeah, it was alright’. I looked at him through the reflection of his rear-view mirror and said, Well then those people need to spend six hours at a power ballads club, because I think I had nine peak episodic moments of being, and laughed so hard and with so much joyful pleasure a bit of sex wee came out.

Sounds brilliant, he said.

It bloody was, I replied.

Want to say something about this post?

Blogger Template Created by pipdig