as much as i’m addicted to the clubbing lifestyle, dancing for hours on end in a smoke/lazzzer/boy-filled club until the wee hours, i still get incredibly grossed out the morning after. stumble to the shower, flick on the water, step under the shower head and then… bleargh.

the water hits the dry, over-gelled, over-bleached mass of hair on my head, and dribbles down over my face. then i smell it, and taste it. the water has mixed with all of the disgusting smells that my dry brittle hair soaks up in an evening of clubbing. cigarette smoke, people’s spilt beer [on my head?], aromas erm room deodorizers, smoke machine smoke, my own sweat, other people’s sweat, god knows what else.

it’s like clubbing soup dribbling down, the sweet stench filling the shower for a minute. i’m a clean person—don’t get me wrong—and it’s not like i’m going to some nasty skanky clubs. it’s just amazing how, even when completely sober, i can come home after an evening of dancing with black gunge covering my shoes, random cigarette burns on my arms, paw prints on my back, weird stains on my trousers, and hands that imply i was crawling around the club on all fours.

but, those few moments of pre-scrubbing rinsing are usually when the previous night’s exploits load into my memory. ooh, fluffer ian was there, wasn’t he? that boy only goes clubbing once a year, but he looked alright with his pirate earring. manny was there, replete in some sorta bollywood kimono. we did our usual routine in the vip… exchanged a few air kisses, he introduces me to some random freak/american/rent boy/celebrity, and then i make my escape. shirtless seth was there, presumably back from arizona, but after chatting for a few moments, i referred to him as seth, and he corrected me, saying his name was chaz. which either means i’ve lost my mind or he’s changed his name. i laughed at several failed courtship rituals, one was shirtless go-go boy girating in front of me for 20 minutes before casually cornering me. the other was the twinkalicious lad sporting an italia footie top, who seemed to be looking for another top to sport. he was attractive enough, but to dance in front me of me and drop trou is not subtle enough to whet my palate. and then there was baldwin or whatever-his-name-is, the cute asian [for my american readers] erm oriental [form my british readers] lad who is always at .heaven, either working—or working it.

i have rules, particular guidelines which make the complicated 2am-on-the-dancefloor ritual a little bit easier. no bartenders, no shirtless boys, no sports jerseys, no sleeveless tops, no tanktops, no makeup, etc., etc., etc. i think i published a full list in some issue of the mag. and, at any rate, i wasn’t looking, i was just there to dance. i still enjoy playing the game, though, even if i don’t know whether i’ve won or lost until the next morning, in the shower.

i despise the concept of mcdonalds, but i love the taste of a sweet american hamburger. i abhor the global megacorporation of starbucks, but find it difficult to resist a sweet frothy mocha valencia. these things are bad for me, very very bad for me, but they make me feel so good.

i first noticed chip late one night at .discotec. he perfectly executed my skater boi ideal… tall, lanky, athletic but still skinny, sporting cute sideburns, a tight little smirk, and a neck i could just nibble all night long. that night, he was there with a date, which meant we had to sneak to the corner of the dancefloor to snog [or mack, as he called it]. over the next wek he was cocky to the extreme, playing hard to get and really, truly making me work for it.

i hate playing games, but i knew playing his game would be the only way to get what i wanted. so, last night at midnight, this midwestern raver boi phoned me after work, and i invited him over for a no-strings-attached slumber party. i met him at the tube station, where we both exuded a nice late-night mix of cockiness and nervousness.

sitting in the lounge, he was thirsty for cocktails, and i was happy to lubricate. every inch of his body was delicious, and his fresh, youthful personality really turned me on. he was, i realized, the first american i’d been even remotely attracted to in a long time, and, in 21yo chip i saw many aspects of 21yo eric. narcissistic? perhaps.

he would not shut up about his sugardaddy barrister boyfriend whom he despises and admires, or about all of the girlfriends he has. as he rambled on and on about his bisexuality and how he hates the gay scene, i found myself bending my own values a bit just so i could agree with him, saying things like, yeah, i think gay people are fucked up too and i think everyone’s a little bit bi. shame on me for lying.

we chilled out for a few hours, chatting and drinking. i didn’t wanna force him into anything, but after a few hours i moved us to the bedroom. played some trance, dimmed the lights, and popped to the toilet. all that vodka was going right through me, and chip as well. while he was in the toilet, i decided that maybe it would be best if we just crashed, as i wasn’t really picking up any signals from this incredibly hot, but somewhat vulnerable and sexually-confused lad.

he returns from the toilet, telling me, i hope it’s okay, but i washed my ass with some of your handsoap. subtle. amusing. obvious. deliberate. after i finish laughing, we snog, and i’m shocked at how good of a kisser he is—perhaps those years of feigning straightness/bisexuality has taught him a delicate touch. it’s hot. 10-out-of-10 hot. i feel like it’s the first time, all over again.

please welcome my next guest

went to see jerry springer: the opera last night with flatmates mitch and neil. i’d been on the fence for the past year about whether to see it, but after hearing countless rave reviews i finally dove in.

it’s good. it’s worth seeing. it’s about what i expected—not spectacular, but incredibly unique, entertaining, and well-executed. mullet-sporting hillbillies singing about lesbians fighting. a big black man in a baby diaper wishing mommy would spank him on his asshole. bald-headed muscly security guards gaily pirhoetting. tapdancing klansman with a huge burning cross behind them. impressive special effects and pyrotechnics and multimedia interludes.

the first act is a re-enactment of a typical taping of the show, and we see couples fight, argue, provoke one another. gratuitously foul-mouthed and vile, the first act is mostly a pisstake of the teevee show. we begin to try to place blame for all of this depraved entertainment… who’s to blame? the white-trash guests? jerry himself? the studio audience? we, the viewer?

in the second act, jerry explores some classic judeo-christian conflicts, by making a deal with the devil to avoid going to hell [well, specifically, to avoid being sodomized with barbed wire]… he promises to bring jesus and the devil onto the show, so that they might reconcile their differences. set in hell, everything’s a bit twisted, with god popping by for a visit, looking for a shoulder to cry on because his job is so tough, and mary swinging down as well, saying it wasn’t her fault that the condom broke.

the vulgarity, irreverance, sacreligiousness of it all is over-the-top… so over-the-top that just a few minutes into the musical, you’re nearly singing along with the catchy numbers about chicks with dicks and dip me in chocolate and feed me to the lesbians and go fuck your gay cousin with three nipples. classy? no. amusing and well-executed? yes.

there are a few surprising post-curtain-call scenes which nicely tie together the simple but significant message of the show… that good and evil exist in the world, and there’s not much we can do but to follow jerry’s advice: take care of yourselves—and each other. in the same way that god can’t be blamed when people misbehave and ruin their lives, neither can jerry be blamed for the existence of lying, cheating white-trash [of every color].

currently playing in london with bargain seats for £25. coming to san francisco before settling into broadway in 2005.