mid-september, and i’m in ibiza with sexy ross, whoring it up for a week. or should i say: trying, and failing, to keep up with sexy ross. rita tushingham to his lynn redgrave.
ross is the most handsome man i know, with classic good looks that cross all boundaries – meaning everyone wants a piece of him.
everyone but me, that is: i’m just about the only person ross knows who hasn’t had a shag with him. not that i didn’t have my chances, mind: i’m no god, but i can more than hold my own, heh heh.
it’s just that, even within the first few minutes of meeting him, i sensed i faced a simple choice: friendship or shag. thankfully, i chose friendship.
as in london town, so in ibiza town. in every venue on the nightly gay trail – from the bars on calle virgin, through to the dome, and onwards up to anfora – ross is the undisputed star. wherever i train my eyes, i find guys staring right back at me – longing, lingering, trance-like stares. especially the hotties: the ones with a chance. (wisely, the mingers tend not to look for too long – there’s too much self-torture involved.) each time, for a split second, my heart does a lurch – who, little me? – before the same old realisation kicks in.
still, basking in reflected glory has its compensations. ross has this unapproachable vibe about him, you see. you do NOT approach him; you simply wish for the best, and pray that he approaches you. whereas i’m already in the charmed circle.
look, everybody! look how close we are! observe how he smiles at me! how he laughs at my jokes! how he casually places a hand on my shoulder!
sometimes, i feel like the gatekeeper: to get to him, you go through me, and mind that you’re pleasant about it. he has my ear, you know. he trusts my judgement. so watch it, hopeful applicant.
when ross was young, and naive, and trusting, and quite outrageously pretty, he gave his heart away – to a much older, much richer man, who swept him off into the glossy uptown world of his dreams. inevitably, dependency set in, with all of its attendant
power games and
headfucks. inevitably, disillusionment, rejection and heartbreak followed. (this guy liked to keep his chickens young.)
the heart had healed over with a thick protective scab. ross would never allow himself to get hurt like that again. instead, he would retain power at all times, summoning and dismissing at whim. fucking them over before they could get the chance to do the same to him. come on, we’ve all seen it. especially if we’ve spent any time at all on the london scene.
the sweetest, kindest, most loyal friend you could wish for… so long as you didn’t shag him. because underpinning the ready charm and the insatiable lust, there was a lurking residual anger.
lunchtime, and we’re troughing into
burgers and chips at a random beach bar in
figuretas. halfway through the meal, ross gets up and goes inside for a slash.
hmm, he’s taking his time. i carry on noshing.
three or four minutes later, he returns to his seat, as nonchalant as you please.
don’t look up too obviously, he tells me, between munches. but in about a minute’s time, a tall blonde guy is going to come out of that door behind me, and he’s going to look pissed off.
a minute later, a tall blonde guy comes out of the door behind ross, with a pissed off look on his face. brushing past us, he returns to a table behind me, where he re-joins a miserable looking bearded bloke, perhaps ten years his senior.
- so how did you know that was going to happen?
- because he’s just been sucking me off in the bogs, that’s how.
- whaaat…?
- well, we were the only people in there, and he was giving me the eye, so we went into a cubicle. might as well!
- so why was he looking pissed off?
- cos when he’d finished on me, he wanted me to do the same back to him. but i refused. left him in there with his cock hanging out. fuming, he was! [giggles]
- why didn’t you?
- well, i told him: i’m halfway through eating. you can’t suck someone’s knob with bits of burger in your mouth, can you? that’s disgusting! it would put me off the rest of the meal! anyway, the burger was getting cold…
- what. the. FUCK. are. you. like?
- shut up and eat your lunch.
we dubbed ourselves the fat slags after that. san and tray on their hols, boffing the bleurks without spilling their chips. no opportunity passed up. no scene too cheap. no depth too low. happy times.
one evening, i decide i need a break from
anfora. here i am in the clubbing capital of the known universe, and all i’m seeing is this
shitty provincial disco with pickpockets in the darkroom and last year’s hits on the decks. time to try one of the
superclubs. the nearest one is
pacha. pacha it is, then.
ross isn’t keen, says he might stay in and recharge his batteries (yeah, right), wishes me well. so i’m on my own, then. fine. it’ll be an adventure.
provided i can find some e, that is.
(oh, didn’t i say? yeah, that all happened months ago. insert standard life-changing quasi-religious epiphany here. hardcore, you know the score.)
suzie from home told me there was this bar on the harbour where you could get sorted before the clubs opened, so i wander off to find it. first time all week i’ve gone somewhere outside the gay scene.
one thing i’m still crap at: sniffing out the dealers in a new place. mates of mine can do it instantly (suzie had a mental time here in july), but i don’t know how they work it out. a certain look in the eye? tell-tale hand movements? beats me.
here in this bar, i haven’t a clue. i stand in this corner and that, go upstairs, go back down again… nope, nothing. i’m probably being too obvious. they’ll think i’m plain clothes or something.
next to me, a well-scrubbed, fresh-faced cluster of nice people are chatting about the evening ahead. they’ve all decided that this is the night that they do e for the first time, and they’re all nervously excited about it, like a clutch of virginal brides on their wedding nights. sweet. makes me feel like an old hand. except EVEN THEY KNOW WHERE TO FIND THE FUCKING STUFF AND I DON’T. in fact, i bet that everyone else in this bar knows where to find the fucking stuff except me.
can’t face asking around. way too obvious. so i head off in search of a taxi instead.
as the taxi pulls up, this
beautiful german girl with long dark hair approaches me. am i going to pacha? could we share? we hop in together. she hasn’t been before, either. a pity: i was hoping for a seasoned regular.
as we stand in line at the door, she asks me whether we’ll be able to get any e inside. i say: yeah, probably, but i don’t know how. she smiles, says she never has any problems. we make a pact: we’ll search the place separately, then meet back here in half an hour.
pacha is huge and glossy: much smarter and more upmarket than i was expecting. glammed-up euro-jetset-trash for the most part … with the occasional “exotic character”, such as the oily guy with the embroidered waistcoat over leathery walnut pecs, offering a feel of the snake round his neck to passing laydeez.
more importantly: it doesn’t look very druggy. fuck, where do i start?
sod the embarrassment: the need to score has taken me over. so i start prowling. which is like cruising, only harder – as the person you’re looking for isn’t going to stare back with a helpful come-hither smile.
over by one of the dozens of bars, i spot what looks a standard issue boggle-eyed mad-fer-it loon, and approach him.
- any idea where i can get some e?
- nah mate. i don’t touch ‘em. you don’t need drugs to have a good time, know what i’m saying?
i feel about that high.
just ahead of time, the beautiful german girl spots me. she’s beaming.
come on, i’ve found someone!
he’s a surly piece of work. shifty looking would-be surfer dude with bleached curls, and another of those stupid embroidered waistcoats. trying to cover up his nerves with attitude.
chocks away, then. down the hatch.
the main dj tonight is
jon pleased wimmin, doing a three hour set. probably before your time, but the guy was still a big draw back then. tranny, long blonde hair, part of the
kinky gerlinky / velvet underground / malibu stacey / billion dollar babies ultra-fash super-glam set. i’ve completely
lost you now, haven’t i?
after a long, long wait (is this thing gonna work or what?) the pill kicks in just as jon hits the decks. the music’s a kind of twisted new take on hi-energy/italo-disco: wilfully brash, knowingly crass, primary-colours-garish. lots of pumping two-note neo-bobby o basslines. gay music for straights.
i’m not really feeling it, though … and neither is anybody else, for that matter. it’s the wrong sort of music for this sleek crowd, lined up side by side on the terraced banks above the main floor, all facing the same way, expressions betraying nothing.
i’m down on the main floor, determinedly doing my best, when suddenly my arms and legs quadruple in weight. in denial, i try and dance it through … but the
sluggish feeling just keeps on
intensifying. the music is no longer energising … now it’s an
oppressive force: blaring, distorted, menacing. an
empty rattle, full of sound and fury, but signifying … nothing.
i stagger off the dancefloor and make for the toilets. water, i need water. if the pill gives you grief, you drink water. everyone knows that. water’s the antidote. in trade and ff, you’re not properly dressed without it.
fuck’s sake, what’s this? the tap water in here is unfit for drinking … salty, unrefined, disgusting … there are signs and everything. in fact, there’s no free water in the club at all. in london, there’d be uproar.
i head for an upstairs bar. how much? that’s like four quid for a small bottle! what with the taxi, and the massive entrance charge, and fifteen quid for the pill, and the overpriced beer, i haven’t got any money left on me.
thankfully, i’ve found a decent human being behind the bar. reading my aghast expression, sensing that something’s wrong, he silently hands me a bottle and nods me away.
my first mongy pill. bollocks. thought i was immune.
slumping onto a banquette, i try to centre myself. deep, steady breathing. calming thoughts.
i am invincible. nothing can harm me. everything will be ok. just ride it out.
a few yards in front of me, three ghastly, pushy girlies in teensy tops and skimpy skirts are hustling some old rich guys for champagne. the falseness on all sides is palpable; it turns my stomach.
there’s a tall, lean fella standing near me with ginger curls and a leather waistcoat. (what is it with waistcoats in this place?)
- they’re great, aren’t they?
- huh? who?
- those three girls over there, really going for it. i love their spirit. plus they’re bloody gorgeous, all three of ‘em … dontcha think?
- actually, i’m gay myself … but yeah, i can see that they’re very attractive. don’t you think they’re just being prick-teases, though? i mean, just look at those guys they’re with…
- nah, so what? they’re playing the game, and good luck to ‘em.
- that’s the difference between this place and the gay scene. gay men would never prick tease like that.
- sorry mate, but that’s bollocks. i’ve got loads of gay mates, and i’ve been to loads of gay clubs, and you lot never stop. you’re the biggest teases going. watch me!
mouth slightly parted, he starts grinding his hips in front of me, in a pantomime of erotic display. oooh… yeahhhh. licking his lips. running his bands back through his curls. moistening his forefingers with his tongue, then rubbing them over both nipples.
- see what i mean?
- ok, ok, you’re right. i don’t know why i even said that in the first place. don’t mind me, i’ve had a dodgy pill.
- you wanna be careful with that stuff, mate. i don’t touch it. just stick to the old beers. shit music tonight though, innit?
i smile a watery smile, and he wanders off.
the barman gives me another water.
after the third bottle, he looks at me firmly. last one. okay, okay.
why haven’t i left yet? because i still think that the monged-out phase will pass. all this effort, all this expense, all this pain … somewhere down the line, there has to be a payback.
i think i’m just about ok to stand up again now. yeah, that’s fine. i can do that. let’s try the stairs, then. yep, no problem. now let’s try standing at the edge of the dancefloor. hmm, seem to be managing that ok.
fuck, the music’s stopped. is it 6 o’clock already?
as half the crowd drifts towards the door, jon pleased wimmin sticks one more record on.
maybe, i don’t really want to know
how your garden grows
i just want to fly.
lately, did you ever feel the pain?
in the morning rain?
as it soaks it to the bone?
oh,
christ all fucking mighty. after four hours of crash-bang-clatter, this music is
balm to my soul. ignoring the emptying floor, i hoist myself up onto the nearest speaker.
maybe i just want to fly
i want to live, i don’t want to die
maybe i just want to breathe
maybe i just don’t believe
maybe you’re the same as me
we see things they’ll never see
you and i are gonna live forever…
all remaining traces of the monginess have disappeared, replaced by the most intense, all-consuming sense of bliss. eyes half shut, beaming from ear to ear, gently swaying from side to side, i feel every word burning into my soul.
maybe i will never be
all the things that i want to be
but now is not the time to cry
now’s the time to find out why
i think you’re the same as me
we see things they’ll never see
you and i are gonna live forever…
i wander out into the dawn feeling
cleansed, re-born, at peace with myself once more, all the crap of the previous five hours suddenly, supremely irrelevant. it’s a long walk back, but i’m going to soak up every minute.
the glossy eurotrash are pouring themselves into taxis. there’s just one other guy heading for the road back to the harbour.
- oy, mate! good to see someone else keeping it old school!
hey: all of a sudden, I’m old school. spirit of 87! big ups to the man like danny rampling!
smiling and nodding back at him, i get into my stride.
ross met
simon six years ago. a couple of months later, they moved in together. loveliest couple you’re ever likely to meet. heads still turn … but mostly for different reasons, these days.
i did a loop around 
