Le weekend a commence

It had been ages since I'd gone spinning through the city of light, at least... er, a day, since I'd last been out. But I reminded myself that going to see Sufjan Stevens perform at the Bataclan wasn't really 'out' insofar as it didn't count as a gay event, fabulous though he was, what with extendable wings and throwing inflatible men off the stage. Oh, he'll come toppling out of the closet any day, you mark my wishful words. Why, the boy is recording an album inspired by birdsong, and isn't that as gay as it gets? All that preening of colourful plumage to attract attention, all tha twittering and fluttering... and one of our greatest icons, Ms Withering herself, Kate Bush, has done it all before!

After the disapointment of watching Ryan Adams on a stage- pretending that he was a live performer- I was fully prepared to be disillusioned by the only Christian that I'd consider being locked in an elevator with, but Sufjan delivered the goods. I listened enrapt to stories about his childhood adventures with his 'best friend' at summercamp, reading between the lines, not to mention tales of his mad grandmother. By the end of the night, I was ready to queue (or line-up, as your prefer) to buy his next single 'That was the worst Christmas ever' Hell, I'm even considering conversion to his religion.... but I digress.

Picture it: on Friday last, I strutted through the Marais- the only part of the city that insists on glittering throughout the day- approaching SaintEustache church... no, not to pray, but to meet G & D, who arrived on time for once, and T, who arrived on time as always. We were on our way to see a film with a title suggestive of dirty little secrets coming out in the hogwash (like discovering that your spouse has been faithful, except for that one time when your neighbour was having a little orgy to which you weren't invited, or finding out that you have an illegitimate lovechild that was put up for adoption by your evil ex-wife who turns up in the third season of the mini-series)

Imagine my disapointment when I discovered that Al Gore was cast in the lead role of 'An inconvenient truth'. Imagine my despair when I realised half-way through the film that he was playing himself. If that wasn't enough to depress, the film proves that the planet's just about had it, unless Amercia does something about their gas emissions, and we've got until yesterday to do something about the situation, otherwise we're all utterly fucked.

Did I need a drink when we left that cinema? You bet! G & D abandoned our sinking ship for the last train home. With T taken firmly- by the hand, of course- we make our way to a nightclub known as 'Le Tango', a magical place kept safely hidden down a little cobbled street that you can only be discovered by those who are already half-drunk, safe from those factory-manufactured gay frivilettes found in the Marais bars (you know, the type who insist on discussing the finer points of gay Existentialism on a social night out) As always, the music was fabulous; after a while, the hormones were raging: after a few drinks, the attractive men seemed to be (almost) everywhere, and that's when out of the corner of my eye, I spied someone waving in my direction. Did I know him? Yes, I certainly did... and in the most intimate of ways.

It was no surprise to find that he looked across with admiration, since it had been only a few days since last he's laid his finely manicured fingers on me. I obligingly turned a little to the left, then a little to the right, allowing him to see my head in profile and admire his fine handiwork. When I looked back, he was still smiling. I nodded again, then continued my conversation with T.

End of story, I thought... but no, it wasn't. That was only where the story should have ended.

Several drinks later, groping my way back from the toilet, I was approached by a blurry version of that same man, who turned out to be the same man, who said 'ca va'? Luckily, I become fluent in all European languages when drunk, so I exprimed for several minutes on the current state of my physical and mental health. Despite the fact that his head was swaying dangerously from side to side, he managed to look intrigued by everything that I had to say, which was curious as I found myself losing interest before I'd finished saying it.

There was a pause in conversation once I'd done, and he wavered as if expecting something more: his head continued to sway backwards and forwards, a little closer to my head every time. I stared at him, trying to decide how to continue or conclude this conversation: it clearly wasn't appropriate to mention my rising libido to someone with whom I have a client/professional relationship. For a moment I considered asking whether he'd noticed that the walls are starting to melt, and whether all of the nightclubs in the city subsided towards the Seine after 3am, but instead I said nothing, and left him to stagger gracelessly back to my seat. By this time, T was ready to roll home. Being one of those sweet old-fashioned types, he didn't want to leave me alone in a state of inebriation, surrounded by broken specimens who were looking more and more desirable by the minute. It was his turn to take me firmly... by the hand, again... more's the pity.

Oh, gentle reader, how close I came to making the not-so-grave mistake of staying! But in a moment of clarity, brought by of a sharp slap from T, I saw that if I remained in that nightclub, there was a danger of something happening that might jeopardise my relationship with the only man in the city who understands my French... and knows how to cut my hair. Needless to say, I hastened from 'Le Tango' at once

Having walked T back to his bicycle, what did I do? Walk home and sleep all of that nasty alcohol off, like he made me promise?

Oh, no, no, no! Why, gentle reader, 'le weekend' had only just begun...