Le Weekend a termine

One hesitates to enter a bar called CUD. With a name like that, you imagine livestock bringing partially digested food brought back to the mouth for another chew, but having assured myself that it probably means something delightful in French, I went inside. The interior met with my immediate disapproval, with its garish lighting in parts with dark obscurity in others, and lack of harmony between the colours on the upper and lower floors, but the music was pretty damn good (a little Strauss, a little Mozart) so I decided to grace the establishment with my custom.

Hardly had I bought a drink than a young bearded man approached with a standard opening line. Unable to get rid of him with my usual brush-off (feigned inability to speak the language is generally effective; failing that, I often pretend to be an American myself, which usually makes the locals pull a face and move on) I enquired if he was out to celebrate the electoral victory. He answered that politics didn’t interest him. Hmmn, here’s an interesting fellow, I thought. Before I had time to recover from that remark, the brazen fellow made an indecent proposal, suggesting that I leave with him right then and there… and I’m sorry, but drunk, horny and hard up though I was, I draw a thin line at men with excessive facial hair that don’t show interest in the downfall of a fascist regime in their homeland. So I politely declined.

There was a fine specimen standing to my left throughout all of this. He was from Madrid, wouldn’t you know, conversing in bad English with another Cud-ette, who looked daggers in my direction when I started prattling away to him in fluent Spanish. Turned out that Ms Madrid was a tourist who had accidentally wandered into the crusiest bar in the Marais, subtly named ‘Le Coq’ While he wasn’t gay himself, of course, he had agreed to accompany Ms Daggers to relieve himself of the need to dance.

Well, of course, if you believe that, you’ll believe anything. (Haven’t you heard? The Republicans were so sure of defeat in the election that the arranged for all of the votes to be inverted… so when Democrats stayed home, they lost anyway!) Remember that old saying about how three beers are all that sets the straight boys apart from the gay ones? Well, in the case of Spanish men, you can water that beer down significantly. They grow up with little icons of several different Madonna incarnations scattered around their home, worship their mothers, and go weak at the knees for chorizo… must be something to do with it.

This was my chance, of course… Mr Madrid was mine for the taking. But then I recalled my first-hand experience of a Spanish ‘conversion’ and imagined what a first night with Mr Madrid was likely to involve... rather like breaking in a difficult horse; worthwhile if you have to cross a continent, but more trouble than its worth just to ride for one night. So I left Mr Daggers to play. By the time I left the bar, they were slobbering all over each other on the dance floor… didn’t know it was a gay bar!? Oh, please!

How drunk was I at this stage, reader? Feeling no pain as I bounced lines of men thicker than the wall, fluent in several languages used in Asia Minor, and unable to distinguish the days of the weekend, I tell you. But I knew it was time to leave the CUD alone.

Instead of returning home, off I went for a little walk in the open air… ahem. It had been a long time since I’d done that. Imagine my amusement when I first discovered that the central cruising area is located at the Louvre. Fabulous! In the garden of a royal palace, a little maze garden with faux marble sculpture scattered around; how delightful, and how perfectly suited for its purpose. So I had a little stroll until I stumbled upon someone crawling into a bush, only to discover… reader, I blush to the soles of my feet to admit that I was so falling-over drunk that I had forgotten what to do.

Let me elaborate: it’s more correct to say that I had forgotten what one does cruising au plein air. It had been so long (circa five years, if memory serves me… which its apt not to when inconvenient) that I’d forgotten that cruising is not about the exchange of pleasantries, oh no: there is no social etiquette whatsoever, it’s all about one thing and one thing only… and that one thing wasn’t really what I wanted, not at all. So there I was at the ball realising that I wasn’t really in the mood to dance, shall we say? What to do? How was I to ‘perform’ without a token of human warmth and affection, so much as a kiss, to inspire?

Well, I simply couldn’t… and no amount of enthusiastic tugging at my trouser pipe was going to make any difference to that, so I left.

Alas reader, another confession… no, I did not listen to the dictates of my good sense and return home, hanging my head in shame. For there was yet another chance to relieve myself of the heavy load I have been carrying since… let’s not talk about how long it’s been, alright?

I directed my footsteps to a den of iniquity that I had heard much of, but never yet visited. Le Deep it is called, for good reason. You’ve heard of Jules Verne? This is the place with dark depths that Captain Nemo is too frightened to enter. You’ve seen Halloweeneywood b-movies in which terrifying creatures of the deep attack fair maidens? It happens every night in this place!

No sooner was I past the entrance than paranoia set in: I was being watched by unseen eyes that burned with unspeakable lust. Low groaning sounds emanated from behind closed doors, walls sweated… at least I hope that’s what was oozing down onto the floor.

My heartbeat quickened, and for all the wrong reasons. I had to get out of this place before I stained myself. I ran, trying to touch nothing, especially anything that moved, and rushing around a corner, I screamed upon colliding with… my hairdresser! There he was, no less flustered than I was by the look of things, excusing himself politely so that he might rinse his hand in the nearest sink… and I don’t think that was hair gel on his fingers. If I’m not mistaken, it glowed in the dark.

That’s where the story ended, gentle reader. It did not have a happy ending. It was just like that moment in Cinderella when the clocks strike midnight and the beautiful princess realises that she’s just a little servant in a raggedy dress after all… except in this case I remained a beautiful princess in my own warped mind, while all those around me changed into rats and pumpkins they always had been, and the ugly sisters turned out to be uglier than I remembered.

I went back home alone, having gone beyond desperate. It was Sunday… and what had I done?

Another weekend wasted, and as J says, still no booty.