I was at Chicane over the weekend.
The set-up was fab and the music was just blarin’ with audiosonic banging assault enough to turn my ear deposits into, ew, melted cheese. The crowd was a cornucopia of pretty young things punctuated with lotsa muscles (yum!) and a feast of cleavages (to the delight of the hets).
But the sound system went off thrice—yupyupyup, 3x!—and it was just so phooey it ruined my momentum for the night. Not even a free drink from this cool bagets with his bevy of shiny, shimmery galpals (they all wore glittery garbs, they’re like, uhm, walking mirror balls) could rev me up again.
I was with Betty Suarez, my best gimik associate, and twas doubly unfortunate that this guy I like from work mistook Betty as my date. Aaarrrgh! I like this guy a lot--he's hot, neat, well-versed and I guess, a 'south' boy (ifyouknowhatimean...) and I heard that he's a recent 'convert' who traded his semi-celeb gf to plain ol' dick worshippin' (who'd blame him, ryt?!). I often get feelers from him (even trailed me by the john a couple of times), but that's it. It's either he's playing coy or just plain dense. Sigh. Make your move, man! MAKE YOUR FRIGGIN' MOVE!!!
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