Tag Archives: night club

How to Give a Good Nose Job

My favourite gay club night was Spice, when it was held in SPY night club, South William Street. The plush interior of SPY, three rooms of amazing music and the crème de la crème of the gay scene made these nights memorable. The hay day of Spice coincided with the time I broke up with my boyfriend of three years. I spent many a night at Spice, dancing energetically to nostalgic tunes, attempting to convince myself I was happy as a singleton. Denial aside, I did have fun. Spice will forever be my Studio 54.

Later the same year, Boyfriend and I reconciled. We made another go of it on the basis we attempt remedy the issues that caused us to break up. Both of us felt we needed to socialise more as a couple. We injected a healthy dose of “coupley” outings into our relationship. One such outing was a visit to my favourite club night. On this particular evening, we encountered some of Boyfriend’s friends he made during our six months apart. One friend, Mike, was what you might term a ‘celebrity’ gay; a Eurovision song writer with an on-off-even-more-celebrity-gay boyfriend. He was – and always is – groomed and well dressed. He sported an air of self-importance and a tight t-shirt, showing his fine arms and pecs. I should chat with him and make an effort, I thought. He and I stood side by side in the nightclub. Dance music pounded from the massive speakers under the DJ’s decks. Strobes flashed in time with the music. I leaned in to deliver some small talk. I spoke loudly over the music.

“I love Spice. I’ve had more fun here than I have in any other night club.”

“The music makes it. I love it,” he agreed, nodding energetically.

I withdrew from his ear. What could we talk about next? Still thinking, I turned to survey the room, checking out the eye candy. I can only say I intended to talk to him again; I turned my head right, while looking to my left, absorbing the visuals on offer. As my head pivoted, my peripheral vision detected my companion’s head was much closer to me than expected. He was clearly doing the same as I, turning his head towards me, with no knowledge of where I was. It’s hard to describe the exact dynamics, but our heads collided at such a warped angle, just as I was about to speak, that Mike’s nose entered my mouth. It did not just graze or slightly poke my mouth; it went right in, withdrawing a coating of saliva as it exited. I was mortified.

“Eh, I am so sorry.”

He wiped his nose dry. “Don’t worry about it.”

The small talk continued, Meanwhile, I awkwardly remained next to him, praying we would leave his company. My face was red with embarrassment. I just sucked this guy’s nose, was all I could think. I just sucked this guy’s nose!

Weeks later, Boyfriend invited me to attend dinner with his friends one Saturday night. He noted my hesitance to respond.

“You really don’t like them, do you?” His tone was accusatory.

“No, they’re OK,” I said. I looked down at the floor. “I am a little embarrassed about seeing Mike.”

“Why on Earth would you be embarrassed about seeing him? Mike specifically asked me to bring you.”

I told Boyfriend the story of sucking off Mike’s nose. I can’t recall him ever laughing so hard as he did.

I never made the dinner in the end but I did provide a topic for conversation; Boyfriend repeated the Nose Story to the ten or so people in attendance. Apparently, the gathering, including Mike who had no memory of the incident, burst into convulsions at the tale.


Hooked on Virtual Reality

I’ve always been proud of myself for not getting hooked on Facebook like many of my friends. Bebo – which is Facebook for fourteen year old girls – was another matter entirely; I was a Bebo addict until I deleted my profile a year ago. I’ve had a Facebook profile for years. I rarely used it, only logging into it once a month. I hated the fact I had to decline so many invites to join friends’ applications such as becoming a zombie warrior; determining what kind of cocktail I am; or discovering the age I am likely to die. Facebook was pointless in my eyes, until now …

I recently discovered Farmville and Yoville applications on Facebook. Farmville was the first to draw my attention. Farmville involves the growing, maintaining and harvesting of a virtual farm; I choose crops, animals and trees. I run the farm as I see fit. The aim of the game is to earn money (by selling produce) and gain experience points. I am allowed access to greater varieties of features as I earn more points. This game – with its lame graphics and non-existent purpose to progress through levels – should be well beyond the vast scope of my interest and coolness. I am completely hooked!

This is a picture of my farm. I am quite proud. I perceive it as an agricultural powerhouse.


At the moment, I am growing rice in paddy fields, squash, soya beans and trees of some kind. The little farmer next to the 98% almost grown rice crop is made in my image. So far today, I have logged into Farmville three times to harvest and replant. Yesterday, Boyfriend asked if I would be nice enough to make him tea. I informed him I would after sowing my egg plant. He threw his eyes to heaven and accused me of having an addiction. He just does not understand life on the farm. It requires 100% commitment.

When I am not busy on the farm, I occupy myself in Yoville. Yoville is a virtual town where you can interact with other Yovillians. When I joined Yoville, I received an apartment. I suppose Yoville operates similarly to communism. The town of Yoville has amenities such as cafés, diners, furniture shops and even a nightclub. It’s necessary to earn money by working in the widget factory. I have not yet figured how to actually show up for a shift. Money allows for the purchase of food, drinks and refreshments; clothes and accessories; gifts such as plants and lamps; and furniture for a minimalist apartment.

Some of my friends have also started using Yoville. These friends live in my apartment block. I can drop by their apartment and interact with them. I can even sleep in their bed if I wish. There are no locked doors in Yoville; there is potential to be creepy. One of the best things is that the game allows you to interact with other random inhabitants of Yoville, who you might bump into during a mosey around the town. I chat with them via speech bubbles and emoticons.

I’d like to inform you that my interaction with my fellow Yovillians has been high-brow. It hasn’t. So far I have asked random Yovillians if they would sleep with me so I could buy furniture for my shitty apartment. Yesterday, while attending a virtual party I offered a group of female Yovillians a lap dance in exchange for Yocash. They were entertained, but my robot dance failed to win any currency from them. One invitee at the party showed up wearing just a swim suit. Some of the attendants called her a slut. Oh how I laughed.

This is my apartment in Yoville. You now understand why I might allow my Yoville character to sleep around in order to pay for some home improvements. Yoville

As you can tell I am hooked on Farmville and Yoville. Boyfriend forbade me from using the laptop this evening. He forgot we have an old desk top upstairs. I secretly harvested my rice in Farmville and went fishing at the lake in Yoville.

Purple Puke

I was so sick on Saturday morning. We were in Boyfriend’s parents’ house. I had been out with him and the clan the night before and awoke early Saturday morning with heaving stomach cramps. I am now familiar with the discomfort of child labour. Boyfriend and his parents speculated on the cause of the illness. Majority leaned towards the fuck off onion rings I had devoured on the way back from the pub a few hours earlier. They were huge; I’d never seen so much batter on anything. I begged Boyfriend to drive me home. During the drive home he and I fought.

“Oh my fucking God,” he roared while the electric window wound open. “That smell is unearthly. What the fuck?”

“Fuck you,” I roared back at him. “I can hardly do anything about the smell of my farts when I am so sick”.

“Don’t roar at me like that,” he protested angrily.

“Don’t complain about my bodily functions, while I am extremely ill.”

I seethed with anger. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes until we apologised to one another. The remainder of the drive was probably one of the longest journeys ever. I felt every bump and turn in the road. Stomach cramps washed over me every few seconds. Sweat covered my brow and back. I was suffering from a chill and felt so cold. Boyfriend’s parents had recommended a concoction of brandy and port to settle my stomach. The home remedy sloshed idly in my stomach. I felt increasingly nauseous.

The car eventually rolled up the driveway of our house. “Do you want to get out?” Boyfriend asked before switching the engine off. I was already out of the car. I scrambled to the hall door and fumbled around for the key. It was then I foresaw what would happen. I leaned forward on the wheelie bin and threw up purple bile all over the driveway of our house in broad daylight. I turned towards the car and looked pleadingly towards Boyfriend, who sat in the driver’s side of the car open mouthed and in shock. I turned away and puked again. I regained my composure quickly. Boyfriend drew my attention from within the car.

“Go inside,” he mouthed from within the car as he pointed to the hall door.

I tried to open the door again before heaving another amount of discoloured stomach fluid. Boyfriend joined me in the kitchen to fetch boiling and bleach to remove the street art from his driveway. “Tell your parents that I am grateful for their home remedy, but I don’t think it was useful in this case”. I set off in the direction of bed. I lay under two duvets and waited for my pain to pass.