It's Monday and it feels like the weekend has passed quicker
than you could say "one more beer". Again.
Maybe you took some advice from our well-crafted lesbo
living-it-large list on Friday. Or maybe you, like me, found
yourself fighting the gay corner on your own when it came to
decision-making for the Saturday night club scene.
"I'm not sure I feel like going to a gay club."
That's what most of my straight friends say when I suggest we go
to a homotastic clubbing environment rather than the generic
indie/techno/whatever club they've set their mind on.
"If you're going out to hang with your friends and not to pull,
why should it matter what sexual orientation the club has?" I
reply.
Sadly, that argument rarely goes in my favour and a few hours
later I'm dancing with elbows out and an evil stare ready for
anyone unknown attempting to put their hands on my waist. All
whilst my friends thrive on all that male attention. Yuck. The
number of times I've just about dodged fights when defending my
best friends or, even worse, my little sister, from (in my
view) sleazy men with one thing on their mind are countless. Us
girls aren't that single-minded, right? In these environments I end
up looking like a bulldog chewing a wasp and feeling rather
ridiculous, but I can't help it.
This is why I prefer gay clubs. There I feel… well, liberated.
Not only am I free to kiss my girlfriend without undesired
threesome suggestions but the atmosphere there is more relaxed when
the crowd isn't divided into two teams. Even my dad will agree,
since last summer Ibrought him to a Canal Street establishment
where he owned the dancefloor, Gaga-style.
To illustrate my ever-growing difficulty with generic straight
clubs, let me share with you two recent clubbing experiences united
by one tune wanting to know your na-na-na-name.
Earlier this summer, sans straight friends, I took my
girlfriend to new lesbian club night Klubb KG at Debaser in
Stockholm. The supposedly-queer queue was made up of boys who were
not let in for lack of female company, and once inside we were
greeted with lots and lots of blonde cropped hair (Swedish lesbian
style give-away: one side shaved). The dancefloor was on fire and
despite rainbow flags on stage, one group of boys was struggling to
understand the concept of the night. Going in for the hip-grab over
and over, they were looking extremely confused when instead of
merrily gyrating lady-bottoms they got pointy elbows their way.
Although I felt slightly sorry for the boys hoping to pull at least
one of these fitties, I couldn't help but smile when I got an
amused look of recognition from a girl shaking her head at another
obtrusive boy.
Suddenly "du-du-du-du-du-du-du…" blasted out and the group of
boys, for once in the minority, stood no chance as the girls went
crazy to Swedish House Mafia hit One.
No wonder, really. With a video full of adorable dogs saving the
world and another one featuring two girls making out, it's not just
those dirty beats that attract lady-lovers like me to the Nordic
mafiosos.
A few weeks later I'm on the guestlist for Swedish House Mafia
playing at Club Gotha in jet-set paradise Cannes in southern France
(don't I sound rah? Believe me, I'm not). Here I'm not greeted by a
narrow line of boys hoping for female company but a manic hoard of
boys and girls pretty much pulling at each other's hair in order to
get in. No shaved sides.
One of the first things I hear is a bouncer telling a guy in his
early 20s that to get the table he reserved (rumours say table
reservations cost 2500 euro), each person at that table will have
to cash out another 300 euro. "Of course," says the young man
sporting an expensive shirt and thick (as supposed to my flaky
one-week old) tan. Money definitely does the talking this night and
I thank god (a.k.a. the PR girl) for my press pass.
Once I've walked down the red carpet and no photographer
(weirdly?) has called my name, I find myself in a garden filled
with white leather sofas and fashionistas sipping cocktails.
The club itself is small with only one bar, a round dancefloor
in front of a raised, open DJ booth and three plateaus for paying
VIP guests. Bikini-clad ladies keep bringing endless bottles of
champagne to tables in these areas and at one point a whole parade,
headed by a man holding a sign with a Russian sounding name, pushes
through the crowd to deliver two iced crates full of champagne
bottles to a table behind the DJ booth.
Again, the night peaks with One and two boys in their very early
twenties open two champagne bottles half their own size and spray
them over the crowd. Sipping on my 12 euro beer I think to myself
that I've had a good night so far, when suddenly I feel man-hands
on my hips. I give him the elbow and he gives me the finger. No
smiles of recognition are anywhere to be seen.
Wanting to avoid more trouble, I head for the toilets where I
end up standing in line for forty-five minutes. Squeezed against
ladies in high heels and miniskirts, one girl's complaint catches
my attention over the loud buzz and booming bass. It's clear that
it's not the forward ways of men on the dancefloor that's upsetting
her.
"I've never felt so lesbian in my whole life," she says and
pulls a face of disgust at the girls huddled so close next to
her.
"Try a gay club next time," I hear myself thinking, longing for
Monday already.
