Adventure

Last sunday the adventure ended. Pride was over for this time. A gaggle of gay men, their hangaround faghags and perhaps one or two dykes were partying on the boat, Patricia, like there was no tomorrow. The beer taps were working overtime and the bartenders were glistening with sweat as the champagne corks were popping into the air.

The bitchier of the queens elbowed their way to the bar, claiming a right to be superior and measuring the crowd around them and naturally found most of the surrounding people lacking. I would gladly throw them to the wolves and therefore they find me intriguing since they can in a way sense my disdain. These meglomaniacs are not for me. I leave them behind with their petty concerns of a glistening exterior and the lacking of compassionate souls.

The queen of all Swedish drag queens, Babsan, was swooning over the success of Europride and her role of hostess on Patricia that had been going on for seventeen consecutive years. She showed her panties, buffed up her pink wig and sang to us slightly off key. Now, we just have to teach the bitch proper English.

The dance floor was hot, hotter than a Finnish sauna and the sweat was running down my face and body like the Niagara Falls. The clothes were sticking to me like a bad rash but I was not one of them who opted for taking their shirts off. The gym results were displayed, the muscles flexed and a look of expected adoration were shining in their eyes.

I left the boat at around three in the morning, leaving the rest to party on for another two hours. The taxi took me home, a little bit tipsy, ego unscathed and with a smile on my lips.

//H