By The Bangkok Banshee
The Wild East Magazine

Even in the absence of patrons I decided that I could at least splash back a few cocktails and just “be,” as I could not bear the thought of another lackluster night as a homebound shut-in. A few cocktails later one brave soul hit the dance floor alone. I yawned and popped out to light up again. I met one of the owners outside we chatted and he told me that he had decided to have a party??? He whisked off in a puff of fairy dust. I asked one guy I sort of kinda knew what was up? He told me the boss gave the staff pretty much leave to do as they pleased for the rest of the night… and he did the unthinkable he opened the bar for all!

Soon the newly energized staff was eagerly mixing up fuzzy pink psychedelic drinks in pitchers with colored straws hanging off the tops. They were passed bong-like around and around the club. Now kids let me tell you, if you have ever been to Thailand, then you know what kind of a combination free alcohol and weary local workers is like. Soon the party was glowing ember like under a giant mirrored ball. The heat was rising. Sensing this- the DJ’s trax were like some glittering call to arms, “Your Disco Needs You!” One by one the faithfull and now mostly shirtless obeyed his rhythmic commands until the whole place was heaving. It was at about this time that I knew the evening was magical. I had heard about these kinds of nights in urban clublore. The party that everyone talks about, but few experience up close and personal. These strange disco comets only come around once or twice in a lifetime if you are particularly fortunate.

Everyone was shaking it hard now. The DJ was doing his own thing, shining brightly, playing deep house that would get everyone cocoa buttered up, and then just before it was too intense he would pull it back with some iconic homo classic. “I Will Survive” said the “Dancing Queen” as it was “Raining Men”. With each round of songs I was in a groovy nuclear reactor, providing all the energy we needed. Even I was propelled to the dance floor. I have not danced like that in 20 years! I think it was some kind of odd disco catharsis, and it pushed us to physical and emotional extremes. Again reaching critical mass I really thought the place would spontaneously combust and the floor would melt from below us (No I was not on LSD).

Outside bottles, bricks, and rubber bullets were flying helter skelter in the city, but inside Lady Gaga was “Caught in a Bad Romance”- at least 3 times this night! All the gym-fit boys were in various states of undress, waves of bronze and copper skin glistening under the multi-hued lasers. I decided to savor each moment of this, committing it to memory. I drank it all in like an exotic cactus flower that had not seen rain in a decade.

Each time I turned around, some curious thing was happening. A tranny dancing topless with a George Bush mask on, a hottie getting himself off all alone with the door post, a blind, red-shirted protester wandering in for the bathroom, trust me you just cannot make this kind of stuff up.

The hours passed. I kept spinning around and around, a very nelly Stevie Nicks. Sadly the unthinkable happened at the height of our ecstasy, the fluttering flutes of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” the classic ending for any queer night. I imbibed the last minutes but decided to leave before the end of the song, thinking that somehow I could stay aloft all night. I thought about taking home the twink who was cruising me all night, but thought better of it. Nothing could top what I had just had. I walked outside and all was hushed quiet and violet-blue with dawn. It made the black of the riot police glow strangely. I sashayed down the middle of the street looking for a taxi, going over each detail again and again knowing I was one of the luckiest men in BKK if only for the next few minutes…

Read Part 1

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