So I went to Volume to check out superstar circuit legend Kimberly S, the star of Cali’s REAL White Parties. At the door, some young Chinese twink asked me to pay the cover charge. I asked South African bartender and door bitch du jour Eban if I could go in for free. “You can try and I’ll throw your (adjective-I-forgot) bitch ass out the door,” he replied tersely without delay. “I’ll try.” I said in languorously nonchalance while producing my name card. “Where’s Mr. Steer? Is he at the DJ booth?” I namedropped not-so-subtly with my inquiry. The door betch went in, and came out in a quick flash. “Actually, I know you. Go in right away. Sorry Johannes I made you wait. You can both go in now.” He said to my friend as well. “No you can make him pay double if you want to!” I told him matter-of-factly. It’s OK, Eban. I forgive your trespass. Your intense Scorpio approach made me feel like I was the only person in the room, even though we were out on the steps. Plus you’re South African and you pronounced my
name correctly.
Once inside, DJ Stonedog apologized for his door staff’s atrocious behavior and the torturous humiliation I was subjected to outside of the club. “I’m so sorry dahling, he doesn’t know yooouuu~~~” he apologized for the boy’s treachery. “It’s fine, he knows me now,” I assured him.
I should just go to a gay club every week, simply stand back and watch the betchslapping unfold. That way, I’ll get all the drama one needs for a weekly column within 20 minutes, call it a night and go home.
There were some Americans there who didn’t want to be known as dancers from a magical park. They told people that they were here in Hong Kong learning English, but really, everyone could tell that they play G-rated muscular man heroes—they all looked like Gaston/Tarzan. But from the way they talked and carried themselves while holding court in a corner, they ought to play evil queen. Maleficent? Ursula? Perfect.
Anyway, there was one who was completely in love with himself, and decided to go on the pole. He would probably make a great Tarzan, jumping around ape-like and grunting, but he wasn’t a very good pole dancer at all. Jaime, whose little indie film “Memoirs of a Bitch” (shot in Hong Kong, and starring his lonesome tranny) just got picked up by Cannes and the Strasbourg Film Fest this year, snapped right away: “Yeah the nipples are nice, but then you go up to the face, and it’s all WRONG.” Volume’s official queen bee came up to me and said: “He is crap. We don’t need poseurs. Johannes, say something to him.” I told her I couldn’t bear to lose any more karma, lest I “accidentally” (there are no accidents in life) stab my other eye out, and told her she can tell him off herself. So she went up to him and told him, “Bitch, please. Step the fuck down.” Which he then did obediently, without any chaos. I guess he figured out who the alpha fag hag was in the jungle and did what he was told.
The other muscle-bound Mary, suffering from lack of adoration, decided to suck face nonstop with his lover on the dance floor. HELLOOoo? Dance floor, not porn set. It was waaay too much PDA, even for a gay club. There’s public display of affection, and then there’s public display of OMFG-I-want-lots-and-lots-of-attention. Someone needs to write to Dan Savage.