I went up to Cliq hoping to experience the hot mess dancehall that is the Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy, but it wasn’t. It was a big gay party. A thousand apologies to DJ Yellow for missing your birthday! Eek. I really need a P.A. The competent doorbetch was at a complete loss because my mini-posse and I were not on the list; the bouncer got aggro. Now I don’t like to abuse my editorial powers and call PR people up after hours, but I had to call Bettina the Cliq PR, and she called me back twice to ask for forgiveness and express regret. “So sorry, they don’t know the Demimonde!” she squealed through my cell. “IT’S OK WE ARE IN THE CLUB NOW,” I screamed back.
My Singaporean friend Seph likes African Americans and was whining to me again, “When are you gonna introduce me to a black guy, Johannes?” I looked out onto the floor of topless, unremarkable gay men pretending to dance, and then glanced towards the left side of the stage. A fabulous, dark-skinned man in a black one-piece swimsuit with gold trim was shaking his black booty up there. I guess it’s unobjectionable when you have darker skin. Then you’re not like, mooning the whole damn club with your pale white ass.
Amidst that sea of near-comatose but still self-consciously straight-acting gay men (you know, those who restrict their erotic attachments to likewise “masculine” gay men) was this rare specimen flaunting—celebrating— his fierce flamboyance and élan, audaciously, to the level of heroic principle. “There’s your black guy.” I pointed to Seph and she fainted. “Ferosh,” I whispered to myself. I had no idea that this party had budget to hire class acts.
They must turn up the heat at these events so guys can take their tops off. Retiring to the other room for air, we ran into the sista, who was holding court. Up close, we saw that he was wearing heeled booties, a gorgeous Japanese folding fan (lacquered ribs, fine washi) and a plastic wig. You know those sculpted wigs like a Ken doll’s hair. The same wig he wore when he performed “Single Ladies” with Beyoncé on Tyra. It was Jonte. THE muthafuckin Jonte, choreographer and freakum glam-hop artist. I instinctively attempted to stroke his wig. He wouldn’t let me touch it. Totally understand—I bitchpleased some drunken white dude who wanted to wear my hat for “just one second” at Dragon-i earlier. To quote my wise intern Cyril: “Don’t mess with people’s coiffures.”
Anyway, if you don’t know who Jonte is, you can MyTube or YouSpace him. Bitch You Betta. If Beyoncé were a boy, she'd be Jonte. Turns out that he was over in Tokyo releasing his album, and a smart local dance studio invited him over to Hong Kong to give some classes to the lucky few who signed up.
He guessed I was a Piscean right away, and we’re totally gonna hang this weekend. Maybe I’ll take Jonte to the Sevens. The way he dresses, he’ll fit right in. And when asked about his Gaga-esque get-up, Jonte said, “It’s just a body. I don’t care if I show some skin. She copied me anyway.” After some lychee shots, Seph got over her shyness and declared that she wanted Jonte’s ass. So I told her to go over and ask. And he revealed to us the secret ballet moves for acquiring such a fine derriere. Hot.