Clicking My Heels

And so I have missed Mardi Gras for the first time in a long time. The photos are slowly creeping onto Facebook-- the Femme Guild, the leather crew, the dancing queens, the hoop stars, the glitter and sparkles and costumes and hugs. The ENERGY, the smiles, the sheer utter joy and celebration of it. Marshalling time, all camera flashes and 'I LOVE YOUR OUTFIT!' and catching up with folk you haven't seen since the last Queer Christmas. Swapping eyelash glue and stick on rhinestones, last minute cable ties and beers.

Tonight in Perth I was meant to be going to Zoo club, the one night of the week when the freaks (such as there are here) come out to play. Monster is unwell, and all of my friends have piked for one reason or another. In Sydney this wouldn't matter, I'd be on a bus doing my eyeliner on the back seat, walking up Oxford Street to Phoenix or some other scene of filth and wonder. Even on a Sunday, any Sunday, the laneways and gutters are alive. Here it is GLBT, no Q. Monster has a shirt someone printed years ago. It reads Queer As F&^K, some spiky haired androgyne next to the text, a pair of interlocked + rings alongside a pair of -> rings. Two boys OR two girls, sealed same sex couples, the ultimate in West Aus queer seems to be when the dykes mix with the queens. Nothing is fluid here, not gender or sexuality or politics or passions, and I am still surprised when I smell sweat on the dancefloor. If there are queers in this city beyond my immediate circle, I don't know where they hide.

My hair is spiked and my fishnets ready, all dressed up for another night on the couch. Mostly I am used to it now, I have my routine of lesbian drinks nights and women's reading groups and hanging with my new crew to get me through.

Tonight though, I'm conjuring the smell of amyl across the Nullabor as I settle down on the couch with DVDs and the Monster. Ah, the Monster. Somehow she makes even this okay.