Don't You Want Me, Baby?
The vest is mine, the underpants too, the cock - well I suppose it’s mine. I bought it.
I hear the opening bars, grab my cock in my hand and bound onstage, all energy and defiance.
“You were working as a waitress in a cocktai-ail ba-ar” … The crowd knows the song, doesn't matter if it’s the original or the remake - it’s a song that all the generations know. This is, of course, why I chose it. That and the chorus, of course. Perfect for a gay bar shout-along.
The vest is mine, the underpants too, the cock - well I suppose it’s mine. I bought it. I hope the crowd get the joke that the pants are Clavin Klein with a Lurex waistband and don’t think I actually wear this kind of underwear in real life. I’m Estuarine Eddie right now, and he’s a wannabe flash bastard. Genuine schneid from the market and a bottle of Disaronno hidden in the pocket for the ladeez. The beard feels good and I know it looks good, too. Real. It gives me an absurdly exaggerated sense of confidence.
My outfit is carefully folded over a chair, stage left. I’ve practiced this reverse strip so many times now, but still, I’m aware that it needs split-second timing if the dressing and the lip-sync are to work with the music. The shirt cuffs have been an ongoing problem and I thought of cutting them off, but in the end, I’ll be leaving them unbuttoned. Nobody will notice, once that sharp jacket goes on. I know that I need to get to that last chorus just as I’m doing up my tie, with a casually violent gesture suggestive of strangulation. I’m sober as an athlete and high as fuck right now.
I pick out one of the women near the front, come right upstage, give her my best lascivious sneer of macho contempt and thrust myself at her while we all yell, “Don’t you want me, baby?” We’re playing, we’re all playing, we all bloody well know she doesn’t want me - or the persona I am right here - and that my question is at once a commentary on toxic masculinity and also a lament for all the failed pickups that all the queers in this room have themselves made down the years.
Right here, with this stage and this song, we’re doing therapy. Mine. And their’s.
Yes, I’m still editing the WIP On Campus. Yes, I’m still going to work less paid contracts this year so that I can get it done. Yes, I’m terrified. Yes, you can help. I’ll keep the newsletter free forever and ever Amen, (cos sharing economy is good and paywalls suck) but I’m very grateful for small tips. A tin of chickpeas is dinner, a fiver goes into the utilities kitty.
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