They’re here. I can smell them–the heady, noxious aroma of tanning oil, Kiehl’s “Creme de Corps,” Aveda Rosemary Mint Shampoo, and day-old Ketamine sweating from pores.
I can hear them, too. Their music is loud, booming from convertible Volkswagen Beetles and Miatas and other god-my-penis-is-small cars in 4/4 time. It’s called High-NRG, but it puts me to sleep. Above the clash of artificial percussion instruments, I can hear only their sibilant tongues as they coil and unfurl around words like “Balenciaga,” “Anna Sui,” “Versace,” and of course, “ecstasy.”
And now, at last, I can see them. The sun glints off glossy, glabrous abdomens and triceps as though they were ripples on a dead lake. I see waves of identical armband tattoos, snap-and-glo bracelets, and cheap necklaces of Puka shell.
I sound bitter. You’re waiting for me to say, “Damn, Decadence didn’t used to be this way, with all the circuit faggotry and shit.” But to be fair, it’s been like this for a long, long time. And to be fair, I kinda like it–not the crowds and the crackwhores and the prissies and the general stupidity of your average tourist, but the stoop-sitting and people-watching and socializing with friends I haven’t seen all year. I may not don a wig on Sunday like I used to–I mean, it’s fucking hot out there, Mary–but I’ll do my thing, say my piece, cut my rug.
Anyone wanna join me?
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