So I have survived Sydney's tornado but perhaps not Sydney's Mardi Gras.
For as I survey my wet and windswept house showing no signs of damage, my body feels riddled with bubonic plague.
A painful lethargy verging on paralysis, a malaise verging on psychosis.
Complete with hacking cough, razor-sore throat and throbbing head.
And as every minute feels a day long torture, the weekend seems a lifetime ago.
And when I cast my mind back, I see not just a weekend, but a 60 hour trash-fest.
Yep, I continued partying through the day of rest.
My outdoor Egyptian tryst had been cut all too short by a siren and a flashing light.
Which although kind of ruined the mood between us, did not deter me in my search for other funsters.
So, using the hiatus between late closing and early opening as an opportunity for ablutions and a costume change I ventured back out after lunchtime.
Or what would have been lunchtime had my body not been fuelled with appetite suppressants.
I took myself to the Laneway party at the Flinders and the Beresford.
Re-living long almost-lost memories from an earlier decade.
A pill in my pocket, a spring in my step, and a song in my heart.
Well, that's not quite true.
Popped my pill at home.
And the song was more like a thud.
But I did have the spring in my step.
And a stirrin' in my loins.
Didn't take long for the pill to kick in.
And the crowd to close in.
Hours of sweating disco, schooners of vodka and dancefloor encounters left me saturated, dehydrated and almost satiated.
As my palpitating heart and a hottie with G led me once again to the toilet, my head showed some uncharacteristic lucidity and somehow managed to convey that this was not a good idea.
The unseen security guard also thought it was not a good idea.
But thought he’d wait til we entered the cubicle before sharing his thoughts.
A minute after we get in there, rap-rap-rap on the door.
I cast panic-stricken look at @random_hottie who has a vial of G in one hand and my cock in his other.
“ Someone in here” he calls.
“I know” comes the reply. “Two of you, apparently. Open up. Security.”
Faaaaark.
@random_hottie puts everything away, opens up the toilet and bends me over it.
I’m thinking I am the evidence and he’s trying to flush me away.
“Just shut up and try to look sick” whispers @random_hottie.
Neither of these things were particularly difficult at that moment.
He then opens the door to the biggest fuckin’ security guard I have ever
And with one step he somehow fills the entire cubicle.
I would actually be OK if the guard fucked me right there and then, bent over the open toilet.
But things weren’t really heading in that direction.
@burly_guard: “What’s goin’ on in here?”
@random_hottie: “My mate’s just spewed. I’m just looking after him.”
@burly_guard: “What’s your mate’s name?”
@random_hottie:”Ah…”
With that faultering, it was all over.
Another guard materialises out of nowhere.
And @random_hottie I are frogmarched out of the Beresford.
Then hurled onto the pavement.
Another distant memory brought back to life.
And the party brought to a crashing end.
It did somehow take me an hour and a half to get home.
From Taylor Square to Potts Point
With no t-shirt on.
In the wind.
And the rain.
So as the memories of the good times fade, the legacy of the price to pay lives on.
At least pneumonia has weight loss benefits.
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