Damian & I continued our gay life adventure in BKK that Friday night at a bar called DJ Station which is supposed to be the most popular hang out spot for dudes. “That’s my favorite place,” Damian said, “and they don’t allow slippers.” Luckily I’d prepared my sneakers in advance. It’s time for some fun clubbing.
The security stopped me at the entrance asking for my ID, which came as quite a surprise since normally, people mistook me for being 10 year older than my actual age. I had nothing so I showed the dude my online profile.
Next stop, we had to pay 300 baht each upon entrance, not 150 as expected. Damian insisted on getting it for me since I was running a bit low on cash that night and still needed some for the taxi ride back to the hospital. That’s another kind gesture of him that I promised myself to pay back one way or another.
My first impression after entering the club was the number of people. It was crowded, like everybody was body-next to each other. There were those crazy beams of laser light from the ceiling striking down to the floor and a round shaped projector screen on the wall up above the stage where 2 shirtless dudes (probably hired) with freaking muscles were dancing. Disco ball, how typical.
Damian obviously knew the place well. He signaled me to follow his lead upstairs. The entrance ticket was exchangeable for 2 drinks. Long Island Tea was Damian’s choice. Last time I had that, I passed out at a lesbian’s place on New Year’s Eve. This time I got something in blue. “Chick drink,” Damian’s look said.
The place was designed as a maze-like building where you could went around and ended up on the balcony from the other side. It was quite a view looking hot dudes in thin shirts or singlets getting it on from above, or in the toilet where things were pretty open, in literal sense.
We then decided to dance a little bit. The music was quite not really what I’m into but it’s ok. It’s hard to dance with a glass of drink in one hand and eyes busy looking at hot men. There was this one, shirtless, with amazing upper body and a perfect amount of chest hair. Mmmm. I told myself to suppress all of the sexual discharge inside and play numb to the explosion of hormones from every direction.
The local boys were starting to hit up Damian. None was getting into my circle. I didn’t try to strike a conversation with anyone either since I felt a bit intimidated by the hot guys. This, and the fact that I didn’t really fit into the local dudes group, the hunky group or the daddies one.
When things got quite down a little bit, and I felt a bit tipsy at, finally, the Long Island, we found ourselves in a deserted bench area and started talking, despite the typical white-Asian couple making out passionately in missionary position inside a cage next door (which was fun to watch as well).
It was a blur now, to me, what we talked. But what I did remember was this thing that Damian asked me.
“Are you really happy?”
I think I didn’t really say anything that lived up to his expectation. The only thing in my mind was that I wasn’t going to let this one turn into another Alan. It still brings me back to the hollow space whenever I think about Alan, about what he had sacrificed for me, how he helped me during the chaos called George, and how I left in him a seemingly eternal wound.
But hey, I was here to enjoy a good night. And when Madonna’s “Hung Up” came on, which is my favorite, it was a really a good feeling, just to be able to put your physical desire aside and melt into the vibrant atmosphere. I also met this guy (or girl) whom we both called “Honey bee” after outside at the chicken rice place. His companion later found me on Instagram, which was a very pleasant surprise.
“FJ would have loved this place,” I thought to myself.