The Market

Chemistry. I must study for Chemistry. Mid semester test is coming up in a few days and I hardly know anything about reaction mechanisms and those bloody energy profiles. My scholarship provider will not be too happy to know I’ve been wasting my time alternating between spending their money on things I hardly need and going to The Peel.

My friends call it discipline but I call it guilt. I planned up a whole regime for the weekend in response to guilt. Chemistry followed by Genetics and snippets of Geology. I will stay home tonight. I will sleep early. I will study and learn the things I need to know and I will score for my exams.

Buzz. Buzz. H calls me on my mobile to invite me for a sleepover.

H had a raspy voice over the phone perhaps from all the alcohol he had been drinking. Sore throat, he says. He must have had more alcohol than I had in seven months; clearly his eyes were blood red and his acne worsening. Intoxicated. He has been partying since Tuesday; every night going out with a different group of friends to celebrate his birthday. Pretty busy schedule, pretty high alcohol levels.

In his car I could smell the faint odour of smokes. He must have been having ciggies in the car again. Bad boy. Landing a kiss on the cheek, I smell more smokes. Sexy.

Phonecall. He's being invited out for another party. Asks me if I would go along.

Yes.

Chemistry seems a long way away when you compare it with heavy music in the backgroud, flashing lights, cute topless boys, carcinogens floating in the air attacking your respiratory system, and alcohol attacking your liver and kidney.

I've never stepped into The Market before. The only two places I've been to in Melbourne are the Xchange and The Peel, the latter being the majority. I can only recount going to the Xchange once. Didn't really like young gay white boys screaming pretentiously around drag shows and flamboyant displays of femme behaviour. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m fussy.

Wearing his shirt, gel and perfume, I find myself walking in the bloody cold wind blowing right through my veins. I thought winter is over. Where's the warmth? Outside the venue I see two queues on either side of the doors, one for the members and the other for non-members. Apparently this is what it was like to enter The Market; the caste system is in effect. Members get priority entry and non-members, well, they’ll just have to wait. Luckily he flashed his "medallion" to the doorman. He’s a member of the pack and I get to enjoy the same privileges. Spunky.

Heavy music thumping in the background and drinks that are more expensive than The Peel. I find myself intoxicated within seconds, drowning shots of heavy liquor and slices of lemon to go with it. Few friends on the dance floor, and others hanging around in the shadows. Tired. Legs and hands grooving to the music without help from the brain.

The dance floor was filled with sweaty topless whiteys. You’d probably find the occasional Asian here and there but they were a rare species here. Hot music jamming away at the background as I take sips of Bourbon into my system. This place is not bad. Not bad at all.

Dancing with a white guy who knows one of my friends. Apparently he had sent me messages on Gaydar but I never check that account anyway. He thinks I'm flirting with him. I'll take that as a compliment. I don't have to explain myself to anyone; what you see is what you get. And I've never considered dancing with friends a form of flirtation. Good fun. Besides H won't mind. We're not attached anyway.

Bed before the sun rises and up just before it begins to set. I've made his bed smell of smokes and Bourbon. I don't remember climbing in without showering.

Bacon and egg "breakfast" at 7pm with slices of pineapple for dessert.

I should do this more often.