My next lover is an air guitar player

Last
night my brother discovered me swaddled in a cashmere blanket, wearing
sweatpants and a hoodie, and listening to Frédéric Lodéon at full volume as I
devoured even more feminist literature and the last of the Boursin.

He
observed that, in that exact and perfect moment, I was a metaphorical pig in
shit. I was in my element. And until last Friday, had I the means for a foot
massage and the privacy for a wank, I’d have been inclined to agree with him.

But,
what I learnt this weekend is that until you have looked a stranger in the
eyes at three o’clock in the morning and screamed at him BABY THIS IS SERIOUS, ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT YOU- OR US? circa three minutes twenty-one
seconds into Celine Dion’s Think Twice, right when the key change comes in, then, quite frankly, you’re doing Fun
wrong, and no amount of creamy French cheese will take you back to that level
of euphoria.

Extra
points if in that moment your friend double-handedly spanks your singing partner
as she jumps up and down.

I
have glimpsed a world so perfect to me, Internet, so profoundly catering to
exactly what I need in this life-
what I crave for my being- that since
Friday my existence has been in black and white. Colourless. Void of anything
that could match the unadulterated joy I experienced as Saturday morning crept
upon me and revealed things I never even knew existed.

My
life was changed by a power ballads
club night.

I’m
talking women dressed a Bowie, and men in wigs. I'm saying scrunchies and
inflatable microphones and air drumming. I mean WHITNEY HOUSTON and LIONEL
RICHIE and OHMYGOD THIS. IS. MY. SOOOOONG!

Roughly
once a week my living room becomes a dance floor as I make my brother’s fella
dance to Culture Club and Gloria Gaynor as Jack cooks our tea and shakes his
head in embarrassment as I try- again- to
master the art of vogue-ing in my pyjamas. But add in a couple more thousand
people and a few pitchers of margaritas and buggar me with the greatest love of all if that ain’t a party like no other party
I’ve ever been to.

Making
eye contact with a stranger as you simultaneously both do a power fist thrust
in the air to the beat of Total Eclipse
of the Heart is one of the hottest things they never teach you in biology
class.

Flinging
your arms around a couple of girls who, up until the opening bars of Against All Odds were as unknown to you
as Kate Middleton to vodka watermelon, and hitting every. single. top. note. in
unison and with perfect timing will make you proud to be a girl.

Laughing
until you cry with one of the more mental mates you’ve got when she
understands, without words, just a simple widening of the eyes, that Bohemian Rhapsody has only the most
special memories for you, will give you pangs of appreciation not even rice
balls match.

At
one point it was all just too much. I had to excuse myself to go to the loo,
and on realising that there was a balcony overlooking the dance floor (SING FLOOR)
I stood, watching the crowd, transfixed, overwhelmed, mesmerised by the
thousands of fist-pumps and air guitars and shaking palms and… cum faces?  

When
my friend came to find me suddenly we were singing together once again, and then
Meatloaf’s I would do anything for love
(but I won’t do that) came on, and a man approached us from behind, and he
started to mouth the words at us.

It
was the most erotic moment of my adult life.

The
twelve minutes of the extended version of that song opened up to us like a gift
from the musical, lip-syncing gods with interpretive dance, spinning, and
magic eyes. His friends joined us and the five of us span and chased and
improvised into lyrical crescendo, banging fists on walls and chairs and
pulling at hair and clothes and fucking
feeling it.

I
can’t even get into what when down when Shakespears Sister came on. 

When
I got in a cab to go home the driver was all, have a good night then, love? and I was like, good night? I can barely speak and I think I’ve slipped a disc in my
lover back- I’ve had an outstanding night! He was all, well that’s wonderful to hear- most people just shrug and say ‘yeah, it
was alright’. I looked at him through the reflection of his rear-view
mirror and said, Well then those people
need to spend six hours at a power ballads club, because I think I had nine
peak episodic moments of being, and laughed so hard and with so much joyful pleasure
a bit of sex wee came out.

Sounds brilliant, he said.

It bloody was, I replied.

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