We slither out of Kosmische under the Elephant arches, slippery with sweat, at about quarter to three, heads throbbing from the rather-closer-to-metal-than-krautrock thrashing of Circle, a bit of a disappointment. Making our way to our busstops south and north we part at a zebra crossing. A car full of boys speeds across the crossing and one of them shouts out the window “Gay… you’re fucking gay” at us.
A bunch of boys driving around in a car together all night, and we’re gay? I try to imagine this kid, riding shotgun next to his mate, his mate since they were kids. He’s pretending, pretending really hard, not to know that what he really wants. What he really wants is to move his arm across the handbrake and into his mate’s lap, finding his crotch and feeling his cock stiffen beneath his bony fingers. He wants it, he wants it so badly he has to hold his right hand across his lap with his left, and he hates himself for it, he feels dirty and disgusting and wrong, and he leans out of the window at the crossing and shouts at somebody, nobody… “Gay… you’re fucking gay!”