here<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n
On the edge of the Alameda, practically bumping up against the old Church of Saint Francis, the gay club flashes a fuchsia neon sign that sparks the sinful festivities. An invitation to go down the steps and enter the colorful furnace of music-fever sweating on the dance floor. The fairy parade descends the uneven staircase like goddesses of a Mapuche Olympus. High and mighty, their stride gliding right over the threadbare carpet. Magnificent and exacting as they adjust the safety pins in their freshly ironed pants. Practically queens, if not for the loose red stitches of a quickie fix. Practically stars, except for the fake jeans logo tattooed on one of the asscheeks.<\/p>\n
Some are practically teenagers, in bright sportswear and Adidas sneakers, wrapped in springtime\u2019s pastel colors, healthy glow on loan from a blush compact. Practically girls, if not for the creased faces and the frightful bags under their eyes. Giddy from rushing to get there, they show up tittering each night at the dance cathedral inside the basement of an old Santiago cinema, where you can still see the black-and-gold Etruscan friezes and Hellenic columns, where the stench of sweaty seat cushions hits hard once you finally get past the burly bouncer at the door. That\u2019s where spongers circle, hovering around any gay man who might cough up their cover. We\u2019ll figure it out inside, they croon into ears with little dangly earrings. But the gays know that, once inside, the most they\u2019ll get is \u201c\u2026 have we met?\u201d because every taxi boy heads straight to the bar, where the grannies flaunt their piggy banks, rattling ice in a glass of imported whisky.<\/p>\n
The bar at a gay club is a good place to meet someone\u2014it’s the area with the best light for spotting the witch who never sees the sun, always underground like the roots of an AIDS<\/small>-ridden philodendron. The same one who cried sapphire tears, forgiving herself for all her dirty tricks, the spitting in drinks, the broken condoms, the falsified positive test results that aided and abetted a few girls\u2019 suicides. Her schemes for infecting half of Santiago because she didn\u2019t want to die alone. It\u2019s that I have so many friends, she said. The same Miss Perverse who\u2019s back again, more alive than ever, laughing luciferously with a drink in hand.<\/p>\n
Here\u2019s where they pour the gin and tonics, pisco sours, pisco sores, pisco colas, and loca-colas singing along to \u201cDesesperada\u201d by our darling Marta Sa\u0301nchez, which always makes the disco babes go crazy. The girls in shorts who come up to the bar breathlessly asking for water with ice, elbowing the office worker who\u2019s still wearing his tie and who keeps eyeing the door in case someone from his work shows up.<\/p>\n
The club bar is for trading glances and putting one\u2019s erotic goods on display in certain preferred brands of clothing\u2014the ones that can be found at a thrift store, anyway. A Levi\u2019s patch guarantees a luxury booty\u2014a pair of cowboy glutes bursting out of its seams, fibrous in the tight motion of resting both cheeks against the bar counter. Practically masculine, if not for all the ironing and that soft detergent smell. If not for the hand-stitching inside the seams. Way too clean, like trying to make up for something, justifying their homosexuality in the powder-puff aroma that frames their movements. If not for those dense clouds of pansy perfume: Addiction by Paloma Picasso, Obsession for Men by Calvin Klein, Orpheus Rose by Paco Colibri\u0301. If not for those aromatic names emanating from their aerobic stupor, they\u2019d pass as extremely friendly heterosexual men, for sloshed little machos drooling on their buddies. If not for that \u201cAy, honey, I warned you,\u201d \u201cAy, Chela, you deserved it, you witch,\u201d \u201cAy, if only,\u201d \u201cAy, don\u2019t you think?\u201d If not for the \u201cAy\u201d that crowns or decapitates every sentence, they\u2019d blend right in with the hordes at any old discotheque, dressed in denim and a white shirt with that little crocodile gnawing at the nipple.<\/p>\n
Though gay discos have existed in Chile since the seventies, and only in the eighties institutionalized as a backdrop for the gay cause, mass-producing the Travolta model for men and men only. It\u2019s possible that these homo-temples of dance have united the gay ghetto with far more success than militant politics, imposing certain lifestyles and a philosophy of macho camouflage that uses fashion to dress the full spectrum of local homosexualities in a single uniform. The folkloric fairies and freaks have survived only as little baubles hanging on homo culture, under the delusion of being a pharaohess fluttering in the dance club\u2019s mirrors. A last dance that squeezes last sighs from a loca overshadowed by AIDS<\/small>. The hot coal of a loca show that the gay market consumes in its business of sweaty muscles. Potentially only that spark, that humor, that argot makes for a politicizable distance. A wildflower petal drifting forgotten on the dance floor when the sunrise cuts off the music and their laughter, in a pale return to the city\u2019s routines, blurs with the traffic on the Alameda.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
This cro\u0301nica will appear in<\/em> A Last Supper of Queer Apostles<\/a>\u00a0by Pedro Lemebel, which will be published later this month by Penguin Classics, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group. Translated by Gwendolyn Harper.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"\u201cThe same Miss Perverse who\u2019s back again, more alive than ever, laughing luciferously with a drink in hand.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2476,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[67827],"class_list":["post-167484","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n
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<\/p>\n