Sashay, Sand & Speedos

It had been sometime since FuelMix appeared at the University of Fag Bar (pending accreditation). So, pushing open the doors, he made his entrance – and was promptly eyeballed by the usual alumni of fag losers, flakes and half-wits who had, unknowingly, provided FuelMix with the ammunition that makes this blog worthwhile.

Ordering his usual poison, FuelMix was obliged to stand directly in front of the bar, since his favourite perches were taken. Seconds later, Madonna’s nasal whine in the form of “You Must Be My Lucky Star” cranked up on the jukebox.

Almost immediately, FuelMix was swept out of the way by two late 40s white fags sashaying down an imaginary corridor that led past the bar and towards the toilets. Bemused and fazed, FuelMix watched as the 2 ageing white fags sashayed back and forth on what was obviously an imaginary catwalk in time to Madonna’s whining, giggling like schoolgirls.

Unable to contain his curiosity, FuelMix tapped one of the sashaying fags and asked what was going down. Breathless and excited, the ageing white fag gushed that he and his friend had purchased tickets to a beach party and a rave, which was to be held across the border from Very Rich Megacity. Fag and his friend had decided they needed to practice how to strut.

FuelMix asked if they were merely kidding around, but noooo……the ageing white fag was quite serious. As he put it, when a fag’s body and looks go downhill, the fag has to work twice as hard to attract the attention of the younger hotties who would be at a rave and beach party in droves. Since there was no way either of the ageing fags could compete on the dance moves, it was thought prudent to learn how to sashay up and down the dance floor.

The apparent logic was that not only could they at least move in time to the music, but by sashaying, they could effectively cruise the dance floor. Both ageing white fags were into young chinks in their 20s.

FuelMix smirked. Firstly, the music at a rave would be anything but 1980s Madonna. Secondly their style of sashaying would effectively cut a swathe through the dance floor and piss the other fags off, thereby wrecking their cruising chances. Thirdly, a couple of sashaying white fags in their 40s, would be looked on by the rave crowd as an amusing novelty at best, a pathetic display at worst.

Eager to add his 2 cents worth, the other ageing white fag chimed in to announce that they had just bought brand new Speedo swimming trunks.

“Look!” he exclaimed, as he whirled around to display his ample flabby ass.

A pair of red Speedo briefs stuck out of his back pocket, like a spandex hanky code. Fag pulled out the Speedos, opened them, spread them across his face and started licking them through the crotch. The other ageing white fag screamed in delight, embraced his friend and started to French-kiss him through the Speedos.

Nobody in the bar paid the slightest attention.

The 2 ageing white fags remained locked in their French-kissing-thru-Speedos embrace as Eric Clapton came on the jukebox and sang, “Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?”

It seemed appropriate.

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