Gay abandon

My sister informs me she’s going to bingay next week. Bingay is bingo “run by a hilarious and slightly loud drag queen”. My sister is not gay (she will be pleased for me to publicly clarify) but is attending bingay as a team-building exercise for work. The thought of bingay kept me awake for hours last night, reminiscing about my youth. Admittedly, the closest I’ve ever come to a gay encounter was when an old Italian guy snarled “lezzos” at me and my sister in Leichhardt once. (We had short hair. I hissed “sisters” back at him which, upon reflection, resolved nothing.) But that’s never stopped me leeching onto the gay community’s superior social activities. It all started as a teenager in Newcastle. Our Saturday nights were spent at a gay wine bar called The Gunfighter’s Rest. Or Gunnies as we affectionately called it. Gunnies had lax door staff, played lots of New Order and Erasure and served lethal cocktails with names like Spastic Goat’s Milk and Dingo Dangler. If the spirits didn’t get you, the dry ice bubbling away in your glass would … public liability must have been way less intense back then … Occasionally we’d head to Sydney for the weekend to dance at The Exchange on Oxford Street. The Exchange was much more forgiving about my unformed dress sense than most establishments on the strip, ie it was the only one that would let me in. The flashing dancefloor was bulk as fun. Many years later, while working for Cosmopolitan magazine, I was commissioned to write a story about being a dyke on a bike in Mardi Gras (I was also a judge at Miss Nude Australia, but that’s another heterosexual story). Mesh T-shirt, denim shorts, meaty dyke to clutch, big bike to straddle, 100,000 spectators screaming … Bit overwhelming, actually. But totally unforgettable. Around the same time, I became addicted to Gay Skate night at the local rollerskating rink. Twirling around to Xanadu, surrounded by gorgeous boys … wonderful. I just heard a tragic rumour that it’s about to be turned into an apartment block and food hall. These days the only camp kicks I get are during the ’80s dance parties I throw in my lounge room (with a spinning disco ball I bought at Jaycar). But maybe I should try bingay, it sounds like a hoot.