The club has a large indoor space but an even bigger courtyard that doubles as a dance floor. This is lined with painted rainbows, crowns and palm trees—some of them bordered with flashing lights—and packed with people. The crowd is mainly made up of men, several of these signaling their gayness with colorful wigs, fans and dog masks. A minority are women, some of them doing the same with their lesbianism, others looking more likely to be friends and allies. Those who aren’t dancing are kissing or fondling someone—or more than one person—while others are downing shots in lurid colors or watching a drag queen in a blond Afro and a zebra-print catsuit strutting up and down the stage belting out a song by Christina Aguilera.
As I wait at the bar to buy our first round of drinks, I feel a rush of excitement to be back amongst my community. There’s only one problem: most of the people here are younger than us—significantly younger.
“Are you sure we’re not too old for this place?” I ask the girls, as I hand out their drinks.
Gloria shakes his head, defiantly. “We’ll never be as young as we are now!”
Age doesn’t seem to dent Dom’s appeal. He’s wearing purple Speedos and a matching sequined harness, and within minutes is surrounded by a huddle of much younger admirers.
“Sometimes I think that girl must glow with a permanently applied Instagram filter,” offers Gloria.
We laugh. But I worry about Dom’s hearing as he struggles in loud venues. I spot him repositioning himself so his good ear is facing a tall man with his hair in curtains, who’s marveling at him, his eyes gleaming.
Wait a minute, I know that man. …
“That’s Vito!” I tell the others. “He works in the museum and is helping with our dig.”
Ian raises an eyebrow. “So he’s clever with a proper job. Slightly off-brand for Dom but an interesting pivot.”
We keep an eye on the two of them. By the time we’re hitting our third drink, they’re kissing. By the time we’re on our fourth, they’ve disappeared.
Gloria lets out a gasp and grabs onto my arm. “Girl, look at that go-go dancer!” He points at the raised stage, at a muscled man wearing a studded leather thong, black wraparound sunglasses, and nothing else—except a bolt through his left nipple and what looks like an entire bottle of baby oil slathered over his body. “I’d rinse out his jockstrap.”
Without any further discussion, Gloria plunges into the throng, weaving his way towards the stage. A few minutes later, Ian and I spot him in his silver lamé leotard, writhing around the dancer, hair-whipping his electric blue wig, and sending clouds of glitter flying out from his beard into the crowd.
“Come on,” says Ian. “Let’s get another drink.”
“Do you want to see if there’s anyone you fancy?” I suggest.
Ian pushes his glasses up his nose. “No, thanks, I’m perfectly happy as I am. Why do I need a man when I’ve got my sisters?”
I smile and take his hand.
When we reach the bar, there’s a scrum of people pushing and shoving to get served. Ian insists it’s his round and thrusts himself in, while I wait at the back, leaning against a wall.
“Ciao!”comes a voice from behind me.
I turn around to see a tall man with smooth, wrinkle-free skin and thick black hair in a quiff, wearing smart jeans and a heavy blazer.
“Are you not hot?” I find myself asking him.
“No,” he replies, “but you are.”
I’m just about to insist otherwise, pointing to my thin T-shirt, when I realize he’s flirting with me. I giggle, flattered.
“My name is Salvatore,” the man says. “In Italian that means I am here to save you.”
He smiles and it feels like the sun’s breaking through the clouds. “From what?” I ask, hoping he can’t tell I’m drunk.
“You tell me.” Salvatore grins and his eyes glisten.
I suddenly remember Theo and my gut twists. What am Idoing?
I dismiss my objection. Why shouldn’t I flirt with this bloke? Theo’s going off me anyway. It’s only a matter of time till he dumps me.
I tell Salvatore that I recently inherited a house between Lucca and Camaiore.
“Really?” He moves closer and I can smell his woody aftershave and some sugary cocktail on his breath.
