The Mardi Gras was building towards a climax. Groups of men sat around tables, gesticulating wildly amidst hearty gulps of wine. There was a buzz all around and, outside, huge groups were forming on the pavement, boys and girls, flirting and peaking and drinking and fucking. A table at the front of the cafe was taken by a bunch of tarty young girls dressed to the nines; apparently very little fabric goes a long way. I swung trays of coffee and burgers and beer to all corners of the joint. The night was warm, heated by the gyrating dykes parading down Oxford Street, helped along by drag-queens caked in make-up and doped out on all sorts of poison.
Sydney goes wild on a Mardi Gras night. It's an excuse to let your hair down, put on a wig, shave a leg. Testosterone and eostrogen and methamphetamines gushed down roads and through train stations, tainted with ecstasy and fury. I could feel the energy crackling amongst the crowd, all hearts racing together in an orgy of pouting lips and sneers and cackles.
I signed off, leaping out into the pulsing air, alive with the overlayed bubbling of a million crazed voices. I felt out of the loop in a way; I was just finishing and all these people were just winding up their engines. Admittedly there did seem to be a few early casualties, mini-skirts retching in grimy alleyways and black, puffy eyes weeping lightly. I felt an itch creep up the back of my spine, the first tingle of the hunt. My eyes darted about, sizing up opponents and prey, adrenalin seeping into my brain, hairs standing on end. I clenched my teeth and fought desire, then fought my way through the crowds, then fought my way to sleep.
