Hearing the term “Chuck us a vorteke” may drum up excitement within most social circles, but something about the limp wrist makes it difficult to slam an entire bottle of piss. That’s not to say that those that listen to ‘Sweater Weather’ or Girl in Red aren’t entirely capable of sinking their fair amount of lager; however we’re usually too busy holding the hair of the girl about three minutes from burning their boyfriends crap in the front yard.
Usually, as a young queer person, there’s an inherent fear of parties and what we would consider ‘passing’ within the hetero community. But with the rise of Rupaul’s Drag Race; us gays wanna take the centre stage. Our spot within centre stage is then met with the numerous chants “Yas queen” and “Work mama”, giving us our superpowers and inner strength. Not nearly as cliche as it sounds, I promise.
One of the first experiences I have with drinking as a young, first year queer, was at a house party on Breckons Ave. That’s in the asshole of Nawton for those with the fortune of not having been on the west side of the river. This is where I was met with an inordinate amount of bulking rugby boys. Possibly the dream of some, I may very well be included in this list, or the stuff of nightmares for others. The most nerve-wracking part is walking through the door. Though once you’ve crossed that threshold, it’s never as scary as you think. It’s usually accommodating with the odd condescending, “I know you’re gay, which is cool, just don’t try hooking up with me.” Fat chance Matt, the stench alone is enough to stop me from sticking my tongue down your throat. Cool off Bettlejuice.
Let me set the scene. There’s a dozen beer crates being used as seats. Half broken, half painted trestle table with a couple of bowls of rashuns or burger rings. That bottle of Waikato on the edge of the table? Yeah, that’s not alcohol. Somehow there’s always a griminess on the cups and tables, like a thin layer of privilege and snark.
I’m stood there next to the table where Kings Cup is being played, followed by the infamous Rage Cage, listening to the empty insults thrown by the myriad of competitive jock types. Many times I tried injecting my own thoughts into the conversation. Slight jesting, the occasional drag and certainly plenty of shade. As a queer individual, you have this reputation to uphold. Who else is going to play the bitchy queen with severe need for validation? And that my friends is shade.
Basically, I’m saying that you shouldn’t be afraid of going to a hetero party at all. That’s only if you can suffer through the repetitive playlist of The Killers, Oasis or ACDC. Maybe save the suggestions of Kim Petras to the third or fifth party. Not everyone wants to see you slut drop to Shallow by Lady Gaga ft. Bradley Cooper. Trust me.