Friday, November 18

Guilty Pleasures

I think I love you. Constantine. The puppet master. Knees buckle with just one pout. Greenbelt 3 --- park, balcony, practically the entire mall --- was packed. Air-tight. Constantine swaggers to the stage, in dark denims and a suit, pouts, flips hair, sings, sweats. He crowd-fucks with his smoldering eyes. And we buy it. Most of the time I was leaning on W's shoulder. Stunned at the cheesiness of his theatrics, but mostly weakened by his curvy mouth. He has a great voice, sure. But it's the low registers, the soft growls, that deliver.

Disco inferno. Wednesday was a great day to be gay. Rocker sex machina? Check. Madonna's Confessions on a dance floor? Oh, honey. More than Kylie Minogue with Danii Minogue in tow. I might be at my office desk right now but my heart's a spinning mirrorball, a sparkly, sequined star.

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