I Am the (Dancing) Queen of Soho

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My dear friend Rick from Lowlands Country did a weekend London with his partner in crime Vincent (say it like the  French do; VinSAH), who is here for business as he does something rather fancy in the financial world (he is a nice person though). As this is London and they are gay and it was a Saturday night we decided that Soho was the place to be. I don’t go out in Soho much and since I have been away for a few seasons I felt like a tourist myself. We started out in a bar in Rupert Street where the boys were hitting the vodka and I had cola with something called after a man from Tennessee. When it was time to feed the nicotine addiction we came in contact with three Afrikaners who heard us speak Dutch and were intrigued. We talked about peculiarities in each others languages and I asked them if they missed Saffa Land (hell no!). They also seemed to adore me which was rather refreshing as most (white) Saffas, especially Afrikaners (still) don’t really dig dark fairies, I believe. As Rick and I got really hungry we went to an eatery opposite the bar. It was pissing down with rain and since non of us had a brollie we didn’t want to go very far. The establishment was nicely decorated and named after that ancient city I used to live in for 10 months in a very near past. The manager, who spoke perfect Dutch, as well as the waiter were Egyptian so I was flexing my linguistic muscle by speaking Masree  to the waiter and Dutch to the manager. And that’s how far the pleasantries of the place went. It was a small place and we were the only table to begin with, later joined by a couple. The food took very long and was absolutely shit. Vincent needed some more vodka to suppress the feeling of being sick and an hour or two later Rick needed to go back to the hotel in order to be sick in the privacy of his on hotel room rather than in a sleazy toilet of a gay bar. In between we went to a bar/club that was recommended by the jolly Afrikaners and was just around the corner of that shitty eatery -even outside their own country they f*ck it up- which was pretty convenient as it was still pissing down. Now, what I found rather peculiar was that besides a dwarf-sized butch looking lesbian, who I only saw outside where the nicotine junkies are feeding their addiction, I was the only woman in the house. Besides the odd look – that tranny almost looks like a real woman- everyone seemed pretty cool. I was in good company, the atmosphere was cool and the dj pretty awesome. For a single  fairy the worst place in the world to be if you wanna score or find the man of your dreams but as every fag hag knows it’s very refreshing to be on a Saturday meat market where your meat is not competing. Where you can boogie with random strangers, being told that your gorgeous, marvellous, amazing and what not without anyone wanting to get into your pants. The only fag hag in the house said hell yeah!

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About Lemba

Non-conformist Writing Soul and Language Geek from the Lowlands with a South London accent, currently living a nomadic, location- independent lifestyle. While executing the Big Fat Writing Plan I’m invading cyberspace with my views on 'expat living', travel and other lifestyle choices, current affairs and other randomness. Welcome to the Dark Fairy Zone.

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