Some would certainly have sold their souls to see my baffled expression when we got to the place. Nobody told me that I was supposed to take out my best ball dress, as if I ever had one. We were headed for the Metropolitan Hotel, mind you. I wonder why I never paid any attention to those who kept warning me that anything can happen in sin city. I am dying to digress to tell you how I once ended up staying over at the province governor’s house wearing a frumpy sweater borrowed from a male friend. That’s another story though and I have to compose myself for this one.

Any way I look at it, I can’t fail to notice how out of place I am in this luxurious setting. I feel like staying downstairs chatting to the receptionists. [mental note: one of them is kind of cute]. Apparently, I am not allowed to stay in my comfort zone. Someone, get me out of here! I thus sheepishly follow our troop, go up to the eleventh floor, walk through the carpeted corridors and knock knock knock. All this sounds like it’s straight out of a dream but I can’t figure out how to wake up so I just try to focus on details. There are silver buttons to the doors. My heels don’t screech because the floor is soft as silk. Thank God some of my friends would look classy even at a Paris fashion show. The room looks like a disaster scene after a nuclear bombing. Girls half-conscious on a sofa (cocaine?), a gluing TV screen over thick smoke, crystal glasses on low-cut tables and this huge staircase obstructing the view. I don’t quite understand what it’s here for. I become suddenly aware of the faint music background that urges me to dance again to shake off the uneasiness. After filling up a glass of champagne, that is. My crush – his name is Zent, by the way – drinks from the bottle and joins me once again in a most sensual setup of a move.

A couple of attempts to socialize soon turn short for obvious lack of coolness on my part. Everybody here seems to be some kind of designer, visual artist, model or just born to be cool, rich and trendy. And oh so pretentious. I seek refuge in the bathroom. I am totally desperate at the situation and too worn-out to think myself a way out of it. I don’t even have any make-up to fix. My hair-style hardly ever looks like anything but that of a messy lioness so there’s not much to expect from there either. How lame is that?

You know what? Screw that, let’s make a brilliant come-back, sparkling all the fire of my eyes. Of course, my change of mood remains unnoticed for most. Zent is out for a while, God knows what he’s up to, and this other guy comes up to me. My inner signal flashes red in a split-second. There’s a panicking alarm ringing up there ‘Stay away, stay away. Dangerously close guy to the right. Probably drunk. Pull back. NOW!’ Too late, I’m so tired that I have almost lost track of time, not to say that I’m hanging in outer space. He’s so close now that our lips are about to join. Our what? Before I have time to come to my senses, it’s done. I’ve just kissed a guy that I don’t know from Adam. Oh my and to think that I’m not even high nor drunk. I can’t bring myself to slap him: he’s too completely pissed and baby-faced for that. I can’t find any other distraction than to reach out to the staircase and pretend to perform some acrobatic moves. In fact I am rather miserably swinging my shame away when Zent – I can tell from the touch – picks me up from behind and carries me around like a trophy. This idiot almost made me lose control. I am on the verge of combustion inside.

He looks wretched from too much drinking and dancing.

- I am going home, I think.

- Are you sure you’ll be ok?

There’s more worry in my voice than I should decently show. I try to shut up this motherly tone of mine. Not with much success, I’m afraid.

- Yeah. Just dump me in a taxi and I shall sleep through tomorrow.

I have this sudden surge of tenderness for him. I want to run my fingers gently through his hair, to touch the delicate features of his face, to lay my head on his shoulder. I want to do all those cliché romantic things in my own little way. Never mind the decadent atmosphere, I need to capture his look in a bubble. Instead, I just stand up to walk him down to the street.

As I walk back to the hotel, a seemingly endless train of thoughts runs through. I need to sort all this out, but how? I am still absorbed when I bump into one of the receptionists.

Next: Why there shouldn’t be any after-parties for smitten ladies.

My outfit for the night is nothing short of rigorous (I bet I could have come straight from work, just like that *finger clap* Tadaa): black ample shirt down to the knee, white tank top with superposed sort-of-jumper that slightly uncovers part of the shoulder and has holes in the middle – once again, don’t ask me why, I am no fashion designer. I guess it’s because we live in a tropical country, na. There you go. Top that up with the usual red glasses and the pen to keep my hair up, and you have a pretty accurate image of what I look like. I don’t normally dress up too much to go out – I might occasionally pull out an emergency dress to see how many people will tell me that I’m cute – but I must admit that I am testing the limits of modesty tonight.

Hop, I show my ID at the door, smile from the bouncers (mental note: probably members of this rare species called a straight man around), hop I’m inside and my friend leaves me to my exploration while he takes off to his own scanning of gayland. As a matter of exploration, I fly to the dance-floor and undulate to the sound of good old soapy pop music. It feels just great. I have completely forgotten that I am exhausted. I am floating. The only shadow at the back of my mind is that my favourite dance partner is missing. He promised he would be there but he is nowhere in sight and he is so tall that I couldn’t possibly have missed him. Yeah, locals are quite diminutive, just like myself. Oh well, he might have tried to call to cancel when my phone battery was already history.

I spot him. He’s here. Am I melting down? No, I’m not, of course I’m not. Shit, I’m already all sweaty from dancing, I must look disgusting. Let’s take it with humour. Fancy meeting a hot world-famous celebrity? *point at my funky sign* No, too tacky. Stop streaming through your head or it’s going to show. Just come up to him and find something. Like, er, great to see you again. Dammit you’ve seen him yesterday, can’t you find something for Goodness sake? Someone touches my shoulder from behind. Whoever it is, they’re obviously trying to attract my attention in the most irreverent manner (did I mention that I can’t stand being touched, except by the right people?). I am boiling inside and being already all red on the face doesn’t help to conceal my irritation. I turn around, ready to do something nasty: a short multiple choice pops up

1. Slap them on the face

2. Pierce their eyes with my nails

3. Kick them in the balls (oh, the low blow )

4. Walk away, rolling my hips. Haha, that’s the rudest thing ever.

Of course, it’s him. My whole mood crumbles down all of a sudden. It’s ugly.

- – Hello, dear! I smile. My smile says: ‘You look gorgeous but I am not going to mention it’

- – Hi. How are you doing? I tried to call you but your phone was down.

- – Yeah, you know me and my phone don’t always get along too well so I sometimes have to shut him up.

- – Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. [hehe, what am I supposed to say?] Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.

I forgot all the names after about two seconds but I did smile a lot and tried to show interest. It is not only about being terrible with names, it’s also a case of not being able to focus when some people are around. You know what I mean. Also, I have this instinctive memory that registers every detail but the relevant ones. It’s awfully embarrassing at times. Just picture that: I can remember what people were wearing the day I met them, what they smell like and their favourite language twists but I have no clue about their names most of the time. Names are overrated, I say.

Next thing you know, “I don’t trust you anymore” by whoever is on and he drags me to the dance-floor. Finally. Well, if I was not melting down a few moments ago, now I can’t fool myself anymore. He’s not making things easy for me either, giving me those inflamed looks, twirling me around and picking me up for wild dance moves that would have their rightful place in ‘Grease’. Tune after tune, we dance and sing along. I’ve lost track of time. I just realize that I haven’t had anything to eat in over twenty hours and I had too much coffee before the party. I start feeling all dizzy. The least I can say is that my mind is anything but clear.

It takes me a few moments to notice that we’re now alone on the dance-floor. I am way too enchanted by the music and the whole atmosphere to feel embarrassed. The room is saturated of all those looks of pure attention. If it gets too intense, I’m going to have to sit down. I never meant to be exposed like that but I try to take it like a stage performance to cool myself down. If only I could find a way to subtly ask him to stop giving me the looks in front of all those people, I would be very grateful. A friend sat at the back winks at me. Oh my God, what’s happening here? Is it me? Me? How did I end up in this shiny club, putting on a dance with the most coveted guy around? Pinch me if I’m dreaming. Didn’t work. Now, we both agree that we should retract back into the darkness of the sofa area. Or at the bar, I am not too picky at this stage.

I wish there was a ‘beginner’s guide to guys’. I wouldn’t even complain about a special gay edition, for that matter. So there’s some more dancing, swinging and hugging until we decide to move on to the next event. Needless to say that it takes forever to have the whole group agree on where to go, how, why and the likes. We’re now packed in a taxi like sardines in a tin box (as we would say in my colourful French). He’s trying to hold me tight. Joking that I should sit on his lap. Uh oh, I’m not drunk enough for this kind of PDAs. What do I do now?

Next: How to survive a designer’s party at a most chic hotel without losing face.