us. Not Christmas, dear readers, but Queer Bop! My bad, Queer Fest. The latter is the more politically correct name for a night of hedonism, homos and hot, hot sex. In my opinion, the word ‘fest’ conjures up far more disturbing images (largely, who knows why, of a scatological nature) than the rather more incongruous ‘bop’ does, but who asked me? The thing is, it’s not a night of hedonism, is it?
Before my first QB I was promised stray digits on the dancefloor, writhing, mutually-penetrating forms littering the marquee, liberal nakedity, copious drug use – I stress that I was planning on taking part in all of these strictly in a voyeuristic capacity. Honest. But it was essentially like a normal bop, with more feathers. Oh, and lots of corsets, the ubiquitous item of choice for the female QB attendee. So flattering on the hanger, but when the world and his gay lover are all wearing one, cruelly unforgiving to the fat girl, simply by Einstein’s rule of chubby-relativity. He actually thought of that after seeing a heffer in a corset. True fact.
There was a penis-shaped bucking bronco at the first QB, to give it its due. But not even the offer of a cheeky digit. I remember coquettishly – if briefly – grinding against someone with a ginger afro but realising that I was about to be sick and making a swift exit. No point really, is there, if the gag reflex is kaput for the night? Admittedly, last year I saw a tit. At the time I breathlessly surmised that it must have been a daring (if bizarre) costume choice but have since been informed that it was more of a tit-tape issue. Sigh.
It does always seem the way with big, talked-up nights in Oxford. Summer balls, for instance. Drinking all night, luxurious clothes, reckless, moist encounters in the Warden’s garden? No. Reality – walking around college in a nice dress holding a box of sausages that I no longer want to eat yet, strangely, am loath to part with. I’ve never been to Piers Gav, admittedly, but I imagine a similar scenario. Promised decadence and debauchery descending into girls called Cassandra chewing their faces off and giving semi-conscious (bitey) blowjobs to boys dressed as woodland creatures.
But this year at QB I plan to ‘really go for it’. I’m thinking vajazzles, boobage, maybe I’ll even encourage a whimsical bit of space dogging (look it up) – although that would call for a creepy amount of forethought. I call upon you, dear readers, to join me. And if not, that girl you’ll see running around with her baps out and a lustful look in her eye? That will be me. That, I repeat, will be me.
