And when I was sixteen years old
I went to my first night club, I was really excited
And there were bored looking bankers
dancing with beautiful models
And there were boys with dyed hair
in spandex T-shirts dancing with each other
And as I sat there watching,
I felt that something was missing,
I don’t know what
But when I hit home, I said to myself
…Is that all there is to a disco?
“Nah, there’s no f*cking way I’m doing a twirl.” A permed, five foot four, eyebrow-slitted masc shrieks to my friend on the mating grounds of She Soho, only weeks after lockdown had finally lifted on London.
My friend – with her arm outstretched, waiting for the masc’s hand – recoils. “Why not?” She laughs, nervously. “C’mon, just a quick twirl!”
“Do you think I’m a d*ckhead? I ain’t a bottom. You twirl.” She glares up at her, pushing her arm away. My friend has just offended the entire ancestral plane of all masc and stud lesbians that have ever existed. What was so wrong with being twirled? I didn’t understand.
I know what you must be saying to yourselves:
“If she feels that way about it
Why doesn’t she just slit her throat and shut up?”
Oh no, not me
I’m not ready for that kind of a come down
‘Cause I know just as well as I’m standing here talking at you
That when the final moment comes, when I’m breathing my last
I’ll be saying to myself…
Is that all there is?
Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends
Then let’s keep dancing
Let’s bring out the ‘ludes and have a ball
If that’s all there is