Fridae

It's an undeniable fact of the gay club scene.

No respectable gay man wants to be the first to arrive at a gay club.

But every respectable gay man wants to be there when the party starts at midnight.

Put two and two together and it's no wonder you get massive snaking queues outside popular gay clubs on weekends.

Case-in-point: One weekend, on the eve of a national holiday on this little island republic, my party posse and I decided to drink-and-dance the night away at a local Sunday night event held at an anonymous popular club.

Why, to ensure that we avoid the infamous daunting queue, I even started doing my hair and makeup around noon the day before the event - let me assure you: sticking sequins around the eyes a la Bjork at Fashion Rocks is not a 5-minutes-and-you're-done kind of task.

Unfortunately, the entire gay population out for a good time must have had the same idea (how unoriginal!) because when we arrived at the way-too-early-to-be-seen time of 10.30pm (there goes our club cred!), a queue longer than any porn star's schlong had already formed.

Being typical zealous and law-abiding gay Singaporeans (that's not to say that we abstain from practicing oral sex mind you), my party posse and I decided to partake in what has long become our national pastime: we joined the queue.

Two hours later, with our formerly well-sculpted-and-teased hairstyles falling flatter than a Karaoke Queen's singing after one too many Margaritas (no thanks to our island's hair-spray defeating humidity), we were still nowhere near the coveted club entrance.

Having to queue for hours and watching it creep ever-so-slowly forward while not under the influence of alcohol almost pushed me over the edge. It took all of my formidable willpower (and the sight of the two hulk-like bouncers with no discernible necks) to refrain from doing a Paris Hilton and shrieking: "Don't you know who I AM?" at the clueless door bitch.

Fortunately, my party posse and I were nothing if not resourceful (and beautiful).

Determined not to let "minor" setbacks including a queue which could charitably be described as creeping and a door bitch immune to fabulousness affect our par-tay mood, we decided to make the best of our situation - in other words, we started checking out the guys.

It must be said that the best time for scoping out the meat on display is when you do not have your beer goggles on or when you are not half-blinded by strobe lights and an over-enthusiastic smoke machine.

Moreover, you can rest assured that the gay hunk who set your heart-a-flutter is not subjected to the looks-enhancing phenomenon known as the Cosmetic Effect of Darkness - thus sparing you the horror of bringing some "cute" dude home only to wake up in bed the next morning to someone barely human.

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Under the flaw-unfriendly fluorescent lights, we (like everyone else in the queue) were able to scope out all the tantalizing treats on display, and in doing so, placed "reserved" signs on the more delectable specimens while mentally erecting fall-out zone warnings around bar trolls.

And when we were not too engrossed with batting our Maybelline Volum Express-enhanced lashes at some cute twinkie, we also eavesdropped and traded gossip - before embellishing the details and passing the news down the queue.

Not surprisingly, the favourite topic for that night involved torrid tales concerning the "privileged few" who arrived late, skipped queue, traded air kisses with the door bitch and sauntered into the club.

In fact, rumour has it that the aforementioned "privilege" was earned through bribery (unconfirmed), through actual acquaintance with the door bitch (unconfirmed) and by sleeping with the door bitch (confirmed).

Having said that, I do realise that trying to convince circuit-seasoned gay men that standing in line and waiting to be admitted into a club can be a meaningful and entertaining experience is an enterprise that is both laughable and doomed from the start.

So for those who wish to avoid a similar ignominious fate, here are some tips (and their drawbacks in brackets) on what you can do to expedite your club entrance and claim your spotlight on the dancefloor:

a) Pick out your outfit the day before and arrive early (how utterly d�class�!);

b) Network, flatter and then sleep with people with club clout (but do draw the line at homo-relics from the Jurassic era with bottomless pockets);

c) Induce a fainting spell and hope for the best (though you may up at the A & E ward if you possess Meryl Streep's acting prowess);

d) Pretend to be someone famous (it seldom works in celebrity-dry Singapore - trust me, I've tried - and failed); and

e) Turn lesbian and sleep with the door bitch (only if you wish to be branded a traitor by your gay brothers).

Returning back to the story, with our patience-meter flicking into the red, we finally paid heed to our commonsense and did what any sensible gay clubber would do: we gave up and walked away.

And thus by default, we ended up partying the night away at another fabulous gay club where we were conferred the "privileged few" status - thanks in most parts to my breath-taking appearance (I am not referring to my practice of marinating myself in Estee Lauder's Beyond Paradise) and in small parts to my posse's substantial drinking bills.

Which all goes to show that I do have a fairy godmother after all - and it's by pure coincidence that he happens to be the door bitch of Taboo (Singapore's best known gay club).