At 2am, Simon Jason leaned closer into the mirror over the sink. He was pleased – though unsurprised – to see that his face revealed no sign of tiredness and admired his reflection: those couple of hours in the gym this morning had really paid off; his chest had never looked more pumped and his arms – well – it was a wonder they weren’t holding anyone at night. Really, he had no idea why he was still single. He came to Pinkies every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday and – as Becky always told him - he was the best looking guy in the club. It didn't take a genius to work out that his peers were jealous. In fact, he’d once overheard some vile queen in the smoking area say, ‘That Simon Jason is so up himself. He thinks he’s so gorgeous, but he’s got a head the size of a space hopper. Literally. Do you think it’s elephantitis?’

Simon had been tempted to say something, but what did it matter what people like that thought of him? The fact of the matter was they were too intimidated to make a move on him. Sad, really, that they had such low self esteem.
Before Simon left, the toilet attendant - a big, black man – offered him a spritz of cologne.

‘Is it free?’ Simon asked.

The toilet attendant silently nodded towards the small dish of coins beside the sink.

Simon narrowed his eyes. The cheek of it. ‘I’m not paying for that.’

The toilet attendant shrugged in response. ‘Suit yourself.’

Simon raised an eyebrow. Black people were so sassy.

‘I will,’ he snapped, then turned on his heels and strutted onto the dancefloor.

Thank god he was here, he thought. Someone needed to show these morons how to throw some shapes.