The clubs in Sydney were like most clubs Oscar had been to. Same music. Same atmosphere. But with one striking difference.
When the sun goes down and the DJ turns up the volume, at The Beresford you stand out like a sore thumb if you keep your shirt on.
Picture it: a glass and dark green tile building in one of the city’s trendiest suburbs. Two floors. Three bars. A courtyard. Plenty of room to dance. It’s a warm twenty-eight degrees Sunday. You want excitement. You crave adventure.
You’ve found it. You know you’ve found it before you even step inside because you can hear it from the street. You can hear the buzz of patrons, swarming like bees, and the low boom of a fast beat.
You pass the giant bouncer, smiling in his black suit and yellow armband. You see men. Only men. All fit. All ages. All looking.
Young boys in tight singlets. Muscled men in tighter shorts. Big, hairy bears with arms you can swing off. Greying daddies. Hundreds of eyes looking you up and down. Looking at the man you’re with. Watching him buy you drinks. Wondering what he’s going to do to you later.
You find a place to stand and sip after you’ve pushed through the undulating mass of muscle. You feel hands against your hips and waist. Brushing against you subtly. Grabbing you not so.
Then the blue sky turns orange and pink. The lanterns get lit. The music gets louder and the real fun begins.
It’s a beautiful place, The Beresford (take a look for yourself). But even in the most beautiful of places, bad things can happen.
Bad things that might just bite you in the arse one day.