Poof Doof at 3am is like nothing else. It fills me with euphoria, a sense of freedom that exists only in this space. Pink and blue strobe lights pulse above me, like I’m in the eye of a rainbow storm. I inhale the aromatic residue of alcohol that carries on the haze from the smoke machine as sweaty shirtless bodies push up against me. My eyes are closed, feeling the music. The heavy dance beats drum into my soul; the familiar lyrics dance off my tongue and float into the ether, joining together with everyone around me. I’m lost in this moment.

But I sense a disturbance. Someone here is not lost in the music. Someone here is lost in me.

I open my eyes and I see him, staring from the outskirts of the mass of glittering bodies on the dance floor. Troye Sivan. It’s unmistakably him. Thin, lithe body arched ever so slightly to the left, abs showing through his open shirt, mop of dark hair with strands that fall across one eye, and that smile. A smile that is positively bursting at the seams, inviting me in.

His gaze doesn’t falter. I swing my body one way, his eyes are there. I swing my body the other way and again his eyes, piercingly blue, are there. I can tell that he’s mentally undressing me (or what little I have on) with his eyes. I’ve seen it before to know what this is. He wants me. Now. Right now. He wants me to sway my way over to him, nimbly manoeuvring my muscled body through the throng of men and into his sole orbit.

And I do exactly that. His pull is magnetic. I mean it’s Troye fucking Sivan.

Our eyes remain locked as I approach. They don’t waver, even as our hands find each other’s bodies. His alabaster skin is vivid, even in the darkness of the corner in which we’ve found ourselves. My lips trace their way from his bellybutton all the way to the nape of his neck, his hands find my nipples and caress them as gently and seductively as I imagine Troye Sivan would.

We don’t say a word. We let our hands and our lips and our bodies do the talking. I don’t realise how much time has passed enmeshed in each other’s embrace until the sterile white lights above flicker on, casting us in an unnatural and unseemly aura. Troye is unperturbed. He grabs my hand and leads me out of the club before we become part of the crowd trying to leave after final call.

We’re out in the real world - that is, the lively dark morning of Chapel Street. Drunk and sobering men and women are chatting idly at the nearby KFC and McDonald’s. But I have little time to take them in or to even wonder what has happened to the friends I came here with. Troye has already hailed a cab and before I can protest our hands are all over each other as an Indian or Sri Lankan man in the driver’s seat pretends not to notice what we’re doing.

I’ve never been in a situation like this before. I mean, making out with a celebrity was fun and definitely something I’m going to be bragging about on my Instagram feed tomorrow - I hope to God someone took snaps of us making out in the club, though it’s so dark where we were I’m not sure that it’ll count as legit receipts - but I didn’t really want things to go this far. I don’t even know where we’re going. I assume it’s to his place. Who knew that someone who’s collabed with Ari and Charli XCX would be staying in Melbourne, of all places?

He seems a bit obsessive, I gotta say. I try to make conversation, partly because I’m curious about what life like a celebrity is like, but he cuts me off each time with his lips on some new part of my body. And let me tell you, it’s hard to fight against lips as soft as marshmallows.

We arrive at a house in some random suburb - Caulfield or Elsternwick maybe, but I can’t say for sure. He pays the taxi driver and we’re out into the street, past the front door, up the stairs and flung onto a large mattress in an otherwise sparsely furnished room.

He ravishes my body. Troye Sivan is ravishing my body. And then I’m ravishing Troye Sivan’s body. It’s amazing but part of me wonders whether I would have gone along with this if it weren’t with a celebrity. The thought almost makes me lose my hard on but then I look down at the perfectly adorable twink with his legs wrapped around my waist and I push my doubts aside, at least for the moment.

And then just like that it’s done. We’ve both come to full pleasure, our bodies dripping in sweat.

‘Thanks mate,’ he says as he leads me to the door, pushing my clothes into my hands. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.’

I’ve just barely got my clothes back on and I’m already out the door, the obsessive lust that had enraptured us somehow gone. I walk to the street and stare around me, unsure of what exactly has happened. I just slept with Troye Sivan. I just got kicked to the curb after a night of love making with Troye fucking Sivan. A smirk plants itself on my face. I probably look a fool to anyone who can see me right now, but I don’t care. For one night, I was all a hot gay celebrity could think about.

I call an Uber home. One of Troye Sivan’s songs comes on the radio. The Uber driver goes to change the station and I ask him to leave it, it’s a song of a friend of mine I tell him. I grin and lay back with my hands behind my head, listening as the dulcet tones of one of my lovers fills the silence of the night.