Looking in the Club

               The Milk Bar on goth night; Halloween. Viking couple with leather vests and great headcoverings--the woman in a busty brazier, the man very very tall (7 feet?) strong abdominals revealed. Tall faery in a blue flower-petal skirt and top; glittery face. She dances with the wall in the basement; this is how some goths dance when the floor is overflowing with humans in dark masks long cloaks and fake weapons.

               Wire tie-boy. Headband with wire ties attached; wire ties around his wrists and feet; he is not goth. He is short, skinny, "Trying to get a job as a host." Ick, more restaurant business. Gemini. Moving on.

               "I'm going upstairs,"
               "I'll come with you."

               Shrug.

               He follows. Dances in place; doesn't really dance.

               "You're vanilla, aren't you?"

               "I'm what?"

               "That means you are."

               My friend asks me later, at the cafe, "Would you prefer that they say 'what?' or 'yes, I am.'"

               I think about it. "I think I'd prefer 'what?' because at least that means they don't know yet. If they know they're vanilla and are happy with it, then it isn't worth the effort."

               Guy in a beaked-mask (Black Plague? V for Vendetta?) is dancing. I thought he had a staff earlier...I want something to spin, since nothing will spin me. But he does not have one. He suggests we exchange information later. I smile and walk away.

               But later we are looking for food. We walk the streets on the hunt for pizza; pizza at 2 a.m. We find none. His friend is drunk; asks me how I make my writing unbiased if I am a Journalist trying to prove the Truth. "Everything is biased," I respond. "I am biased. I can see this building here and write about it, but you might notice first the ground. There is never unbias."

               I have become philosophical. Grad school has affected my head and everything I thought I knew. I am out at night with strangers. Keep testing myself. Naivity has always been my way. It's something I understand. Or do I? Philosophy again.

               We find no food, and like a hungry cat I growl. But boy in mask--and reniassance garb (billowy white shirt, shorts, sandals?) notices club. Nightclub; after 2 a.m. club. In Denver? We check it out. It is loud. We get in free. The woman doesn't bother checking IDs. I put my trenchcoat down; tuck license and key into my sock. We dance to dubstep. Ren-boy offers me drink; I say no. He offers me water; I drink greedily. I dance alone. He tries dancing with me; offers his arse for my whip's tongue. He runs from me and I chase; he's fast, ducking under table and sliding through. How does he not trip in such baggy clothing?

               We find a fence blocking big gym. Hop over it. Fake spider webs and holloweeny things adorn the rafters, the staircases, the balconies; it is beautiful. The room is empty; emptiness is more beautiful. I cartwheel. I handstand. I retrieve my whip from the dirty floor. We explore. On the second story he mumbles something, takes my hand. I stand solid; unyielding. I have no lead, I am the one with the whip.

               "What?" I say.

               "Let's explore," he explains, and I feel light-headed, like finally someone curious, someone...dangerous.

               We explore.

               Back in the dubstep room we dance; side-side shoulders-shoulders, step back, spin, forward; we swing a little. (swing dance!) He is a theatre boy; moves and talks like a theatre boy. Cute like I imagine they should be. I am stereotyping; he is sweet. He seems sweet. I don't actually know him.

               My trench coat is gone forever. Stolen. Luckily I was smart--key and license still on me.

               We say goodnight and part ways. I wonder how many lies I've been fed and slurped up; I wonder if really he is in the food business, another dead end. I wonder if he's selling mushrooms rather than growing biological ones that eat oil; I wonder if he sleeps with every girl and how often he smokes pot. I like his hands on my face, but refuse kisses. It isn't the challenge now, but the smoke--he smokes. He thinks I am moving slow. Let him think that. Probably I will never see him again.

               And I wonder what the point is. I am no longer dancing to dance. I am searching, calling, hoping. What is it for? Why do I do it? Drive an hour to dance to songs I can hardly dance to. But at least no one will grind. But do I maybe want to grind, and deny it? Confusion deflates my ego. I can't keep going out. Need sleep. Need responsibility. But I have always been responsible; always been afraid of trouble. This is the beginning of the breaking out, the individuality, the fucking-up, if you will. I am looking outside to find what's inside. I know that isn't how to do it. But it's like addiction--once you start. You. Can't. Stop.