Dancing can fill my void; can be a desperate quest to pure orgasm. I crave house music: the buildup, the release, the uninhibited synchrony of head and hips. My spine, my fingernails, my eyelashes, the very blood pushing through my body surrenders to the soothing friction and the tantric rhythms. I feel the beat in the back corner of my mind, rocketing from synapse to synapse until the DJ takes me higher, grasps my hair, and claws my senses just a moment past sanity. We're all alone on the dance floor, but our group consciousness has summoned a truly Gestalt quality--an aural fixation of overlapping experience greater than the sum of its parts.
Aural orgasm is simultaneously the taste of dark chocolate, the scent of sweet cigars, and the synthetic blur of your mind's eye popping like flame and fireworks.
Tonight at the Necto the sound and scene are volatile. It's that voice. Her voice rises over the surge and sweat and tangible energy. I cannot believe I've found space to breathe. Colette is spinning. She is a gem unearthed in my world by my college roommate--quite the musician himself. She sings over the record, pushing dancers to those aforementioned little deaths. With vocals, I usually prefer the cavernous cello of Eddie Vedder or Alex Band, but at this moment her lyrics are swelling. They've already split the ceiling. Have you ever lost yourself in music? It takes every ounce of sobriety I have left to grapple back to reality.
Colette's drawn a crowd of hot, horny, alternative boys. They gape past the rainbow lights, tapping their heels, drooling into their beer, fixating on the gorgeous woman with her finger on the pulse. I survey the eyes of starving men. Those who don't find a partner on the dance floor will certainly be jacking off to her CD jacket before the wee hours. By closing time at 2, they'll all be charged for go. Let's just hope they remember the right name. I don't think "Colette" is common in these parts. True, I have to sympathize. We'd all plead guilty to conjuring faces to pair with real lovers' bodies. We do it even when we don't mean to. Liquor has changed many a face to Chris Martin, Paul McCoy, the drummer from that punk band at Parkside--always, always musicians.
Cameron has attracted an audience of her own. A half-moon of gentlemen (and a few ladies) bop around a gigantic speaker turned platform. I have no idea how she vaulted herself up there, but the effect is amazing. She moves her slender limbs with sharp, quick jabs in synchrony with an overhead strobe. She tosses her long straight hair and tugs ineffectually at her wife-beater tank and her belt loops. The result is part alterna-girl-rocker and part TLC video. My movements transition with greater viscosity, curling from curve to curve. Cameron's neck and chest look shiny. It's been more than an hour of uninterrupted dance time so I suppose we have leave to be slick. As I twist toward the bar, I noticed Cameron waving at the door. I squint to make out her roommates through the glare.
I slither through the crowd of dancers making sure to shimmy extra close to anyone with broad shoulders and a cute butt. Pulling apart from the crowd, I traverse the long table-lined path to the bar. Beer and cocktails have spilled and dried on the floor so each step seems to stick and rip away. I notice eyes shining out from the shadows. They browse the curves of flesh below my neck as I pass. I'd rant about their gratuitous perusal if we ladies didn't choose tops with this in mind. Tonight, I've even left onlookers a message in black and red tattoo paint.
"COMMIT ME," the bartender reads as he lines up a row of lemon drops. He shoots me a quick smile, seductively raising an eyebrow. I feel a zing in all my dark places.
My New Year's resolutions this year are flavored by my obsession of the moment, Rob Breszny's The Televisonary Oracle. In the spirit of "going crazy in the name of creation," I've devised four tasks to further my transition to the person I want to be. These tasks will exercise my capacity for the "Four Dignities of the Warrior's Path” borrowed by the Oracle from Tibetan Buddhism, stolen now by me.
New Year's Solutions: the dignities of the warrior's path
1. Meekness
I'm starting with number one. In an effort to become more comfortable with myself and mock the outside world's attempts to deflate or dishearten me, I've labeled myself: "Commit me." They call me "crazy" just because I perceive color in their notion of black and white, because I won't fit their mold, because I look at life differently. Sometimes I am a spaz, but it's way more fun being one than not. Therefore, to unveil their prejudices and insecurities, I've painted these words on my chest and somehow relieved them of their potency.
2. Outrageousness
Boys, does your fear of being challenged translate into a preference for women who toss their gum, giggle out of their noses, and agree with everything you say? This little byproduct of insecurity is the reason a relationship could never work between my ex-boyfriend Neal and I. He didn't want me for the right reasons. Yes, this sounds schizo, but hear me out. Typical of a budding love-interest, Neal thought me stunning and sexy and wild. Unfortunately, the whole time we were together, his like of me never went further than this. He seemed to edit out my intelligence, my humor, my quirky sass. These qualities that make me special, that make me, me, only seemed to frustrate the poor boy. Neal only loved my shell, and that wasn't good enough. As a testimony to such outrageous demands, I'm going to tie a man's shoes together right off the bat and see if he follows me. Not many seem up for the challenge.
3. Inscrutability
I must leave behind the pressures of predictability when it comes to doing what I believe is right. Therefore, I officially give myself leave to indulge in my gut reaction and instinct. I may hitherto reject, dislike, or torture whomever I want for whatever reason. I will not pretend that this is anything new. However now, I have backed up my actions with theory. Isn't it fun how that works? But really, why waste my time on anyone unworthy?
4. Unabashed Joy
I must rid myself (no take back) lessen my reliance upon the self-indulgence that is cynicism. This is the pillar that gives me the most trouble--or maybe you haven't noticed. I have little idea as to how I might go about this, but sometimes we have to jump and worry about flying on the way down. My assignment is to find something about love that is both beautiful and true. I have a year. Wish me luck.
My bartender has made his way back just in time to light my cancer stick. We know each other, sort of. I've spent enough nights at the bar. He knows how I like my martini. I know he's devastatingly gorgeous. I think I've told him many, many times. Shyness is highly overrated. Besides, the benefit of flirting with bartenders is the bar--a good three feet of separation assuring you don't take things further than you intend.
"Liquid Cocaine and water, no ice," I yell, probably louder than is necessary.
"Water?" he comments, bemused by my seeming betrayal of my reputation for "hardcore" drinking.
"Trust me."
He serves my shot--a little heavy on the 151. I toss it back with relish and lick a few errant drops from my forefinger. When my water arrives, I tip the plastic cup down my shirt much to my friend's amusement. I blow him a kiss, and saunter away ending our interlude for the moment.
