Lost Journals

Sitting at a table elevated above the dance floor, I watched drunken middle-aged women shake their asses hoping to attract the tender young men trolling. Transvestites crowded in a corner fawning over the newest set of nails. Several kids played with glow sticks the bar was giving away with the purchase of a test tube shot. I kept my eye on the DJ wondering if he recognized me from high school dances where we’d been the only ones aspiring to rave.

“Can I get you a drink?” Drew shouted.

“I don’t drink and dance. Dehydration,” I said.

He went in search of liquids to boost his boogie abilities. Quinn stood behind two turntables manipulating record to fade into one another, alternating between techno favorites and flavors of the early eighties. He bounced to the rhythm, headphones gyrating in time. His waifish frame dancing in a skin tight tee, oversized jeans held up by a studded belt, face painted with stars and glitter.

A familiar song and a nod from Quinn and I found Drew, pulling him onto the dance floor by his tie. I’d been at clubs around the world dancing by myself, content to let men watch from the sidelines. Tonight, however, called for a partner.

We didn’t stop jumping until the lights came on for last call. Drew didn’t need liquor to loosen inhibitions. I’d rarely met a man – or anyone for that matter – that could keep up.