Jon went in search of liquids to boost his boogie abilities.
Quinn stood behind two turntables manipulating records 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 Jon, 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.
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