((This is my first attempt at erotica. I hope you enjoy the story.))
The club was full of smoke.
Most clubs of this kind are; strobes and smoke do funny things to lighting, and seeing as this was a rave club where everyone played with various lighted toys in order to cause the rush of sensation most X-heads knew as "blowing up", that made sense.
But me, I stood in the corner, arms crossed over each other. I didn't feel like dancing yet. I don't do drugs; I like to keep my mind clear. Besides, the adrenaline rush from dancing itself is more than enough for me. An unlit bidi was behind my ear; I had quit smoking, not long ago, but I intended to burn this later tonight. Bidi's weren't tobacco, so all was cool and good.
I watched the drugmunching morons lurch about, some of them actually not half bad in their manipulation of the glowsticks that were the trademark of this form of dancing. Raving is about nothing so much as becoming a living sculpture to the beat driving you; everyone's interpretation was different. My personal favorite was a rather attractive guy in the corner, rolling an imaginary ball between his hands. His movements were liquid and precise, skilled and solid; you could almost see the ball in his hands, rolling on its own.
It was while I was focused on him that I heard the voice in my ear. "You been starin' at him all night. You gay or somethin'?"
I turned to see a stunning but impish face looking at me with a sort of amused disdain. I smirked. "Bi, actually. What's it to you?"
She returned the smirk in kind. "Nothin' t'me. Why ain't you dancin?" Her diction was clear and her eyes were focused -- I didn't think she was on anything.
I shrugged. "Don't feel like it. No sticks. Just diggin' the beat and watching the unwashed masses make unholy fools of themselves."
Suddenly, two green glowing rods were being waved under my nose. I smiled and tipped my head back, making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "C'mon, girl. Why y'pickin on me?"
"You the only one not dancing. I'm Natalie." She grabbed my hand and put the sticks in it, closing my fingers around them. "You're cute. I wanna see you dance."
I snorted, slid the sticks between my fingers, and smiled as "Gotta Get Through This" by Daniel Bedingfield started pumping across the speakers. How appropriate. "Eric," I said, as I got to work.
I'm trying to describe this so that those who do not rave or have never seen a raver in action can understand what I mean, but here is where I lose the words to do so. Techno music is mostly backbeat and synthesizer, and the dance that goes with it is all personal, all interpretive. I started with my feet planted at shoulder width, hands graced with lightsticks tracing opposing figure eights in the air. Then I started to add flourishes, crossing my wrists and circling the sticks inward, then outward; and then as the beat sped up, I matched it, hands moving almost of their own accord, body moving to accomodate the more extended motions in fluid stretches, the whole centered on the dancing lights in my hands. My feet began to shuffle, and I moved slightly, now tracing an intricate webwork of designs in the air.
I saw her watching me, eyes following the sticks, body moving to the beat. She was a sweet little number -- trim, like I like, athletic without being overmuscled. She popped out sticks of her own, and was soon surrounded by streaks of light.
