Imagine a large dark room filled with entrancing electronic music punctuated by flashing lights. Deep bass throbs in the ear. On the dance floor a meadow of arms and legs sway in the audio breeze, and despite ample air-conditioning the atmosphere is rich with sweat and sex. Somewhere in that primordial sea of bodies I dance. Topless, sweaty, and with what I've been told to be grace and precision.
For my purpose tonight my dance says it all. It's second nature. My body moves on its own and I close my eyes. I've always been good at attracting attention, and when I dance I tend to get attention. It's why I come here: To shamelessly satisfy my vanities, appealing to the lowest common denominator with a deep seated need to feel attractive and lusted after, and even though my dancing has never before gotten me laid, the thought of an audience no matter how small grants me some token of self-appreciation.
Free of all shame, my meager five foot seven, hundred and forty pound frame has found its muse: hard pecs, waxed chests, close cropped hair, cologne and testosterone. Here I can let myself go. Here I am a jewel, a real prize perhaps. I don't know. I do know dancing makes me feel good, like a peacock spreading his tail feathers; a spectacle in my own mind.
Earlier in the evening an unbidden desire led me to spend a little extra time in the bathroom. I got my hair cut today, so between the girls at Super Cuts and my hand with a razor I am well-groomed, having taken more care than I normally would for a night of solo dancing and drinking. I took the time to trim my pubic hair, pruning and blending, shaving what can be shaved, though I still can't do a damn thing with my chest. So, prepared and driven half by unsated lust and the other by eager curiosity, I'm here to execute a self-study of my behavior toward similarly inclined members of the same sex. That's right. Tonight I'm here to get myself tangled up with another man, an opportunity that has presented itself before but I have always declined. Not tonight.
My eyes drift from male to male as I move to the music. A handful seem to be curious but most are caught up in their own agendas, laughing and being comfortable in their own skins, surrounded by trusted friends and lovers. On a normal night at least a few might approach me at the bar where I stood behind an imaginary line of heterosexual masculinity. "I'm just here to dance, drink, and smoke." I'd always say. Later I would learn they saw something very differently.
The music ebbs and flows as it does, measure after measure, bar after bar, organized in each theme by the constant pneumatic pounding of electronic bass. Once the ears surrender to the assault, the brain entrains with it, followed by the body inexorably toward a light state of hypnosis. After all, it is called trance music for a reason. This is the source of my graceful dance. The mind just switches off and ceases caring for what the body does. To know me is to understand that my mind is always going a mile a minute. Ideas come unbidden constantly, are reflected upon, and are forgotten almost instantaneously, followed by memories, past shames, anxieties, failures, and all of them reliving vividly the crushing blow of familial disappointment and self-loathing. Nothing—not even sex thus far—matches the unadulterated bliss of my mind being mindless, of just being a creature of pure instinct and desire, loving and being loved, and above all being wanted. It is the crux of all my fantasies, and it is all expressed in my dance. Don't ask. Just fuck me.
The bars count away and the music builds, the suspense palpable just before the entire room moves in unison along a spine tingling compression wave, sweeping us all into a rolling crescendo of rhythmic thunder. At once I am overtaken by vertigo and carelessness. I can only feel myself breathe, but I can hear the uproar, the shouts and whistles. As the climax fades and I settle into this new theme soft fingertips grace my waist from behind. They are warm and curious, inscribing caution as they wrap around my glistening midriff.
Taking an involuntary step back I tremble against this stranger. He feels strong and his boldness invokes every vulnerability. I have been claimed, and before I can protest my body is alight with the sensation of crisp stubble. His kiss leaves a pink spot of mildly irritated skin on my left shoulder, tickling along the tendons and viscera to my waiting neck. I have come once again to that now defunct imaginary line. This time resistance is quashed in my gut as I abruptly stop dancing. Tired of running from this moment I finally submit, leaning back against him.
The time for grace has come to an end. I roll my head back against his chest and I am treated to his warm tongue soulfully enjoying the savor of my sweat beaded flesh. His affection is cleansing for the soul. I feel so beautiful. I am wanted, and I want this. My head is tenderly urged to the left, and without even seeing his face his lips are upon mine. His tongue beckons and we meet in a throaty moan urging my shy tongue forward. His deep breath accelerates the swelling mass against my butt when he pushes our hips onward with the music. On this night the taste of gin emphasizes the sleaze of my first gay kiss, and I love it.
Our lips engaged in wordless lust we dance together. I never learned how to 'bump and grind', and I would never need to. My body is now his and my hips and shoulders reciprocate like a flying shuttle about the warp of his frame, weaving such a sordid tapestry for all to see. And I want them to see. Watch me plunge into the unknown. Watch me give in. I have wanted to give in for so long.
We part for a moment and turning I allow myself to look at my lover for the first time. As boys scoping out the competition we learn early what a hot guy looks like. We know when we've been outplayed for the girl, and secretly mimic those boys. My suitor is that boy, now a man. He's tall, olive skinned, cleanly groomed, his face symmetrically sympathetic with masculine angles, and—unlike myself—fully clothed. His chest is broad and I can just make out the cut features just under his white cotton button down. Though, waiting for me under the dark closely cropped hair, catching the strobe lights and laser shimmer, brushing aside my pretensions are his eyes. Rich hazel hued, almost caramel, framed in thick lashes with wandering brows.
"Uhh, hi," is all I can manage.
"What's your name?" Is he pleased with himself? His lips curl deliciously with the words, and I cannot help but notice how well-proportioned they are to the rest of his face. He is simply beautiful.
"Carston." I am hoarse and shaking, and my voice reflects it. He knows. There is no turning back. He has won, and his advance has driven the rest away. Not that I mind; I could not ask for a more eligible man. He is perfect.
"Julian," he pauses to lick those slicked lips and watches my eyes drift over them. "Don't take this the wrong way but I've been watching you dance for a while."
"Thank you," I mumble under the music. A part of me still wants to flee and his admission has left me an opening. I could thank him for his company, quickly, before I discover how much I enjoy the rest of him. But, I won't. My lusts are kindled. I need him. "I, uh, learned to dance in Salt Lake. I ran around the Wasatch Valley club scene. Met a few dancers and shamelessly copied them. Had a lot of fun." My heart is pounding in my ears, more loudly than the music. I cannot keep my voice from wavering.
"I bet. Mormon?"
I shake my head adamantly. The mention of religion is almost a deal breaker, but I let it go.
He looks me over appreciatively and I can feel myself canting to give him a better look. My jeans are sweat stretched and barely clinging to my hips.
"You look to be parched, Carston. May I offer you a drink?"
"Oh I'm fine." He frowns at my dubious protest and insists with a smile, to which I cannot refuse. "Lucid," I ask, caving as I glance down at his crotch. I had never given my gag reflex much thought until now. My being is completely changed. I feel at ease and comfortable. To my surprise I don't feel feminine, but more masculine, a masculinity beyond the spectrum of popular culture, a purer and more complete masculinity. This transition from lustful face sucking to just two guys being guys is alarmingly seamless. I can see us playing SOCOM on a dirty futon only to descend into shameless acts of delicious buggery depending on who got naked first, only to go back to the PlayStation after a brief mutual tongue bath.
"Lucid? Potent stuff. And here I took you for a Heineken kind of guy." My hand is seized in his, warm, palms so dry—unlike mine being a nervous wreck. He guides me through the Wild Kingdom gathered around the bar and pushes me against it. No one defies him as he places himself squarely behind me, his slacks warm against my cooling back along with his bulging fly. He clutches me possessively, and from over my shoulder is served immediately. It feels so right.
