Never been here before. Heard about it. Tonight, wanted just this. Anonymous and alone. Waking up to parts of me that I thought were gone (bought the ticket myself, sheesh). Waking up in ways far too explicit to tap out in a blog... or maybe just explicit enough. There is a burning quiet here that is so holy it brings me back here, to these digital pages, again and again.
Drove. Dizzy. Didn’t care. Starting to think dizzy doesn’t come from the accident. Starting to think it comes from you. From some harmony of words written across my body. I strapped my helmet to my bike. Stood in line. Haven't had to do that for a while. I'm just arrogant enough to think it was the baseball cap... not arrogant enough to think I'd have gotten in much sooner had I taken it off. Open call for grrls got me through the door... noticed that the wave-through stopped with the first gaggle of white grrls. Hm. Segregation goes all ways I could smirk, but I know it's about the existing balance on the inside. Gotta keep the crowd looking just so mixed (not so stirred).
You look up from the bar. I knew you'd be here. Always you. Any club... LA, Boston, NYC, London... no matter. Never seen *you* before, of course, but I know you with a hundred faces and I recognize you every time. I look down. I touch my cross. I touch my wristband. You unbutton your polo. I lift my chin. You stand up. There is sound. Music, yes, but also that other sound. The one that I first heard at sixteen. The... clinical... buzz in my ears. That... sound.
“There’s another world inside of me
That you may never see.
There’s secrets in this life
That I can hide.”
I move to the hard, forget-it-all beat. Forgetting nothing. I watch you over my shoulder, then turn, walk backward, watch you openly. Take off my vest, tuck it through my belt. Flag football anyone? I'm on the dance floor. Crush of bodies I don't know. Your eyes are brown like mahogany. Your perfume is something musky. Something west of feminine. I have a pair of your biker boots in my closet. My thumbs through your belt loops, I can identify your lipstick as Chocolate Satisfaction (Revlon) which makes me laugh. You tell me you like that. But you don’t know why I’m laughing.
And I don’t intend to speak to you.
“Everything I am
And everything in me
Wants to be the one
You wanted me to be.”
My eyes are closed. The music pours down on me like liquid fire. There is nothing of release in this shower of sound. There is a tension across my shoulders, a taut urgency in my hands and arms, stomach and thighs. There is the snap of the floor through my boots, the heat of your hands on my hips, the truth that my faith is unshaken by the pounding of my heart. My eyes stay closed.
You murmur something to me. Something about “sense” appeal. You are being careful how you speak, trying to read me as I roll against you, trying to pick up what I’m laying at your feet... or not, as the case may be. You avoid the pop culture words like “hot” and “fine” and decide instead on “smolder” and “desire.” I hold one hand behind your neck, your long black hair a mane of satin curls over my fingers. I shake my head slowly without opening my eyes.
I thought I'd walked away from this feeling. Unimportant, icing on the cake. Too good to be true. Easier to live without. All those platitudes that allow women to walk away from their bodies. All those no-big, yeah-whatev, it-wasn’t-that-great shrug offs that really just mean: Was that all there is?
You run your left hand up my right thigh, skimming blue jeans, over my right arm tat, over the strap of my black tank, into my hair—
No. I catch your hand. Not into my hair. I put your hand back on my hip. I’m thinking about stitches and something else. Someone else. I look at you. My gaze says, Just dance with me.
You pick up my cues.
“Now roaming through this darkness.
I'm alive but I'm alone.
Part of me is fighting this
But part of me is gone.”
The things you do to me. No, not that you. Not the anonymous you in every club... in the quiet halls of conventions... in the after-hours lounges where I like to sit with my Coke while others hold pretty mixed drinks... not those yous. *You,* baby. The things you do to me... from a thousand miles away, with pixels and light and words like fine touches. With letters like lyrics and phrases wrapped in passion. The... person (and you know I typed something else originally) who transforms me nightly, who recasts me back into Christ’s own mold for me, who reminds me why “difficult” is worth it. You wake me up, you capture my attention, you take my breath, speed my heart, remake me as your own.
“You make me feel.”
“Tell me.”
“My skin, my heart, your mouth on mine...”
“You’re describing desire.”
“Is that what this is?”
I shake my head. Why aren’t you here now? I’m not sure anymore. Why don’t I wake to you beside me? I can’t remember. That’s what this does. Scrambles reason and logic like a Japanese puzzle box. Makes mysteries of requirements. Makes rock ‘n’ roll a prerequisite for sanity.
“I'll never let you down.
Even if I could.
I'd give up everything.
If only for your good.”
And as I swing my leg over my bike, the twilight of stars above me whispering your name, I am no more free than I was five hours ago when I arrived. But I have no interest in being free. I am quite content to live ablaze with my over-sized sense of responsibility.
EJ
