Black playa boots step out of his car at midnite. I am not afraid to go alone.

Never having been here before, not knowing how or when I'll get home (wherever that is this week), I follow the vampires, the nitemare dolls, the underworld strippers, the skeleton men in billowing coats with ghoulish powdered faces because those are the shapes my eyes recognize. They lead the way to where I intend to be.

Quiet little girls who arrive by themselves in short skirts don't get searched at the door. I could have had steel blades in my piercings and napalm in my dreads for all the security guards cared. As long as I was wearing black, I had the secret handshake. Black death fairy platform shoes, black crying-widow smeared eyeliner, black spikes on leather cuffs, black thigh highs ripped to shreds - just another back alley goblin haunting the Sanctuary's dance floor.

Here in Vancouver, the d.j. risks life and death, taking chances on dark wave and sinister drum and bass. I start slow, like an adult - hips rocking almost imperceptibly, ribs riding an invisible wave, eye contact with no one - I'm just here to dance. I keep it small and contained to build up juice and not appear "too professional" too early (there are many unspoken rules some of us have to adhere to in order to appear normal even in freak shows like this). Miniature movements and downcast eyes - I came to dance, not socialize - just vibe that abrasive beat, bring it up through the floor, fill my puppet body with motions, my veins with life, make me forget I ever cared if anyone stopped dancing next to me because I took too much room, or was dancing too good, or simply because in truth, they themselves wanted to get a better view. I am sweating now and disrobing and jumping onto the stage where all can get an eyeful. I am so comfortable with that that I pay no mind to the attention because the real reason I am up here is because I can see everything: throbbing gesticulating bodies conjuring catharsis, exorcising torment - a dance floor full of ghouls and spiked bobbing heads. This is what I live for. This is what is real in life. These costumes, these personas, these naked fantasies. These are the rules of the dance, and following these rules sets us free.

After two glasses of warm water and two hours of solid emotional exertion, I leave without having spoken to a soul. Black playa boots step from wet pavement into the back of a taxi. I am not afraid to do anything alone.

2 comments Links to this post