Promiscuous

Just over an hour ago, I had been sitting on my couch, wallowing in my own self-pity.

It seems so strange to think about now, but at the time, life had seemed pretty hopeless. For over a year, now, I had spent nearly every night alone. Most of my friends have stopped talking to me, and my family only cared to talk to me when it was to unload their own problems. I didn't mind most of the time, but after a while, it clicked that they never asked me about my own life. My own problems.

And there were a lot. Just recently, a few old friends had died, either from suicide or from heart disease. It seemed unfair, with most of them being in their mid-twenties. My age. The same age as I am, yet they had already decided life just wasn't for them. At a point, I started questioning whether they had the right idea. Whether maybe there was nothing left.

But it wasn't all Life's fault. I stopped going out. I stopped caring. I decided life wasn't for me, but neither was death, and so I just sat at home, a glass of wine in my hands, in silence, just waiting to go to bed.

And those were my days. I'd wake up, go to work. I'd get home, sit in silence. Then, off to bed to do it again.

Work. Silence. Bed.

Tonight, I felt a sudden tug toward the door. An urge to fill the silence with something more. Truth be told, I had felt the urge for a while, but never felt compelled enough to break comfortable habit, unhealthy as it probably was. Within me was a rising desire to do something, anything, outside of my apartment. I stared into the glass of wine, which had not been touched. I could do it. I could leave. I could go to bed late tonight.

That's how it started. I put the glass down, put on my shoes, and drove, not sure where I was going, but hoping for something.

That's how I ended up at the club. A burlesque club that had been recently claimed by the queer community. Being a queer man, myself, I decided to go in the moment I saw it. I wanted to be surrounded by people like myself. I wanted the comfort of dancing the way I wanted to.

The problem: I haven't danced in years. Not since the first death. Not since I first shut myself out from everybody. Even my co-workers never tried getting close to me. I was never invited out. I was never put in the group chats. They must have known off the bat that I wasn't interested. I might have, if I was asked, but ultimately, I decided it was better this way.

So, I sit now, watching everyone on the dance floor. Groups and couples rubbed against each other in a drunken haze, many of them raising their glasses to the ceiling as if dedicating the dance to any god who might be watching.

Drink. Maybe that's what I need. On an average night, I might drink by myself. It was an unfortunate habit I became aware of and began limiting myself on. But tonight might be the night to go all out.

A million reasons not to drink start racing through my mind. Nonetheless, I pick myself up and make my way to the bar.

What about the car?

I'll call a ride on an app. It's cheap enough and I can come back.

What if I get too drunk with no one to take me home?

I know my limit. But maybe I'll approach it tonight.

What if...?

I'm already at the bar when I decide that maybe having fun doesn't allow for careful thought. But maybe that shouldn't matter. I step up and get the bartender's attention.

"What will it be?" she asks.

"Vodka lemonade, make it a double," I hear myself say.

I realize how hungry I am. I didn't eat much today, as if subconsciously preparing myself to come out. Ready for the alcohol to take its hold.

Carefully.

But I've been careful for over a year now. I've been careful my whole life.

Tonight, I let myself be reckless.

Tonight, I live again.

The moment the glass enters my hand, I down the vodka lemonade as fast as my body will let me. For the first time in a very long time, I feel a sliver of hope. Maybe it's the vodka, but a feeling of excitement sparks to life in my chest, swelling and spreading like a fire through my limbs. The drink is already halfway gone and already, I feel not only the compulsion to do something. I feel like I finally have the means.

I make my way to the dancefloor, still feeling a little shy, but the alcohol already giving me more energy than I had minutes ago. My legs carry me to the edge of where everyone is dancing, my eyes darting quickly among the moving crowd. A smile creeps on my face and suddenly, I feel every beat of the song playing.

Promiscuous.

The voice of Nelly Furtado pairs beautifully with the added bass from the DJ. I take another gulp from my drink until it is empty. Without thinking, I set it down, and suddenly, I enter the crowd.

I hadn't danced for years. I wasn't sure if I even knew how. I put my faith in my newfound drunkenness and I feel my body start moving. I move simply back and forth, alternating my feet, smiling at the other dancers, but still sober enough to feel how awkward I probably look.

Everyone looks awkward.

I close my eyes and feel every beat of the song. I listen to the lyrics. It doesn't take long for them to sound as if they have sped up. And I realize as I keep my eyes closed that my body has begun moving in ways it hasn't moved in years.

I open them and make eye contact with another man dancing across the floor. He smiles, much more confident than I am.

Than I was.

His clothes are tight-fitting. His eyes are bright and energized. He's about my height, his bright skin reflecting every color from the lights above, his hair almost long enough in the front to cover his eyes, but not quite reaching.

I smile back and begin moving toward him, my arms stretched out, flowing in front of me, as if trying to grasp him, but with the force of slow-moving water. He does the same. I keep going.

Suddenly, the judging eyes of the crowd in front of me disappear. Each body is just that, and a path opens in front of me. It's no less obstructive than it had been, but I can now see the way to my mystery dancer.

For what simultaneously felt like an eternity and a second of sped-up time, he seemed like he was an eternity away, never quite reaching me. But now, his hand was within reach. Without thinking, I grab it.

It's warm. We hold each other's hand for a quick second, and I feel his warmth, the pads of his fingers grab mine, his whole hand contorting to hold me better. His soft skin holds mine firmly before his hand moves to move me under his arm and in front of him.

His arm wraps around me as his other reaches up to the ceiling. We rub up against each other, and suddenly, no one else exists. This man is the only person who matters. I am suddenly ready to give this stranger every part of myself, but we aren't there yet. We talk through dancing.

I lean back, eyes up. He is wearing a button-up shirt, with half of the buttons undone. I feel my scalp touch his bare chest. It's just as warm as his hand. If he is breathing heavily, I cannot tell because he keeps moving rapidly with the music, but slow enough for me to rest my head for a moment. My eyes turn up to his face. His eyes are closed and the expression on his face shows me he is clearly relaxed. He might have been drinking beforehand, but now, all that matters to him is me and this song.

My eyes now turn to the blanket of lights flashing across the ceiling, each color blending into each other in a sky of odd-colored stars. Each one blinks in sync with the song.

And all is one.

The music, the lights, his body and mine. The blanket of color wraps around us, circling the only two people who exist on the dance floor, encouraging our movement, urging us to continue, telling me there's more to this dance. More to our silent conversation. More to life. Through the music, the DJ assures me there is nothing to be afraid of.

I take charge. Moving with the beat and flow of the chorus, I take hold of his hand and move him in front of me.

We face each other, his eyes full of surprise and wonder as he moves back and forth on either foot. I mimic him until we are perfectly in sync once more, and the moment we become one dancer in two bodies, I add more movement, and he follows, allowing me to take charge. The conversation erupts in escalating passion, starting first in our torso and moving quickly to our hips, each taking lives of their own, longing for each other and thrusting toward one another, eager to meet.

Once they do, he turns around, his backside now on my front, him bending over and moving wildly against myself. I reach my arms to the blanket of light, embracing all they have to offer. Each color is a mood.

Red is passion.

Green is bravery.

Pink is desire.

He reaches downward, then up, forward, then back, grabbing my hands and turning back around to face me, now closer than ever.

The song continues, but is now just background noise. We look into each other's eyes. His are bright, not any color in the stars above, shining with a passion I didn't see before. They dart downward toward my mouth and before I could react, our lips graze each other for a moment before parting awkwardly.

Everyone looks awkward.

I pull him forward and our lips meet each other once more, this time clinging together. If either of us lost our balance from the booze, we just found it, in each other.

I keep my eyes closed. It doesn't matter who this man is. I don't care if we meet again. Maybe tomorrow, I will forget all of this. But for this moment, I am ready to live again.