On the large, slightly sparse dance floor of Sweet's Ballroom, Oakland, a few people are stood massaging each other and moaning. A man projects a gentle, guiding voice as he walks among them. I’m hesitant to jump in and start rubbing a stranger, so I stand near a guy taking off his shoes. Some time passes.
“Nah," he replies. "It’s not really monogamous. You can just jump right on in.”
I pretend to heartily chuckle, throw him the aaaaah you double finger point and make my way to the dance floor. As I turn away my brow furrows and I pout determinedly. I am not afraid.
A newcomer joins and looks as though she’s in need of a partner, a damsel in distress. I make my way to her only to be swiftly cut off by a squat frogman; the instructor, the guide, the sage, the shaman, a small very caucasian man pushing 40 with flesh tunnels and maybe some facial hair. My legs spaghetti under me as this happens, a result of being so focused on the damsel. Now I’m in the middle of the floor, stranded in hippy shit creek with spaghetti for legs. I look like Bambi on ice.
A tall Norse god takes me in and begins to massage my shoulders. My ever present knots become boulders. Feeling this from his fingertips he grunts in frustration. I turn, look him dead in the eye and say earnestly, “let me do you.”
I reach up and swipe the golden locks over his shoulders and rub them as if they’re dough and I’m a celiac. He mmms and ooohs blissfully, even though I can hear the tiny screams coming from his muscles. I appreciate his attempts to make me feel better and loosen up a touch. After a short while his shoulders soften and I’m beginning to understand all this massage business a little better.
Just as I get comfortable, we’re instructed to move about the room and get a bit silly. I bob up and down and quietly say ‘meep’ periodically. Eventually we’re told to stop and join a new partner. Some guy introduces himself, but I’m distracted by his soul patch. We’re told to begin the bodywork, so I start on his shoulders. From behind I watch as his eyebrows fly off his forehead. He stops me and says, “Here, let me show you.” Twirling me around, he works my back with determination as if to say, “See? See?! DO YOU SEE NOW?!” before letting me have a go again.
We do this, switching off and on for a while, until it’s me on him and we’re told to get into it a bit more. He tells me he’s going to use my body as his “own personal jungle gym.” I’m not too excited by what that means. He begins to roll himself over my torso as I stand still, not really sure what else to do. As he bumps and rubs up against me I wonder, jungle gyms don’t really move, right? Wrong. He informs me that I am to “go with the fluid motion” of his body by bending and moving accordingly. This ends with me on all fours, he rolls over me and says, “Okay, now you over me."
After a some more rolling we’re told to move about the floor again. This time we’re to imitate the movements of people in our peripheral vision. Eventually, when it feels right, we’re to directly engage with and mimic someone as they do the same to us, keeping one another within our periphery. Norse God has the easiest movements to mimic but won’t bite, so I continue to writhe and stare at the floor like I’m on tranquilizers.
A man approaches and from behind our ears antennae extend. Between us they curl and worm and merge together. My eyes roll back into my brain as signals are sent via antenna trembles. We move in tandem, communicating wordlessly. From the images we share I gather that he and I are similar, our lives not too different, although details are unclear: I am not sure which images are his or mine. The instructor signals the end of the session. Our antennae disengage and eyes fall upon one another
We talk and I learn that we have nothing in common. A fat, old, shirtless guy comes over and begins to talk to my partner. I take the opportunity to sneak away.
Ambient music drips from the speakers and the floor begins to fill. People seem to have a pretty good grasp on how to dance to music with no beat. I do not, and so I curl up in a ball hoping to blossom into dance magic as it picks up. This doesn’t happen. I get up and figure that if I pretend to meditate I can seem busy and not have to do anything. Perfect. Sitting, eyes closed, breath slow, time inches by and my back starts to hurt.
I open my eyes, get up and do the rounds. My heart flutters at the sight of a bar. Within moments I’m there surveying their selection. No alcohol. None. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Just “elixirs,” one of which is called “Moonshine.” Close enough I guess. I order two and drink them fast. The girl behind this “bar” is called Lunar. She invites me to one of her monthly moon parties and I joke that I’ll come and read some of my lesbian poetry about she-wolves and the tides lapping hungrily at naked shores. This doesn’t sound as good as it did in my head, and so I leave the bar, hell’s fury drilling into the back of my skull.
Thankfully the music has developed a beat and I start to wobble in time. I survey my surroundings and amongst the flailing white bodies I spot my previous partner. He and the fat, old, naked guy are dancing evocatively, their moist skin allowing them to glide across each other’s erect bodies gracefully. This somehow makes me feel lonely.
Closing my physical eyes and opening my third, I go into my soul’s center. I drift over snowy mountains. A monk chants from within my rib cage. I follow a herd of zebra evading a small pack of lions. I drift up into the stratosphere and back from the stars into my body, thinking the journey would make my physical self more comfortable. It's not.
My previous partner is currently sandwiched between two beautiful women. One of them leans forward and proceeds to twerk up against him. The old guy is nowhere in sight. I go looking for him. Perhaps he is in need of comforting. I feel bad for only thinking of him as the old nude fat dude.
My quest to find him is fruitless and I find myself beside my shoes. I slip them on and myself off into the night, looking for the nearest liquor store.
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