Bodies in motion

There’s no line, like there is in the movies.  Never a line at a place like this.  There’s a steady stream of people going in and no one coming out.  The place is always full, but never uncomfortable.  I don’t know how that works, but somehow it does without the need for a line. 

There’s a rush of heat as the doors open.  The kind of natural, sticky heat created by bodies in motion.  The darkness is blinding, cut by spotlights moving in random circles.  In intervals, the fog machine makes it hard to see the faces attached to the bodies responsible for the heat. 

Inside, I’m hit with a wall of sound.  Indeterminable, at first.  Just noise, loud and all encompassing.  To my right is the coat check.  A bored looking girl, stick-straight black hair in low pig-tails, head in one hand, texting with the other, sits on a barstool while she waits for coats that need checking.  From the empty hangers, I can tell it’s been a slow night, coat-wise. 

I inhale.  There’s a sting of sweat.  Over-applied perfume and cologne and hair gel, but mostly sweat.  It’s a familiar smell. 

I snake and weave my way through the sea of dancers as I make my way to the back and the sound gets clearer.  The parts become individual, less of a whole.  There is the deep, pulsating rumble of the music, steady, motivating.  There are a million different conversations, fighting to be heard, losing the battle.  There is drink orders desperately being requested.  There is the clink of bottles and the slosh of their liquid being poured and served.  There is the muffled voice of the dj, encouraging the crowd to get louder, I think, which works.  The voice of the dj is enough to illicit screams, no matter what the voice says.  And if I listen very carefully, there is the sound of shuffling.  The smooth ‘shweep shweep’ of dancing feet attached to the bodies in motion responsible for the heat.  

‘Blue lagoon,’ I order.  It’s out of character for me but it’s the first drink I think of.  The bartender, who is one of six uniformed in tight black t-shirts and slim fitting blue jeans, all the same, guy or girl, gives me a quick nod and turns his back.  I look down the bar and see I’m the only one who didn’t order beer.  If I’m going to pay someone to simply hand me a drink, I’d like him to make it for me first. 

With another quick nod, he slides the clear plastic cup towards me, filled nearly to the top with a glowing blue, the only garnish a tiny straw.  I lay the money down on the bar, partially in a puddle of beer, and turn to walk away.  I lift the drink, inhale the raspberry scent and taste.  And taste again.  The sweet sting of vodka.  There are too many bodies to simply walk, so I go back to snaking and weaving, brushing against more people this time, careful not to spill my drink on any of them. 

Drink in hand, I begin to allow myself to feel the music.  It starts in my ears.  I feel it tingle, pulsing, tickling.  I close my eyes as it moves into my chest.  The thump thump thumping, encouraging my body to do the same.  Down my arms into my fingers.  It slides down my back, stopping at my hips for a moment, pushing them to sway.  Through my legs, thump thump thump, and finally in my feet, where it stops, lifting them, persuading them to move. 

I open my eyes and am blinded by the rush to my senses; by the heat of the bodies, the smell of sweat, the sound of the music.  It’s all here, all around me, in me. 

I’m ready to let go.  I’m ready to be free.