Apocalyptic - 1. Apocalypti

Heat laced with the scent of sweat, beer and artificial flowers etched its way down the back of my throat as soon as I walked into The Bear Club. A club despite its name wasn’t a gay club, although no one minded if two guys danced on the parquetted floorboards in front of the DJ. It was my go-to spot when I felt the need to expend energy dancing rather than pounding the pavements or hitting the machines at the gym. It was my go-to spot where I could see those courageous guys who held hands with other males, who danced, got close, got intimate. Where I could dream I would one day find that same courage.

A new band’s apocalyptic music pounded its rhythm filling my head and chest, my hips already swinging as I headed straight to the dance floor. As usual, a couple of ladies were dancing obviously sharing the music rather than sharing intimacy. I gently pushed my way to one side of them and let the music flow through me, eyes unfocused, shoulders and arms joining my hips in celebrating the beat that filled the space around me.

Easy to get lost in the music, easy to close my eyes and just flow into the images the music induced, but I didn’t let myself lose all awareness of my surrounds. Two songs before the ladies moved to dance with me, them mimicking my movements, me mimicking theirs. I received a gentle smile from one, her long blonde hair swaying around her shoulders. Both were dressed in apocalyptic style – the blonde in a form-fitting waistcoat and pale top with a skirt that reached her knees, a belt of multiple strands of chains that probably jangled as her hips swayed – if the music had allowed me to hear. The other, short cropped hair in a half mohawk, wore less – a short, short skirt, that in the darkness I was sure were two ruffled skirts, with a crop top that displayed her curves from waist to hips. I could recognise the beauty of both, even if it failed to excite me.

But I could pretend.

I took a step closer to Ms Mohawk, lessened the breadth of my movements, yet turned a little to MS Blondie, inviting her closer too. She took up my offer. Her hips moving more sensually, her shoulders pushed back, the waistcoat accentuating both her waist and her breasts. MS Mohawk, not to be outdone, grinned and danced a little to my side, a touch closer. Hips jiggling faster to match the up-tempo beat, but her torso swaying in contrast - slow and sultry.

My grin was genuine; the challenge of accommodating both styles, of entertaining both women, of satisfying the half hidden promise without being dominating was welcome after dealing with my working life. Too long since I last ‘let go’.

Hips facing one, shoulders facing the others, twisting to swap, I moved to alternate between them both, making eye contact, then dropping my gaze to watch hips move. I could get lost in the illusion that this was what I ultimately wanted.

Two more songs became three, and four. This threesome had become closer, almost touching; Mohawk’s skirts brushing my thighs, Blondie’s hand occasionally grazing my hips, that wasn’t always accidental. So close I imagined I could hear the chains at her waist clink. To keep the deception I let my hands, my hips come in contact with them, just for a moment. Let my eyes travel down from their faces to hips and back up, a grin always there. For them it was real. For me? Well, I always was good at acting.

“Excuse me, I’m cutting in.”

The deep voice was in my ear, loud enough to hear over the music, his breath warm on my neck despite the heat of my skin. I turned, stepping backwards, dancing forgotten. He was taller than me, so close, too close. Another step backwards, stepping between the two ladies, who twisted his way, presenting their backs to me.

I could understand the rejection. He was beautiful. Taller by a good six inches, shoulders that stretched his t-shirt, ripped at the neck, showing a hint of dark hair. Classic V shape chest, jeans sitting low. My heart thudded in time to the music. My smile was a bit forced, but I came to dance and I had. A drink would give me time to replenish lost hydration, recoup and get back on the dance floor. I dipped my head as I turned away.

To feel my wrist grasped and tugged. I twisted. Looked up – he was standing close again, his back to the two women. A frown, a worried look. He leant closer. “I meant you.”

“What?”

I knew he couldn’t hear, I hadn’t spoken that loud. But he understood anyway. He stepped closer still, heat from his chest sending shivers down my spine. Leant down till his face was close, Old Spice overpowering the mixed smell of the dance floor. “Did I read wrong?” He still carried a worried look on his face. He was shouting, but his voice was quiet, competing against the current song. “I apologise.” He let my wrist go. And turned.

I just stood there. The beat forgotten, my body stock still, my brain racing instead. His ponytail of black hair, glowing red and green as the lights flashed in time to the music, swayed as he pushed through the dancers. Like a tide they closed behind him.

“No!”

I fairly shouted the word – just as the band finished the song and silence descended.

He turned. As did half those on the dance floor. I could feel heat wash across my face. More so as he grinned. “No?” The band must have heard too as they didn’t immediately start the next song. Everything – the music, the dancers, even the strobe lights – seemed to focus on letting this scene play out uninterrupted.

I swallowed. Could I admit to this? Could I not? I closed my eyes, couldn’t bear to see any negativity. My muscles twitched, flight seemed like a good idea.

“No.”

Did I really say that? Was that my voice? It couldn’t be. I wasn’t out. Barely to myself, not in public, not to everyone, to anyone.

But I felt him standing close again – my eyes were still closed – Old Spice and fresh hewn wood wrapping around me, his hands rubbed down from my shoulders to my hands – calluses scratching my skin in oh such a delicious way.

His hands slipped to my hips and he encouraged them to move, just as his were. “Just a song.” I nodded, eyes still squeezed tight. “Or two.” I realised the band had started up. Or a different one – the sounds was more techno than before. The beat slower. Softer. I felt my body move with his, without his encouragement. Though he kept his hands on my hips. I let the music fill me, let it become my world.

That and his hands, the sway of his body next to mine, the smell of him, his whispering voice.

“Beautiful, sexy. You don’t realise do you? So good to feel you next to me. So long I’ve wanted this. So long. I’ve watched, waited. So many nights. Exquisite, you smell of fresh fields, of autumn after rain. So good.”

The song changed – something stronger, the words harsh, loud. Abrasive. The complete opposite to his voice, his words. My movements matched the beat, hips oscillating in time, pushing against him, leaning back so my shoulders could twist, my hands playing up and down his arms, but barely touching. His fingers gripped tighter, pulled my hips harder to him, his matching my movements. And still I kept my eyes closed.

Images filled my head, substituting the darkness with an apocalyptic world. Where first world problems were non-existent, where life was more real. Where lives were lived to the fullest because it was short and harsh, survival the only worry. Where emotions are true, not hidden with false nuances.

Where I had the courage to be myself.

Apocalyptic. Devastation. Doom. The ending of the world. Of my world.

My eyes opened as I shivered. This was my doom. The ending of my world. I looked up. He was looking at me, a smile on his face. In his eyes.

Yes, this was my doom. He was. The end of my world.

But not an apocalypse, not a cataclysm. Freedom, fortuity. Harmony.

I smiled back.