I went to a dance club last weekend, for the first time in months. I was dragged to Liberty’s, a favorite bar for those on campus. There I discovered the human animal. So often professed not to exist, this animal is woken from the human psyche when the body is drunk, on drugs, part of mob, being attacked, or at a dance club. (One could argue the later two are the same experience) This functioning of mind so often comes about during the college years, when people are freed of the constraints of parents and high school. So, this condition affects freshman, girls, especially.
So, off we went to this bacchanalian event; clad in tight shiny clothing, high heels and thickly caked makeup, dressed up to perform the human mating dance. I had forgotten this about this dance; myself so far removed from when I last performed it. If any of you old timers remember Maxwell’s, you might also have drunk blurry memories of me performing untold acts with you on the dance floor. However, years removed from this, and the memories nearly suppressed, I went to Liberty’s with my compatriots. We stepped to the center of the crowded dance floor. I noticed a man near us, a rather attractive in fact, a skin tight shirt made of material akin to that of a bathing suit formed a second skin over his body, which he obviously took to the gym quite often. So, call me competitive, I wanted to dance with him, mind you, not the “lets pretend were doing it standing up” type of dancing. Rather the, “hi, who are you,” dancing. Suddenly, women appeared, not just one, no, no, a herd of them, sparkly and make-uped, with cleavage sticking out every which way, barely covered by there clothes that must have been bought in the children’s department. Ok, so lots of women like the bathing suit shirt man. That’s fine, they can have him. He seems to like dancing with three girls at once. I have lost the mating game. But wait, this onslaught of people would not fit in the center of the dance floor. The pressure had to be expelled. Elbowed and shoved, stepped on and given looks of foreboding by these seemingly graceful kind women, I staggered from the dance floor, confused and in shock, caressed on my rear and waist by many an unfamiliar hand. So, ego bruised, and competition underway, I managed, after much time to return to my spot. The bambies had disappeared, thank god. The bathing suit shirt man was still there, but I viewed him with much disdain, seeing him as a human peacock.
I dance. A man, unknown to me, comes up behind me and grabs my waist. The mating dance way of saying hello. Instead of starting a conversation, or at least attempting to see my face, the man rubs his bit of man against my rear. I suppose this is when I am to be swept away by his power and fall into his arms, to be taken for the night.
However, I move into another dance room. This other room is sparsely populated, not filled with would be rappers pretending to perform every song while violently throwing their arms is the air, and in turn elbowing my head. This room has music without words. Break-dancers are here. Why yes, my god, its mini-rave room. I have found heaven; Individual dancing instead of touchy-feely friction, Jumping and whole body movement instead of ass wiggling. I am happy. I join in, somewhat familiar with the venue. I feel free. The mating dance does not exist here, this world of the individual. The music is not what my 14-year-old sister listens to. It is more, different, it is better. Soon, those occupants, of the aforementioned dance floor of copulation, explode into my haven, no doubt beaten back by the flock of bambies. They are confused. They don’t know how to dance to this music. They step on the break-dancers. They give the ravers funny looks. But they, the young mating dance participants, do not know what is coming. They do not know that their style may soon by usurped by this strange rave community. I see the peacock man before me. He now has four women bumping into him. But can he do anything but look good, and dance the mating dance. I doubt it.