Prisoners in a Kaleidoscope

On the sidelines stand those too self-conscious, too tired or too preoccupied with cruising to dance. Their eyes glide to and fro across the writhing mass of bodies on the floor, caught up in the throbbing music, jerking and twisting, whirling and twirling, knotting and unknotting, a wild tangle of limbs and torsos all somehow avoiding collision while the lightshow imprisons them in its kaleidoscope.

Weaving around the edges, waiters clear glasses and empty ashtrays while punters strive to generate more empties, more full. The air is thick with smoke, dry ice, sweat, heat, sexual tension and sound. Everywhere is motion, everywhere is a fluid tapestry of brilliant colour and fractured shadows, ceaseless.

Yet now, for the tiniest moment, everything seems almost frozen, as if the cascading light and noise have congealed and solidified around the dancers, the watchers, the drinkers, the cruisers, the screamers, the bartenders, the glass-collectors, crystallizing like sap to amber around the unsuspecting fly.

* * *

Drinks in hand, Bernard wove through the ranks of not-quite-dancers and spectators at the edges of the dancefloor, glancing occasionally into the throng. Those in the gloom on the fringes timidly tapped their feet or waved their shoulders, nerving themselves up to dance; or, more confidently, just stood and appraised those on the floor, perhaps catching the eyes of a potential partner, perhaps just enjoying the swirl and the heat and the throbbing music. Further down, the darkness deepened and tiny spotlights picked out a handful of small tables; Bernard descended on one of these.

"One pint of Guinness, one vodka tonic," he announced, setting the drinks down and seating himself. The music was quieter here, but he still had to talk loudly to be heard.
   "Thanks," said the boy, who had introduced himself as David, taking a long swallow of Guinness.
   "I haven't seen you here before," said Bernard. David looked quizzically around, vaguely indicating that there were perhaps 800 men in the club. He didn't press the point, however.
   "I came once -- about four months ago. I'm not... on the scene very often."
   "Don't you like it?"
   "It's not that..." David seemed in a hurry to apologize.
   "There's no reason why you should."
   "No." There was a pause. "I like to dance. I sometimes feel like an exhibit, though, or an animal at the zoo."
   "You're very attractive." Which was true.
   "I know, in a way. It's flattering that so many men want to go to bed with me, but it's unnerving as well. When you walk into a place like this, you see everyone gives you the once-over and it's like they're marking you out of ten. It's nice to know that often I'll be an 8 or 9, but I'd rather not be marked at all."
   "Is that why you didn't come back for four months?"
   "No, actually..." David looked embarrassed, glancing around almost furtively. "I enjoyed it here when I came before. I'd been to a few other clubs, this one seemed, I don't know, cleaner, less tacky." He paused, gazing into his glass, then gulped down the last of the Guinness. "I didn't go home with anyone, though a couple of people asked me. When I left, I," his voice dropped, "I kind of got beaten up outside."
   "That's terrible!" Bernard was genuinely horrified.
   "No it wasn't, that is, yes, it was terrible, but really it wasn't serious, like I wasn't hurt or anything. It was mostly just name-calling, but it frightened me a bit..."
   "I'm really sorry."
   "It's ancient history now. Here I am."
   "Shall I change the subject?"
   "Tell me about you, I've talked too much already."
   "Well I hope you'll say a bit more before the night is over."
   A smile.
   "There isn't much to tell. I work. I go out often and I rarely go home alone. I was surprised you let me buy you a drink and I'm still surprised you're talking to me."
   "Ha. You're running yourself down. I let you buy me a drink and am talking to you because I find you attractive and because you asked nicely."
   "Thank you."
   "Ha. How old are you?"
   "Twenty-five."
   "Ah, a geriatric. I'm nineteen."
   "Ah, a babe in arms. Do you really think twenty-five is old?"
   "No, but I can tell you do."
   "God, am I that obvious? It seems a very long time since I was nineteen."
   "What were you like then?"
   "You don't know what I'm like now, yet."
   "Then's probably easier to tell."
   "You're a precocious child, aren't you? When I was your age -- listen to me, I sound like your grandfather or something -- when I was your age I was a chronically depressed closet case with acne and an impossible crush on a boy I used to see at the swimming pool. The usual sort of thing. I don't miss being young."
   "What nonsense, you are young."
   "I started going to clubs when I was twenty and it didn't take me long to blossom into the old slut you see before you. Let me tell you, five years of chronic bed-hopping really takes it out of you." All this was said lightly, with a broad smile, but Bernard found he almost believed it.
   "I think you're an old romantic at heart, though you try to talk like a grizzled old cynic."
   "You just called me 'old' twice in one sentence. What did I tell you?"
   David laughed. "Alright. Tell me, will I be as old as you when I'm twenty-five?"
   "Depends. Are you likely to spend the next six years cruising the nightclubs?"
   "I can't tell at the moment -- well, I told you, they unnerve me."
   "Do you sleep around?"
   "What a forward question!"
   "Sorry."
   "Will it be sleeping around if I go home with you tonight?"
   "It might be."
   "Then I might sleep around."
Posted by matt at November 19, 2003 02:02 PM