Chrisonomicon

Tuesday, January 23, 2001

The pounding, diva-laced music, winds its way into my veins and further into my bones. The attraction to this beat seems to be inherited along with the gay gene, since I know of only a few homos who don?t throw their arms in the air with glee at that first, bone-jarring, soul-vibing, blistering, synthesizer bass-line. Maximum volume. In a rush of pseudo-drug-induced euphoria, my eyes roll back into my head and chills rush up my neck and down through my arms. My head and torso sway in opposite directions to the beat, my arms carve patterns in the humid air. Dance is a drug. Beat is an easy master. In slavery to the rhythm, I dance, yet as a ring-leader is in control of his whip, I am in control of my every movement. Confidence overwhelms the senses, and the beat is continued into the night, led on by the unconscious pleading to Never. Let. This. Feeling. End. But, as all good things do, the feeling gently, softly, quickly subsides. The touchdown is easy. The memory fades to a pale matte in the back of my head, and I return home to restore the desire for another fix, another dance.