Date: Mon, 30 Jan 2006 15:06:52 -0500
From: "hhazel@gmail.com" <hhazel@gmail.com>
Subject: Lavender Haze

For some reason, i didn't see you when i walked in. You, the boy i've
been waiting years for, somehow just blended in with all the meat,
denim and crewcuts.

Of course, i had expected tonight to be as disappointing as all the
others. All expectations of cruising having long disappeared from my
head, i prepared for dancing a ball of sweat around myself and
leaving feeling destructive. My makeup was simple and personal, my
dress practical, not even bothering with supposedly lucky underwear.
If you hadn't been there, it wouldn't have mattered a whit. I would
have biked home singing and shrieking
"Boyfriend, boyfriend, where are you?
I ain't got no money, and
i ain't got no boyfriend"
over and over, daring cars to hit me and threatening advertisements to
myself.

They hired a new bouncer, so having already paid and sensuously
thanked everybody's boyfriend at the cash, i was sent back outside to
attempt chugging the forty in my backpack. The regular security, she
gets folks needing to save money at the bar, but some people just
don't, or they need to learn. If it happens again, we'll make him
understand, and i'll bring two that we can share. Anyways, i down most of
the bottle before i see some squeegee kids and give them the rest. I
light a cigarette to take the edge off and stroll back in without
bothering to eye the thug at the door. Do you see how i need you?
Maybe we can be angry together and it won't have to be all mine.

Out on the dance floor were the banal dudes in camouflage, the
leather daddies and the frat boys, so i walked over to the side for a
seat by the wall to finish my cigarette and get into the groove.
There was fairly predictable house playing, but with a head full of
booze it sounded danceable. In a couple of songs, i got up and
started rocking and swaying, waiting for the music to take over. My
mind was self-conscious and worried that i was just a robot stuck on
repeat, but the fear faded to trust so my joints could move freely.
Soon, i was into it, picturing myself as a horse, or a unicorn,
prancing in a square and pawing at the air. Slowly my mind turned
off, and i was left in the peace of movement, quick and constantly
changing.

Song after song, i rode the waves with my eyes unfocused, looking
ahead to the next hook, break and climax. Peaks in house are the
worst, but the initial lead up is wonderful, when it's soft and
quiet--just tweaks me all over. My arms were twisting, my hair in my
face and me floating on one foot when i feel, then look up and see,
your eyes on me. Your smile freezes me, and i almost fall over but
for the wall behind me. One of these days, you'll have to tell me
how you came across the floor and if i ended up saying anything else
besides, "Bien sur," cuz the first thing i remember is my hand
sliding from your neck across your chest to that tender hip i never
wanted to let go of, and didn't, bearing in mind what Nijinsky wrote,
that "the moment is forever." Had we been dancing long, or was it
really that first touch which broke the spell? Just whisper the
explanation in my ear the next time we dance and i'll thank you with
my fingers.

We rocked together, again, for ever, and you released my heart,
freeing hope once more. For weeks, everything i've been cooking has
had bay leaves in it, so that i could lick them clean and make a
wish. Each and every time, my wish has been the same, with minor
specifications here and there, but i can't tell you what i wished or
the spell will be broken. Suffice it to say, my earlier words of
hopelessness were more dramatic than absolutely necessary, but there
you have it.

You are magic, boy, and unless i see you again, i'll doubt your
reality, though i can still remember your touch, your hip rubbing
against mine, and the taste of your neck. It wasn't salty, but
tangy, like mango chutney. How do you maintain such a fabulous pH?
If you told me, i would believe you, that it is a secret you learned
from Willy Wonka. One day, maybe you'll be my Everlasting Gobstopper.

"If you want to view paradise,
simply look around and view it.
Anything you want to, do it.
Want to change the world?
There's nothing
to it."

Your cap was in the way, so i took it and stuck in in my backpocket.
You are so good humoured that, to even the scales, you stole my lips
and didn't stop kissing to give me air until i stuck it into the
waist of your pants, for which you rewarded me with your tongue and
then fresh air. Your smile was so terrible and kind that i now
suspect you would tie me up if i asked it and do awful things to me
over which i'd have no control. But such are fantasies, and i'm
writing of memories, remembrances of a dance floor that finally
gifted me a boy of kindness and rhythm.

We moved as marionettes attached by elastic, bound to eachother by
powers we'll never know. No sooner would your hands raise in ecstasy
than they would clamp down on me, pulling me near, to feel your
muscles shift and spasm; the music would tell me to lean back, but my
hips would grind all the closer.

Did we really even techno-tango for a bit? Were we really so
entranced? If i recall correctly, which is possible, we held each a
hand together, outstretched, and let the remaining two hands roam
freely as our legs entwined and our hungry lips dined on muscle and
sweat and skin and bone. At once there were your hair under my hand
and your hand on my ass, both soft and exciting.

And so what, then? Did your fairy godmother call you off? Come
three, did you turn into a poor frog, cleaning the wolf's child cage?
You know, i had no intention of being sexual after such a wonderful
time, if that's what made you have to leave.

Or did you understand how i hate speaking, how stone private i am,
and know that saying you were going to the bathroom and heading
straight out the door instead would be least painful? Are you the
same?, a dance romantic? Tell me with a shimmy, with your pelvis
against my ass, same place same time.

I don't know what you've been dealt, so this isn't a request or a
plea, just an invitation to another chance at bliss. Yes, it's true,
there are thousands of these wheatpasted around Montreal and, cough,
a few other possible hometowns as well, but no pressure, it's only a
work of love.

Take care, dance on,
hazel


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