Satyrday's for Dancin'

I meant to write this all down before too much time had past, but too late, and things are hazy.

So, Saturday at the Club.

DJ No Name Bland was doing alright this time. Less pulp, more substance. And more impressively, no dropped beats. His song selection is gravitating more towards the accessible end of the Dark spectrum, and even his happier, more hardcore beats were still pretty good. Boy can't remix worth a damn, but he is finally showing some decent taste. There were no major clashes, no dance floor dump outs, and all in all pretty good. If he keeps this up, I might actually have to learn his name.

I liked his method of warming up the house. Some subtle, dare I say lounge groove at the beginning, and winding up to the more electronic sounds as the night wore on. Not bouncing back and forth like a beatmatched iPod on Random, but a series of progressively matched themes. If you are trying to please everyone, this is how you do it; let everyone in the house get their groove on for an hour or so, and those with broader tastes can work it all night.

Cast and Crew:

Malasia: A new friend of the Muse. Shes been out with us a few times now, and seems very nice. By nice, I mean a good wholesome girl, with a big ole streak of dirty running right through her middle. She is to laugh, and the light-hearted drunken bi-curiousness she brings with her is pleasantly entertaining. In reality, the Muse doesn't play that way at all, but on the floor, everyone's a bit of a showman, and my Muse knows how to milk an effect. Ah, sweet lesbianistic tendencies, surely you are a trump card in the hidden deck of wiles. Good fun, and she doesn't mind leaving us alone when things get a bit more focused.

Bookkeeper/Librarian: Both out tonight, The Librarian in her full length latex evening gown, and the Bookkeeper in a new brocaded corset and dress. It's always nice to see those two out. We don't speak, but we mutually acknowledge. The Librarian seems to have lost her toys, they tend to gather near when they want to be vulture free.

I am a vulture free zone. I have a presence that seems to affect about a ten foot radius. Generally speaking, boys do not feel comfortable dancing within the zone. They don't feel comfortable hitting on people in the zone. They don't feel comfortable sliding into the zone. There's a couple of reasons for this.

Firstly, if you're pretty much any boy dancing within a few feet of me, you're going to look like a disproportioned midget. If you are skinny, you're going to look gangly; if you're big-boned, you're going to look fat. I'm not saying I'm all that, but I will say I look exactly as I should. Anything you've got that's out of whack will seem exaggerated.

Secondly, there is no free space around me where one might pop in unannounced. I'm using all of it. It looks as though I'm using all of it. If you have your back to me, it is safe. I do not grab, pinch, fold, spindle or mutilate. If you're especially lucky, I might even catch you if you trip. My movements will take up as much or as little space as I want.

Lastly, I am going to make any boy without a few years of movement practice look like a shambling autistic. I don't have moves, I'm not even trying to impress. I just connect to everything, smoothing it out, making the music and ambiance real. I can do this by barely moving, I can do this by capturing five feet of space. I am into it, the people around me are into it.

That's why we are here.

If you need a place to put your soul for a while, by all means come in, we are open. If you're just looking for someplace to put your penis for a while, then buddy, we are closed.

Shame: So as we are dancing, the group next to us drops a bottle of cooler and it smashes all over the dance floor. The voice of the DJ briefly sounds over the music, "Busboy to the dance floor, busboy to the dance floor." And so slinks in a tallish gangly shape with a absorbent broom. His cowboy hat (out of place here) is pulled down low, he avoids eye contact as he begins the nasty work of cleaning booze and broken glass around people stepping mostly around it.

There is something about the way he keeps his back to us, something about the way he is dressed to conceal. I recognize the build. It is Shame. He is not a bartender, he is a low-totem busboy. He is embarrassed, hoping the Muse won't recognize him. It is too late. I have already pointed out the young man at our feet. She laughs. I laugh. Not at the fact that he is cleaning up the sticky, pointy mess - a boy's gotta eat - but at the general revelation of his character as a whole. It was a beautiful thing.

Also: Steev, Dienhard, Noah.

Coat Check: Hellen, then Qwinn

Bartenders: Jet Black and some newbie who reminded me of Boots.

Drinks: Tequila. Not bad. Hella pricey though.

The Muse looked fantastic in a red and black corset with skintight black latex pants. Amazing, simply amazing.