2000-11-12 - 15:00:39
Crowding The Muse
Crowding The MuseI cannot but concede that queer nightclub life has worn me down. Both Friday and Saturday evening, the burgeoning crowds thwarted me. When a club is too jam-packed for unfettered cruising, when rude shoving is the only way to get from Point A to Point B, I stop having a good time.
Friday I went out with J.C. At first the evening held promise: the bar was full of lickable boys. It was also "mail box" night, and the first bad sign was that they had run out of mail box numbers. Within a few minutes, the venue overflowed and I got uncomfortable. I don't think I'm claustrophobic, but I get grumpy when I can't move freely, when I'm jostled by strangers every few minutes.
Did notice a stunning waif-like young guy with beautiful eyes. He looked to be Turkish, perhaps, or of some Mediterranean stock. Yummy. He noticed me noticing him, and later on he flashed me a smile. I was momentarily energized, but then he went out to dance with his even-more-waif-like friend. J.C. and I departed soon after.
Last night wasn't much better, crowd-wise. I went out with Sara, and we met up with Jon, J.C. and Kyle. Again, I could barely move through the swelling mass of club-goers, so I opted to sit on a church pew by the pool table most of the night. Again, lickable boys abounded; I was perched at just the right level to admire many a key attribute. Thus ensconced, I preserved my energy somewhat, but I was still drained by the end.
As I sat there last night, I wondered what I might write about here. Early on, two men caught my eye: a short young Asian man with a face so pretty I would have cried if I touched it. And a lithe young black guy with mischief in his eyes. The Asian beauty wore a short-sleeved button shirt, the black guy a t-shirt: both bright-bright orange.
Aha, I thought, I have my working title: "Oranges Are The Only Fruit".
But I caught the eye of neither orange fruit.
I know that sucky feeling, that "nobody-wants-me" pout all too well. But this wasn't what my weekend was about either. I got my fair share of attention. Curiously, I could not be bothered to summon up the energy required to follow-up. The zany throng immobilized me.
"Tonight," I remarked to Sara last night, when she commented on this passivity, compared to my usual let's-make-sure-everyone-knows-I'm here mode, "They'll have to come to me."
It wasn't just that I was de-motivated to follow any one thread that might have woven my body together with another for the evening; I was also struck by the absence of any imaginative engagement with queer space. No Proustian meditations enriched the experience: I felt only tired and hassled.
After two such enervating evenings in a row, I am fed up yet grounded. Whatever it is I need right now, I am not finding it at a gay bar.
When I embrace "it"…
When, again, I listen…
When I soak a while in that elusive inner Source…
Boys shall again trip all over themselves, emerge from the crowd, yearning to merge with my juicy self.
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