2001-03-05 - 01:10:55
A Saturday Night Out

A Saturday Night Out

Having made substantive progress on my seminar presentation on The Autobiography Of Malcolm X by mid-evening Saturday, I decided to reward myself by going out to the club. It had been aeons since I'd ventured out, here in town; I wanted to see if I'm missing anything.

I stopped going out to the bars last fall due to emotional claustrophobia. Watching friends drink and drug themselves silly depressed me. And it got to be a bit much, sharing queer space with boys I had licked--sometimes even adored--whom for various reasons no longer spoke to me. Oh, and let's not forget that I went through that icky phase of feeling old and ugly, too. For all these reasons, I pulled back from the scene almost totally. I don't regret that. But last night I was ready to give it another whirl.

I went out unaccompanied. I am a strange bird, I guess; I enjoy myself best alone at such places. Without having anyone else along who I feel obligated to chat with, I get to just watch.

And I love to watch.

What I saw was sex everywhere. Well, not actual sex; this wasn't the Bijou back in Toronto, after all; but erotic energy, hormonal vibes and glances and hummings. Not having made an appearance at the club in umpteen weeks, there were umpteen beautiful new faces; not only that, but I too was a new face. So I got cruised left, right and centre last night. I was happy to enjoy the whir of energy and leave it at that.

I didn't feel all that attractive. I've become ridiculously self-conscious about my tummy, how it hangs over my belt. So when I'm out I often suck it in, a perpetual tummy-clench that also perpetuates my self-consciousness.

A couple of the sexy men giving me the eye seemed interested enough that I could have easily landed them in my bed. I did not make anything happen. I listened to the serene ambivalence sloshing around in my sucked-in gut; I simply enjoyed the interplay of eros.

Which is what I needed last night. I rehearsed a speech in my head, should one of these lovely gents actually take the initiative and approach me: "You look delicious, but hey, my dance card's a little full at the moment. How about you give me your phone number and we'll do coffee sometime?"

I didn't need to give that speech. But my dance card is a little full. It felt good, actually, being in queer space, enjoying the sexual attention from good-looking guys, and sensing that fullness.

I saw a beautiful young woman, perhaps 25, dressed in flatteringly-tight jeans and an equally tight white tee shirt which highlighted pert breasts. Her right hand was missing, obviously amputated fairly recently by the bright red scarring at her wrist. The absence was what first caught my eye, but what held it was her total lack of self-consciousness. Her smile lit up the room as she walked through the club with friends; I saw her dancing, later, shimmying gracefully.

Wow, I needed to come out tonight and see this, I thought. I relaxed my belly without thinking about it. I stopped clenching it for the rest of the night.

Just before I left, I was in the men's washroom and I caught a look at my face in the mirror. I looked beautiful: open, grounded, and sexy.

Later, home alone and stripped down to my undies, ready to hop into bed, I looked at my unclenched, unselfconscious body in the full-length mirror. I saw tone and contours and lickable bits; I saw imperfections; I saw desire's aura leaking out of me.

So I'm glad I went out, got attention, saw her, relaxed my tummy, glimpsed what so many men have been responding to lately.

And glad I returned home, alone, happy in my beautiful body.

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