An Organized State of Disaster

Last night I went to a bar, down on a dirty street filled with people I did not feel like touching. Even brushing against really. Does that sound horrible? I drank so much I only got a hangover, skipped drunk entirely.  There were women on stage that could move their bodies in ways I couldn’t even begin to simulate. I believe ass shaking begins in the foot. A loosening of the leg muscles in conjunction with a triple timed rhythmic foot bounce, their perfectly shaped behinds vibrating hypnotically.  We spend most of the evening screaming at each other about our lives. A rough spot to get caught up, as techno Reggie blared from the DJ booth.  Dancing, the three of us ladies were surrounded by men whose desire for some ass, any ass, encompassed us as well. "One of us is a mother", I wanted to say, "and one of us has the love of her life sitting over there."  The three of us have danced in many places, and this was not my favorite. My misplaced high eluding me when I needed it the most, to make my feet understand this terrible beat. I was not up for it. But I was happy amongst the rabble to see my friends' faces. 

We stayed until close.  I watched, more coherent than most, the final couplings of the evening, the magnetic force of sex or lust or loneliness work its magic as disparate groups found, amongst the throng, the best bet for 3am on. I went back to my friend’s new loft. In her new home, the first home I can ever truly say she nestled in we talked till close to dawn as her lover lay next to her passing in and out of our world and his.