Mindless

Imagine a large dark room filled with entrancing electronic music punctuated by flashing lights. Deep bass throbs in the ear. On the dance floor a meadow of arms and legs sway in the audio breeze, and despite ample air-conditioning the atmosphere is rich with sweat and sex. Somewhere in that primordial sea of bodies I dance. Topless, sweaty, and with what I've been told to be grace and precision.

For my purpose tonight my dance says it all. It's second nature. My body moves on its own and I close my eyes. I've always been good at attracting attention, and when I dance I tend to get attention. It's why I come here: To shamelessly satisfy my vanities, appealing to the lowest common denominator with a deep seated need to feel attractive and lusted after, and even though my dancing has never before gotten me laid, the thought of an audience no matter how small grants me some token of self-appreciation.

Free of all shame, my meager five foot seven, hundred and forty pound frame has found its muse: hard pecs, waxed chests, close cropped hair, cologne and testosterone. Here I can let myself go. Here I am a jewel, a real prize perhaps. I don't know. I do know dancing makes me feel good, like a peacock spreading his tail feathers; a spectacle in my own mind.

Earlier in the evening an unbidden desire led me to spend a little extra time in the bathroom. I got my hair cut today, so between the girls at Super Cuts and my hand with a razor I am well-groomed, having taken more care than I normally would for a night of solo dancing and drinking. I took the time to trim my pubic hair, pruning and blending, shaving what can be shaved, though I still can't do a damn thing with my chest. So, prepared and driven half by unsated lust and the other by eager curiosity, I'm here to execute a self-study of my behavior toward similarly inclined members of the same sex. That's right. Tonight I'm here to get myself tangled up with another man, an opportunity that has presented itself before but I have always declined. Not tonight.

My eyes drift from male to male as I move to the music. A handful seem to be curious but most are caught up in their own agendas, laughing and being comfortable in their own skins, surrounded by trusted friends and lovers. On a normal night at least a few might approach me at the bar where I stood behind an imaginary line of heterosexual masculinity. "I'm just here to dance, drink, and smoke." I'd always say. Later I would learn they saw something very differently.

The music ebbs and flows as it does, measure after measure, bar after bar, organized in each theme by the constant pneumatic pounding of electronic bass. Once the ears surrender to the assault, the brain entrains with it, followed by the body inexorably toward a light state of hypnosis. After all, it is called trance music for a reason. This is the source of my graceful dance. The mind just switches off and ceases caring for what the body does. To know me is to understand that my mind is always going a mile a minute. Ideas come unbidden constantly, are reflected upon, and are forgotten almost instantaneously, followed by memories, past shames, anxieties, failures, and all of them reliving vividly the crushing blow of familial disappointment and self-loathing. Nothing—not even sex thus far—matches the unadulterated bliss of my mind being mindless, of just being a creature of pure instinct and desire, loving and being loved, and above all being wanted. It is the crux of all my fantasies, and it is all expressed in my dance. Don't ask. Just fuck me.

The bars count away and the music builds, the suspense palpable just before the entire room moves in unison along a spine tingling compression wave, sweeping us all into a rolling crescendo of rhythmic thunder. At once I am overtaken by vertigo and carelessness. I can only feel myself breathe, but I can hear the uproar, the shouts and whistles. As the climax fades and I settle into this new theme soft fingertips grace my waist from behind. They are warm and curious, inscribing caution as they wrap around my glistening midriff.

Taking an involuntary step back I tremble against this stranger. He feels strong and his boldness invokes every vulnerability. I have been claimed, and before I can protest my body is alight with the sensation of crisp stubble. His kiss leaves a pink spot of mildly irritated skin on my left shoulder, tickling along the tendons and viscera to my waiting neck. I have come once again to that now defunct imaginary line. This time resistance is quashed in my gut as I abruptly stop dancing. Tired of running from this moment I finally submit, leaning back against him.

The time for grace has come to an end. I roll my head back against his chest and I am treated to his warm tongue soulfully enjoying the savor of my sweat beaded flesh. His affection is cleansing for the soul. I feel so beautiful. I am wanted, and I want this. My head is tenderly urged to the left, and without even seeing his face his lips are upon mine. His tongue beckons and we meet in a throaty moan urging my shy tongue forward. His deep breath accelerates the swelling mass against my butt when he pushes our hips onward with the music. On this night the taste of gin emphasizes the sleaze of my first gay kiss, and I love it.

Our lips engaged in wordless lust we dance together. I never learned how to 'bump and grind', and I would never need to. My body is now his and my hips and shoulders reciprocate like a flying shuttle about the warp of his frame, weaving such a sordid tapestry for all to see. And I want them to see. Watch me plunge into the unknown. Watch me give in. I have wanted to give in for so long.

We part for a moment and turning I allow myself to look at my lover for the first time. As boys scoping out the competition we learn early what a hot guy looks like. We know when we've been outplayed for the girl, and secretly mimic those boys. My suitor is that boy, now a man. He's tall, olive skinned, cleanly groomed, his face symmetrically sympathetic with masculine angles, and—unlike myself—fully clothed. His chest is broad and I can just make out the cut features just under his white cotton button down. Though, waiting for me under the dark closely cropped hair, catching the strobe lights and laser shimmer, brushing aside my pretensions are his eyes. Rich hazel hued, almost caramel, framed in thick lashes with wandering brows.

"Uhh, hi," is all I can manage.

"What's your name?" Is he pleased with himself? His lips curl deliciously with the words, and I cannot help but notice how well-proportioned they are to the rest of his face. He is simply beautiful.

"Carston." I am hoarse and shaking, and my voice reflects it. He knows. There is no turning back. He has won, and his advance has driven the rest away. Not that I mind; I could not ask for a more eligible man. He is perfect.

"Julian," he pauses to lick those slicked lips and watches my eyes drift over them. "Don't take this the wrong way but I've been watching you dance for a while."

"Thank you," I mumble under the music. A part of me still wants to flee and his admission has left me an opening. I could thank him for his company, quickly, before I discover how much I enjoy the rest of him. But, I won't. My lusts are kindled. I need him. "I, uh, learned to dance in Salt Lake. I ran around the Wasatch Valley club scene. Met a few dancers and shamelessly copied them. Had a lot of fun." My heart is pounding in my ears, more loudly than the music. I cannot keep my voice from wavering.

"I bet. Mormon?"

I shake my head adamantly. The mention of religion is almost a deal breaker, but I let it go.

He looks me over appreciatively and I can feel myself canting to give him a better look. My jeans are sweat stretched and barely clinging to my hips.

"You look to be parched, Carston. May I offer you a drink?"

"Oh I'm fine." He frowns at my dubious protest and insists with a smile, to which I cannot refuse. "Lucid," I ask, caving as I glance down at his crotch. I had never given my gag reflex much thought until now. My being is completely changed. I feel at ease and comfortable. To my surprise I don't feel feminine, but more masculine, a masculinity beyond the spectrum of popular culture, a purer and more complete masculinity. This transition from lustful face sucking to just two guys being guys is alarmingly seamless. I can see us playing SOCOM on a dirty futon only to descend into shameless acts of delicious buggery depending on who got naked first, only to go back to the PlayStation after a brief mutual tongue bath.

"Lucid? Potent stuff. And here I took you for a Heineken kind of guy." My hand is seized in his, warm, palms so dry—unlike mine being a nervous wreck. He guides me through the Wild Kingdom gathered around the bar and pushes me against it. No one defies him as he places himself squarely behind me, his slacks warm against my cooling back along with his bulging fly. He clutches me possessively, and from over my shoulder is served immediately. It feels so right.

I catch the bartender's eye and she smiles with a wink. She gets me. Can see what I want and how I want it, the kind of woman I'd strike out with, yet now magically attracted to what she cannot have. I imagine it is envy written on her brow when she looks at the two of us, which is until her girlfriend sneaks up and gives her a huge kiss. Poetic justice. There is much to learn in this new landscape and like all experiments my first assumptions are dutifully brushed aside, along with the hem of my jeans. Under the bar hot fingers have invaded my most private region. Their welcome intrusion unnoticed by all but my grateful erection.

My lungs deflate and my knees shake. His hot fingers coil around my base, their tips running along the length of my cramped dick all the way to the tip, and back down again to cradle my balls. I prop myself up on my elbows and thoughtlessly work my hips into his grip, fucking his hand. My eyelids slip lower, the expression on my face advertising that the man behind me is having his way with me, and I couldn't be happier.

"Do you like that?" His nearly breathless whisper grazes my ear. He knows precisely how to stroke me, how to move the skin along my shaft. He is in command of my genitals, and with them whatever will I had left. I nod and he takes advantage of the confinement, slowly rubbing my tip against my soft cotton bikini briefs until I am throbbing and sore. Watching the woman mix our drinks, the fluids mixing and mingling, my balls grow heavy and sensitive. Stroke by stroke he's mixing his own cocktail between my thighs, and I can feel a steady stream of precum lubricating his fingers. When our drinks are nearly ready he politely arranges everything back into place and withdraws his hand, licking his fingers clean with a satisfied grin.

My drink is finished first, a hastily louched shot of Lucid absinthe with vodka. Brilliant white and translucent, it fills my nostrils with the fragrance of anise and fennel seed stinging the throat just enough. Yes, it looks like a glass of thin semen, the perversion not lost on Julian as he guides me to a table, gin and tonic in hand.

"Thank you."

"No, thank you," his words thrumming utterances of sexual magnetism, low, rich, and very close. The brief pause outstays its welcome and he just sits there watching, sipping. I could sweat less on the dance floor.

"Please forgive me I'm afraid I've never done this before," I confess sullenly. It had to come out sometime and lowering my eyes fail to see the gentle expression on his face. He's studying me and I know it. For all intents and purposes my experiment is concluded: I crossed my line and discovered I enjoy the company of other men. More to the point, I discovered a previously unknown sexual impetus the newness of which thrills and terrifies. Mission accomplished. I can safely take my leave and look in the mirror and say: I did it. I can share a drink with this man, offer him a kiss goodbye, and go home. I have done enough for one night, have I not? No need to push my luck. No need to take any more risks, right?

"Never done what? Been kissed before?" His eyes widen momentarily with the question. He is mocking me, a house cat swatting at a toy or something intended to be made a toy of.

"No-no, not that. Just not by a man."

"Oh, that. Well..." He leans forward to stir my drink with a well-manicured finger, sampling it curiously. "Does that complicate things?"

Complicated? My sexuality is in flux, along with my identity, and all my assumptions of gender, sex, pleasure, manhood; the whole nine. Making a so-so gesture I fail to keep my hand from trembling, and I think I may have cracked a smile.

"It doesn't have to be complicated."

"You don't know my parents. Just a month ago I was going door to door handing out gospel tracts—"

"From where I sit things are pretty simple."

"—explaining confidently how people like us should repent from these urges. Excuse me? This is a carefully controlled social experiment I designed myself with specific—"

"You aren't who they want you to be."

"—research objectives to measure a strictly defined behavioral pattern against the Kinsey Scale. It is anything but simple. If you only knew the math waiting for me when I get home—"

"Let me un-complicate things for you."

Nervously droning on about figuring out where I was on a standard normal distribution, along with other dubious applications of statistics to this question, I had not noticed his weight shift, or gaze lower, or his hand on my leg. It is his lips that get my attention, and his kiss is different this time. No rush. No sleaze. His tenderness leaves me with just enough where with all to explore and I reach cautiously to touch him. His chest is so warm. I am pretty sure he trembled in that moment, and I find my palm resting fully between his tight pectorals, fingers tracing the exquisite bone structure below.

The success of his "uncomplicated" venture is signaled by my comfort. Math? Really? Was I really going to go home and try statistically quantifying my experience? What would be my data set? Counting the number of times I accepted his advances? Ok, we can settle this right now: What are the odds of me saying "no" to this man just once?

I can feel myself settling against him when he tugs me into his lap. Just when my exploratory fingers reach his neck he takes them, lacing his through mine and countering my other hand in precisely the same manner. The simple gesture is overwhelming, and I hardly think we could have closer physical contact without being nude. Our kissing is now beyond exploration. Our pace and depth are savory and our fingers speak to each other like whiskers. We are making love, or at least we would be. We should be. At least I want to be. I think I want to be. What is it? Think and exist? Something else? Cogito ergo sum. I think Descartes missed something there. My attempts at rationalizing this have failed. Sentio, I am feeling this. It must be real and I must be here and he cannot be a lie. It feels so good. I can feel my legs straddling him now, our entwined hands resting blissfully at our sides. I recognize this, that growing tension in the pit of my gut. I have felt it before, but why I am I feeling it now?

I'm falling in love.

Panic.

Our bonding is interrupted by this realization. I recoil, terror on my face, and looking around realize the club is actually closing. How long have we been here? Never mind that, this cannot be love. It is purely physical. I am reacting to sensation and pleasure and there is no way I could possibly love Julian. I mean, how would that work? Waking up in the morning with my face buried in his chest hair? I hope he has some. What!? No, no! That is not how it is supposed to be. I let this happen. It's my fault! Panic escalates inside me as I move to extract myself from his grasp and to my surprise he lets me go.

"I'm sorry." Julian stops me dead in my tracks. "The way you dance. The way you move. I had no idea."

"What? No, it's ok, honest. I lost myself there."

"I did too. Will you walk with me?" His question confounds. Not long before he was touching me, kissing me, even milking me to the brink of orgasm without so much as a hint of consent, and now he is a gentlemen?

"What?" I can feel my lips move.

"The look on your face. I can't very well invite you home, you're scared. Please, walk with me. I owe you an apology." His expertly delivered entreaty is beyond compelling while I stand there slack jawed looking for a reason to decline. I should not need a reason, a simple no should suffice. And yet I still feel compelled to hear him. Why? Why am I always weighed down by obligation? The stress of it empties my sails and all I can do is comply. I would have expected some dissenting rationalism from my over-active mind, but there is none.

"Did you have a place in mind?"

We make our way to an all-night pizza joint two blocks away. On the way I absentmindedly find myself reaching for his hand and he gently brushes it away with kind admonishment. "No need to advertise," he smiles. "It'll be a long time yet before you and I can walk around like that." Turning a corner his posture changes like he could smell them in advance, a group of guys coming out of another club. I zip up my jacket, tug my hat lower on my brow, and stuff my hands in my pockets in an effort to look just as suspicious as they do. I know the drill. It works. A passing exchange of "wutups" and upnods and we move on to the next corner.

"Think they know?" I ask with a playful smile. I feel as if initiated into the coolest most secret club in the world.

"Best off they don't," he chides quietly. "Do you understand need-to-know?"

I nod.

"Well, there are those who need to know, and those who don't. Don't be too eager to be out in the open. You can be comfortable with who you are without having your sex life open to the public." He takes on a fatherly tone, tucking me under his arm momentarily. I'm whisked into an alcove and kissed passionately. I can feel his body trembling against me, shuddering as if a great burden had been laid down. He really does want me.

"Do your parents know?" A pertinent question.

"No, they don't need to, and don't feel obligated to tell yours either." I offer him a curious look, I mean I have always understood the 'coming out' process involved coming out to mom and dad. "Alright, you've fucked women, right?"

"Yeah, but--"

"Alright, do you tell your parents every time you get laid?"

"No."

"Then what changes? You don't feel compelled to tell them about the girls, so why feel compelled to tell them about the guys? Know what I mean?"

"Well, I can't exactly ... bring you home without warning them first." With that he stops, shaking his head as if I just don't get it.

"Did you bring every woman home? Did every one night stand need to meet mom and dad?"

"I guess not."

"Point made. You don't need to tell them about me anymore than I need to tell mine about you. Your sex life is none of their business, unless of course you want it to be and if that's the case I'll walk you back to your car, because that is drama I want no part of." Pain is behind those eyes. He has certainly done this all before. "Lesbians are into that kind of thing. Confronting the present, family, friends; it works for them. Doesn't work so well for us. Being a gay man doesn't mean you stop being a man. We're all still egotistical and stubborn, no matter how much of a queen you are." We stop and he turns to me. "Look, I'm not saying be scared of it. I'm not saying you can't be who you are when you want to be, but just be smart about it. Take those guys over there for instance. You have no idea who they are, what their opinions are. They may not give a shit. Hell, one or all of them might be queer, but they also might be something else." His eyes narrow. "Boys get killed out here for nothing more than dressing well." His lips tremble again. He wants to kiss me, to teach me, introduce me to what he knows I want to experience. But he cannot, and I smile at him sympathetically.