nakedsuperhero

.A Rambling Monologue


So I've been having this dream that seeps into those moments, you know the ones, in your waking life where you're anywhere but out in the world. I'll have it asleep, I'll have it driving down route 9, I'll have it when I see a gorgeous girl straddling the bar as I try to smile politely and act like strip clubs dont still give me that awkward glee I had when I was 18...

I did e for the first time when I went to Manhattan last. And while I felt like kind of a hypocrite, having secretly loathed all the e junkies at my school trolling the hallways with dialated eyes and jugs of aquafina, I felt even worse when I really really enjoyed it. I don't really do drugs. I smoke, but I'm quitting to work on my voice (actor/singer, remember?) and I drink to be more social. But e? Anyway, I did it, and on top of that, a bump of K. When in Rome I guess.

And I chalked it up to doing it once to make me a better actor, having new experiences, yada yada, I wasn't peer pressured, but my friends were also all doing it, and hell, we were going dancing, where I didn't have to be social or pretend I am anything other than a body moving through space.

I had a blast. It was amazing, and every touch was like fireworks. Allow me these cliches, as a newbie.

Then I saw this girl, amidst the swarm of shirtless gay men (Roxy is apparently exponentially gay on Saturday nights, my friends were all gay, and I am very close with them, so I didn't mind, but I had to shout "Wagons" every time someone started learning or dancing up on me a little TOO freighteningly). She was just moving, arm up in the air, fingers curling, like she should be wrapped in silk and holding castinets. Long black curls of hair falling off her shoulders, body beyond description. She looked, no lie, like Jackie from That 70's Show, but slightly more hispanic.

I walk up to her, thinking I have nothing to lose anyway. I'm only in Manhattan visiting for 4 days before I'm back to the ol' Wage Slave lifestyle in CT. "Thank God, a girl. It's been a while since I've seen one on the dance floor." She turns to me. I lose my breath. "You straight?" Hmm...broken English... "Yes." "Where have you BEEN?"

We danced, either in proximity, or together, and made out the entire evening. Never swapped names, guessed we were both the same age, and all I knew was that she was on vacation from Mexico visiting her gay best friend, dancing in our midst.

The reason I tell this story? It was one of those moments where not only can I not stop thinking about it, about her, about the pulse of the music, the feeling of her kiss, the way the world melted into seething flesh around us as the dance floor spread out and it was just us connecting, is because I feel like I found my muse.

Everyone, I think, has a muse. At least one. A person where, not a best friend, not a soulmate, but someone who, doing very little, isolates themselves in your mind as something amazing and life altering that you'll think back on no matter how old and smile. I wanted to swap cell phones, but I wasn't bilingual, and as the clock struck 6 and my wifebeater threatened to turn into a pumpkin, I walked out of the Roxy a little more interested in this little world of ours.