Ohboy The Limelight. First Bitchy Gay Guy said it was
the coolest club in New York City, so we had to go. The three of us
drove to Hoboken and took the PATH train in. It cost *gasp* eighteen dollars to
get in, but I think gay (This was before I knew about all the letters to use.)
folks could go in the back door and get some kind of deal.
It was one of the few non- Great-Adventure-or-just-bed
dates I remember having with Perfectly 1993 Guy. I was sooooooo excited! TO SEE
HIM! To GO DANCING! To go be in cool New York City! It all seemed impossibly
exotic and thrilling, like a really zeitgeisty dream.
(Pop culture sidenote: I can’t think about The
Limelight without picturing Michael Alig lurking past the couch where the first
season cast of The Real World were sitting and being not-awesome at clubbing.
I’m re-resolving not to watch Party Monster but I may need to rewatch
that episode and also consume a bunch of Club Kid content on YouTube. My quar
hobbies are weird.)
Anyway, the outfit! Not even a little bit Club-Kid-like,
but maybe the coolest I’ve ever felt in clothes. My favorite thrift store
minidress was the exact same navy as my aforementioned (And
afore-swooned-about!) Docs. No hose or socks. The dress was thick polyester
with a sort of lacy texture. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more beautiful or
perfectly dressed, but that feels like something I might’ve typed on this blog
before.
Once inside, we stood in line again for like EVER to
get onto the “gay floor” with FBGG. I remember that hallway SO
VIVIDLY—wallpapered in garish orange and gold patterns—actual church meets
Dee-Lite. The real sex shows were all the way on the top floor, FBGG
explained—I couldn’t even imagine what that might mean.
Once inside the “gay floor,” FBGG sort of winked out
of existence, just melted away into the scene. I was a little overwhelmed (but
trying diligently not to show it) by the sight of a naked Howard-Stern-looking
guy crawling around with a saddle on his back. It’s alarming, the first time
you see the back of somebody’s balls in a public place! For me at least.
With FBGG off cavorting, Perfectly 1993 Guy and I were
on our own. I was THRILLED to be holding hands with someone so beautiful and
new. We decided to check out the Disco/Eighties Room, where I was certain I
would know what to do! My all-the-way-raver years were a little ways off, but
I’d been going to clubs since I was fifteen. Being carefree and slutty and
ridiculous on a dance floor was practically my superpower.
And yet. The main property of Perfectly 1993 Guy was
stillness. He grew up to be a psychologist, and I’ll bet he’s a good one. I
don’t know if it was the pleasant inertia of him or the self-consciousness of
being in such a big cool place, but I felt frozen. Even when Groove Is in
the Heart came on! I just couldn’t make my body move in any kind of
dancelike way. With him watching me, I forgot how to have LIMBS. I was tranced
into statuary by lust, by his beauty, by being in the presence of so many
people who seemed so cool as to not even be human. So we gave up on the dance
floor.
We found and sunk all the way into a midnight-blue
C-shaped couch situated in semidarkness but lofted above the main (techno even
more tuneless than the kind I knew and loved) dance floor. All the while we
were snuggled up kissing, I kept thinking I should make myself get up and go dance,
but I never did. I’m so glad.
It was too loud for us to say much more to each other
than briefly hollered words between kisses. We were curled up side by side, his
hands on my face, in my hair. Outside of time and space, completely free from
the *ahem* real world, from any kind of context at all. His
very-gently-stubbled chin. His warm cheek against mine.
Being so innocently and mutually enjoyed felt new and
strange—I’d almost felt with Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, but that was in Perfect
Aunt’s living room, that was two sweet children. This was happening in a dark
house-musicy Eden where somewhere was Saddle Man.
My feel were up on the edge of a big industrial coffee
table that was strewn with votive candles. I’m not sure where I got the idea
that pouring wax on people was sexy, probably from Madonna. Perfectly 1993 Guy
picked up one of the votives and dripped wax lightly onto my upper thigh. Kiss,
gentle pain, kiss. With the next candle, he moved further up my thigh, closer
and closer to the edge of my underwear. His hands wandered the bottom of my
skirt, just grazing the most sensitive places, then more wax, and more kissing.
It was probably four in the morning when we left this
candleglow lust-haze and dragged ourselves downstairs to wait for FBGG. We lay
on a giant round red velvet pouf under chandelier light and Baroque wallpaper,
tired, so tired. So ready for bed. So many trains and Hoboken between us and
sleep. I was so thoroughly sated, and greeting the grey dawn completely in
love.