Absinthe Party At The Fly Honey Warehouse

Absinthe Party
At The Fly Honey Warehouse

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Absinthe Party At The Fly Honey Warehouse" by Minus the Bear

Off of the album: Highly Refined Pirates

It smells different here. Even something so subtle as the smell has changed with the distance. The air itself literally has an entirely different scent to it - an entirely different quality at its core. I'm not saying that just because there's less pollution than in the States; that's a bit of trivia I couldn't claim to be privy of; the cities around the Puget Sound tend to be better off than most places though.

My parents once had a house out north-east of Portland, somewhere off the Oregon Coast Highway, and there wasn't much pollution there either. That cabin and that land had it's own smell too. A more distinctly American smell, though I couldn't tell you what aspect of North America made it seem more Western Hemisphere than north-central Europe. Maybe it was the Pacific ocean coming, and scent of the salty water and wet beaches wafting in with the rains, filtering through the forests. Maybe it was the deer that walked up our back porch - curious onlookers of a human lifestyle - enviously peering through the glass. But there, it smelled like pine trees, and roasted turkey, and rain. Here it smells like coffee, and cakes, and freshly mowed lawns.

It's wonderful how that change of latitude and longitude in the world can change such subtitles you may normally take for granted. But that's why people say they need a change of pace, right? To alter their perspective to see if the light comes through the windows at a different angle, and they can take better stock of their surroundings with the new ambiance. There I was, sitting around in my Apartment in Tacoma, when I get a call from my friend on the north side Seattle. His name was Rostam. Cool guy, suave, loves poker, chess, and books like The Great Gatsby, Sputnik Sweetheart, and Franny and Zooey; drives a car I wish I had, and has all the connections I wish I had.

Rostam is the magnetic north for all who reside in Washington; if you didn't keep a real compass on hand, you might think the Elliot Bay was the North Pole. He was the glue that successfully held my the friendships of my best friends from high school together. How do you show thanks to someone so magnificently endowed as to be the catalyst of an entire friendship, or multiple ones at that? It's one thing to introduce Miles to Kelly, or to introduce Diane to Mia, and Taylor to Abby. That was easy for Rostam. But when six different people go in four separate directions, all across the country, Rostam is the only sort of person who could manage to keep all happily in close contact, as if none had left to begin with.

Rostam happened to be from a nice family - an immigrant family that made their wealth off of North American shores while residing in Canada - and he took advantage of their kindness and wealth respectively, respectfully. He had travelled to every continent except Antarctica by the time he was fourteen. Born in India, childhood in London, teen years in Montréal, and two pivitol years in a lackluster public school in Seattle.

And the call came. "Guy! Long time, no see!"

"Hello to you too," I replied. "It has been awhile though. How have you been?"

"Busy!" Rostam hollered across the phone lines. "Busy planning! Two weeks; you busy?"

"Just work... And life... et cetera. Why?"

"Life is about to get more interesting. Because I have plane tickets."

"Are you visiting family in Montréal?"

"I'll definitely be in Montréal, but not for family," Rostam hummed in that swaggering way that extremely confident people tend to. "Montréal to London, and London to Amsterdam. You, me, and the whole gang. Interested?"

And so there we were, all sitting, all laughing together at some table at some café by a canal. Amsterdam. There it was in all its splendour. The distance between Seattle and Amsterdam is the sort of distance that you need to travel to understand how small and insignificant you are. You realize that a few hundred miles - like Seattle to Vancouver - is a completely different world, and if you travel a couple thousand miles, there is hardly any resemblance or comparison to whatever naive world you thought you understood.

"Where are we?!" Rostam cried like an obnoxious American with a strange English accent blend.

"Amsterdam!" we all cried as our barista couldn't help but laugh. The barista, who had a thick Dutch accent and spoke fluent English, shook her long blonde hair out of her face and asked if we needed anything else. Mia told her no; I couldn't help but smile.

Miles was an old friend from elementary school. We've been around each other for longer than either of us can remember; it's that clichéd best friend story you've heard over and over your entire life. We even decided to attend the same college, but we both were firmly against dorm life. We escaped that tomb as fast as we could, and luckily, Rostam stayed in Washington with us. He helped us afford a very nice, big house - far too large for the three of us - which Rostam hardly saw the sight of, busy elsewhere.

In junior year, Rostam had really been boasting about how wonderful Washington was, and like a noxious gas, odorless, his words crept quietly into Diane. She had moved to Illinois with Taylor to attend at University of Chicago, and though they had broken up from their high school relationship, they were both craving a warm cup of nostalgia to soothe their midwestern-chilled hearts. They returned to Seattle, transferring and joining us, and not alone. Taylor brought Abby - he had a crush on her since middle school - tucked in tow, and Diane brought Mia.

Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia.

What can I say? It's love. Love is strange, because it never will go as planned. Freshman year, high school; eighth day of school, Miles and I met Rostam, and Rostam lead us to Mia; led me to Mia. Brown hair, freckled, braces, and she was my best friend next to Miles. We were always together, even in our big group of friends, when we'd whisper comments to each other in secrecy to the rest. At sleepovers, we shared beds or sleeping bags like it was second nature - as if it were obligatory. We knew each others bodies like they were our own, yet we were entirely platonic. It was just closeness; it was just friendship; it was just love.

And I hated it. She was gorgeous. I saw it, though she didn't. I saw her inner beauty when she cursed herself as 'not being worth it.' I saw when she turned to other boys who only ended up stringing her along and hurting her. Boys who stomped, twisted, and uncouthly bended her gentle edges with their libido-inspired agendas. I didn't see her clothes delicately slide to the floor in a slump of cotton, and denim, and elastic, and lace while she climbed into beds to have her naked heart rudely molested. I did see her, shirt still unbuttoned, pants still unzipped, crying in my arms about the things perverted boys would do when boys will be boys.

And I could do nothing more than hug her, and hold her weakened soul and tired body in my arms, her fragrant scent mixed with alcohol, smoke, and boy, and let her violently weep into me, until she fell unconscious on my shoulder while we still sat on the couch - she sobbed, even in her dreams and nightmares - nightmares of ruthless villains taking advantage of her, no doubt. I was a bystander, certainly not innocent, and certainly idle, but rather helpless to fix the situation. She was hurt. I could fix her hurt. But i couldn't make her love me, which was the only way I could help. I remained silent and let my cotton shirts get soaked by the sobs of boys gone by, one after the other, over the years.

Mia was injured by the masculine community of the Puget Sound. Battered, beaten, and bruised, she knew that if she remained in the American Northwest, the clouds covering the sun every single day would surely smother her with suffocation, and the boys would slowly wither and whittle her away, day by day, until there was only a hollowed cavern where her heart used to be. In her mind, a change of pace and scenery outside her bedroom window was not simply imperative, but a requirement to ensure her survival.

She considered her options: Austin, Los Angeles, Miami, New York City, Toronto. She would have gone anywhere if she were simply attempting to abandon, but in fact, she was simply trying to escape. She knew she wouldn't last long away from her friends; she settled to join Diane and Taylor in Chicago, and like the sun in Seattle, she was gone. But they were back: Lake Michigan was too bitter chilled and Chicagoland too broad; as much as they felt a dull lack of enthusiasm on the shores of Commerce and Elliot Bay, they longed for it; they resettled in the same city as Rostam, Miles and I.

I hadn't heard much from Mia, save for brief phone calls and exchanged emails every month or so; she had grown very distant in her time away. I soon learned that Mia only experienced hurt in Chicago. I soon learned that all she left in Chicago was a shoe and frozen tears when the wind chill dipped twenty below. She dated five boys in those two years. Two were cheaters, one was a beater, one was a liar, and the other scared her to half to death when the condom broke, though she was saved from a pregnancy by the whims of God himself, no doubt. She told me none of this in our slight conversations over the years, and none of it when she returned to Seattle, for the longest time. She remained distant even though she was so close to home; that unbreakable bond was still there, surely, but she had resigned to solitude instead of openness.

As if fate intended to end it for her with a coup de grace, she fell in love in our junior year. A man named Toby - they dated until the winter of our senior year. She spent the time with him happy - a bent form of the happiest I had so longed to see in her again - the happiness of yesteryear and high school smiles - but happy nevertheless. They spent that year and a half dating until he broke her heart, once more, another liar, and another cheater; one last attempt to strangle the life and love out of her, and this time it worked. I had helped her when she cried before, but I had never seen her like that. She opened up to express her sadness, but only for a night. Then she retreated to solitude of the soul once more, and after our graduation, she melted into the populous of Seattle, a faceless ghost in a crowd. I heard nothing from her for years.

But here she was. She accidentally spilled hot coffee on Rostam at the café, and he laughed it off, as he blabbered something loudly to the public of Amsterdam. Her smile was different - crooked - dented - but honest. She smiled her smile like a broken mirror at the mirror of the canal water, which mirrored the sky, which mirrored life back upon itself, unable to escape into the abyss of the ethereal stratosphere. We were all encased in the silver mirror of overcast in a foreign home the likes of which comprehension of distance could never be comprehended by our feeble lovestruck minds. Love was infantile compared to this distance.

Yet love, for me, at least, was even more precious due to that impermanent feeling.

We look good side by side. We look like we were meant to be to begin with. As if there were ways to rewrite stories. But the good stories - the ones that folks who are less keen on their literary habits would claim as being all fluff - are chock full of one thing, one important factor like a thread, that holds the very fabric of the entire plot together: history. That fluffy stuff is the history of the whole affair, the most important part. History is its own story, but the ink is permanent, and there's no taking back the scribble-outs or blotched ink.

We look good side by side. We should have been side by side, throughout life. Because I would've always treated her right, in the way these other boys could never have dreamed in their childish cerebellums. Their ridiculous thought processes couldn't even conceive the care that she would have received. But she never liked me, not like that. It was platonic. That's just how it was, whether anyone liked it or not; whether I liked it or not. Maybe I just wasn't charming enough, or maybe I wasn't fine enough, or maybe I wasn't perfect enough for her. But she was perfect for me. I was imperfect, and so was she. But she was perfect in that imperfection, a diamond regardless of what type of stone she actually may have been.

We look good side by side. We're all walking back to the hotel in some crazed mob of intercontinental tourists not ready to be cooped up in four walls. And we couldn't be so easily contained.

"We can't go home yet," Rostam kept bellowing while he thumbed through his phone on the internet.

"It'd be great to experience the city for what it is!" Abby said, clutching Taylor by the waist.

"Yeah, the real deal," Kelly agreed, "No more of this tourist stuff. Where should we go?"

Miles cried out with excitement, "There's got to be some sort of club or party, or something. Rostam, where are we heading?"

"I just found it. It's right here, off the Paleisstraaat, close to a canal. We can take the the train straight there and walk a block."

"What's the place called?"

"The Fly Honey Warehouse."

"Well it's right down the way!" cried Diane.

Taylor hollered, "Then let's get out of here. Let's go straight there."

And we were off, down the tight knit streets, through the crowds that cluttered the cobblestone and brick streets. They broad-shouldered the natives, as one would expect the Americans to do. But then again, they weren't trying to be inconspicuous by any means. Mia was inconspicuous, as she always seemed to be after her delicate youth that ended in her retreat from Seattle. But then again, she wasn't trying to get noticed. I noticed her.

She walked behind the others as they sang and jeered loudly - catching every eyeshot on the street - and walked with a smirk on her face and her vision downcast as the orange lamps slowly flickered on. I tailed behind the rest of the group to walk with her.

We didn't need to speak. We didn't even gaze upon each other. Just walked. Walked and took in the life of the city around us. Took in the pulse of this place, with its difference. Different smells, different water, different sky, different soil, different lives, different souls.

We came to a canal and crossed it on the bridge, cars honking wildly while taxis vied for customers off the street like pedestrian vultures. A tall, oblong truck with Dutch on the side romped across the bridge obesely close to the curb, and in a natural reaction, Mia hopped from the curb into me very lightly, wrapping her arms in mine. It went by with more angry honks from the taxis on the other side of the street. The danger passed, but she didn't let go. She knew she didn't need to. I felt her hand smoothly slipped into mine, and we continued to walk behind our friends. We still didn't speak. She knew she didn't need to.

And it came, resounding. Ever so natural as a glacier splitting or an avalanche tumbling, yet ever so subtle as a tuning fork in an empty room or a bell in a cathedral. She spoke. Just three words. "I needed this." She didn't make it clear if she was talking about a change, the trip we were on, or myself. She knew she didn't need to.

We walked, and walked, and walked, and I didn't need to be anywhere else than there. We heard the others hollering something about absinthe, and we just laughed at how normal they still seemed to us; how familiar, even after all the years, and all the changes; how happy we all were, and how perfect we all fit together, like some abstract puzzle that could only make sense when it was all together. The others walked so fast that they somewhat left us behind, and we missed our chance to cross a road. I saw Rostam and Miles waving at us, telling us to meet them at a different street corner. We both shook our heads; they shrugged and ambled on, the gadabouts they were. We went to a bench on the canal and sat down. We held each other. We stayed quiet and let the world speak for us.

She smelled different here. Even something so subtle as her smell had changed with the distance. Her body and soul literally had an entirely different scent to it - an entirely different quality at her core. I'm not saying that just because I love her, and I'm not saying that because I never had any feasible way to express that in any way more than friends until now. I say it because the change is so defined. Before she smelled like strawberries, and youth, and coconut, and life; she now smelled of mint, and age, and vanilla, and life. She smelled like home. She smelled right. She felt right. She was right.

"I was right."

She said it so quietly, I could have missed it were I not focusing every ounce of myself on her. "Right about what?"

"That nothing could change you. I knew nothing could. Remember when I said that?"

"You said it at graduation, I think."

"That's right," she said quietly with a nod, "graduation. 'You'll never change, Guy. And that's a good thing.' I still remember that moment very clearly."

A boat passed behind us in the canal. Tourists on it flashed photographed. It was like the stars descended to earth in the minuscule flashes of light. "Why's that, do you think?"

"Because it's when I felt a strange push, I think." She looked down at the floor. It was as if she were symbolically smoking a cigarette, in that way smokers poison their pain with carcinogens. Her pain was raw and strongly felt though; one could tell by her sad look at the bricks on the street. Someone on the road laughed. "My whole life, I had always felt this pull. A powerful, magnetic pull, all my life. But I never knew what it was. What caused this pull? Where was I being pulled, what was pulling me, and why was I being pulled there?

"I couldn't have known." She went extremely quiet again. The city beat a few heartbeats while mine stopped as I held my breath on her every word. "It was at that moment, though, where I felt a push. No longer was I drawn, but I was repulsed. And before I knew what was happening, I found myself in a city I didn't understand, with people I thought I understood, living a life that could never been comprehended.

"I did things. Things that I'm not proud of. Things I'd rather not speak of, either. Things I regret. Things I enjoyed. Things I wish I didn't enjoy. Things that were worth it in the end. Things that gave me experience." Another silence, this one short. "Maybe it was spontaneity, maybe it was stupidity. I don't know. But I was pushed away to such a far off extremity - so far from everything that made even the slightest bit of sense to me - for a reason. A reason I still don't understand."

Quiet except for the city. Some people across the street ran into each other at such a pace that they dropped the bags they were carrying. They both apologized in completely different languages. "The true oddity of it all," she began again, "was that as soon as I had been guided away by that strange shove, I felt magnetized once more. I needed to go back. I needed to set something straight. But I was being tugged in two directions. As if my past and future were playing tug of war with my present." She laughed, and mumbled something about how she was always terrible with analogies.

"You haven't changed," I told her, stroking her hair and back. "You're still so well spoken."

"I have changed quite a bit, in some ways. In others, I feel like a rock: never moving. Maybe like a rock that was thrown. I don't know... more bad analogies. Anyway..." Pause. "The pull. It was so strong. I struggled to follow the pull, but was kept back by some push. Like fate was toying with me."

"Don't they say that fate is the way it is to teach you a lesson," I asked.

"I used to think so. But I used to think that you could alter your fate if you tried. I feel like there's a grander scheme to things. Did Rostam tell you how he got ahold of me?"

I shoot my head. "He didn't. You know how he is."

"I do," she laughed, and as if the bystanders walking past us on the bench had awestruck by such a perfect laugh, everyone grew silent, only for a moment. "I was at the airport when he called. About to leave. I was at my gate and everything."

"Where were you going?" I looked at her, confused, wanting to know what was going through that conceptual mind of hers.

"Away. Somewhere I knew nobody. I was looking for clarity. For the source of the pull. And I was desperate for sense. I was going to fly across the country and hope sense was waiting at my hotel. Or something. I almost missed the call. I was holding the power button down, ready to board as soon as they began calling. And then sense slapped me in the face. Sense said, answer it. And they started boarding the plane, but I knew sense was on the other end of the call.

"And I answered, and it was Rostam. And the first name he mentioned, out of everyone coming here to Amsterdam, was yours. And I had never seen clearer in my life. All at once, my heart felt content to be itself. It wasn't being pushed or pulled anywhere. It was where it was supposed to be. Right here," she pointed to her chest. She smiled. I hadn't seen that smiles... in years.

"Right here," she said again. "It was here, and I knew why."

"I'm why?" I asked.

"It made so much sense. Nothing had ever made that much sense before. That whole plane ride, you were there. And you spoke to Taylor, and Rostam, and Miles, and everyone. But when we were taking off, you watched me grip the seat desperately nervous for us to just get into the air. When we landed, that gaze of yours watched me until my breathing slowed. Whenever my heart was broken in the past, I knew I could go to you.

"I didn't take that for granted. Honestly, I didn't. But I didn't understand what that feeling was. That feeling of permanence. It's not the same kind of permanent, like with my sister, or little brother. Not the same as my parents. It's as if the sort of permanence I felt with you, Guy, was so perfect... The only thing as permanent as you would have to be myself."

She laughed again. She hadn't stopped smiling. I didn't realize how close she was holding onto me, her arms warpped around my waist. It was as if she tied my up in herself. And it's as if my hand fit perfectly where it gently rested on her, like a puzzle piece. Perfect. There was an eternal silence for a moment. I have no idea how long it might have lasted. You lose track in moments like these.

"Thank you," she said, and kissed my cheek.

"Why? For what?"

"For loving me. Forever. Even when I didn't love you back."

She let go of me, and stood, taking me by both hands. "I would never have stopped loving you. Life wouldn't make sense without you."

She quoted me, "'Life wouldn't make sense without you...'" She began to walk hand in hand with me, who knows where still talking.

"'Life wouldn't make sense without you...' I know that now guy. You've known that for a long time. And that was the point. You were the push and pull. Because you knew, and I had to know. And I know."

Our foreign home kept beating. My heart kept beating. It was in harmony, as was she, as was I, as were we.

"Thanks for waiting."

Andy, You're A Star

Andy,
You're A Star

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Andy, You're A Star" by The Killers

Off of the album: Hot Fuss

Boys will be boys, or something like that. And the boys were being boys, in all the splendour of masculine hilarity. They jumped around in their jockstraps and cups, they threw their shinguards at each other in gay festival (though obviously, not that way). The red Gatorade now soaked the sweat stained floors as boys being boys jumped on top of each other, riding each other like wild animals. It was beautiful if you understood boys, and that they will be themselves - that is to say - boys.

It was beautiful because it was a celebration. A victory! It was another game in a perfect season. This year, the football team had been the reigning champions since the lights in the stadiums were first turned on; since the marching bands had only begun to arrange this year's extravagant display for the half time shows. School spirit came in spades, and the bleachers were filled every single Friday night with banners, and cheers, and 'Ra ra Raiders! A riot on the fields! Show these losers how the Raiders feel! Rip 'em down! Wrap it up! Go Raiders!'

And all season, my popularity throughout Luther Gambol High had been rising like a hot air balloon. When you're the lucky one who has the prestigious honour of speaking in the morning announcements, and are the lead editor on The Raider's Review, you tend to receive avid acclaim from your educational peers for delivering news of victory after victory on the football field. Oh, how they love the sporting life. And with my ravings for our star football team in the school news paper, with the constant fusillade of success, the pep rallies got larger; the attendance at the games grew larger; our team did better. Not that I'm necessarily the direct and our team did better. Not that I'm necessarily the direct cause, of course, but I certainly allowed the wild beast to thrive even further.

Excuse me, where are my manners? Keifer Robinson, executive editor of Luther Gambol High School's newspaper, The Raider's Review. And as boys were being boys in the locker room, after the semifinal victory, the coach walked into the room to give a speech praising his loyal team. It was very cliche, or course, and sounded like a scene stolen from Friday Night Lights. But this is a cliche, and the team was victorious under Friday night lights. I took quotes for the follow-up piece in the next edition of the Review. After the speech, the celebration continued. This was my fortunate opportunity to snag some exclusive interviews with some of the players. Of course, though, there was only one person I really wanted to talk to.

"You know dawg? What can I say? We be breakin' it down this year - niggas be trippin' when they gotta play us - shit," confided sophomore wide receiver superstar Toby 'Tank' James. "And nigga - like - them bitches ain't got shit on us, boy."

"And you will be playing Capital Tech in the upcoming game?"

"Yeah nigga! Shit, them niggas gonna be feelin' the hurt on Friday, son. Ain't gonna be no squabble, kid - know what I'm sayin' nigga? - the game already be over before it started."

"Very cool, very cool," I said with a scribble into a small notepad. "Very insightful, Mr. James. I feel that, bro." I had bigger fish to fry though. "Hey, do you know which way Andy Hook went?"

"Shit, not sure nigga. I think that nigga be outside now." I thanked the tank and turned on my heels toward the exit, but he swallowed my shoulder in the grasp of his tremendous hand. "Yonigga, you gonna be quotin' me in the paper?"

"Well, I need to squeeze in a lot of info - of course - but I'll certainly do my best to fit you in there." My comment rang like stale sarcasm, but the Tank isn't equipped for this sort of high tech sabotage.

"Shit nigga, you cool." Tank quickly assailed me with a complex handshake that I bumbled through before quickly exited the room toward the parking lot. I hurried past the crowd of people who made their way to the busy concrete Savannah filled cars honking wildly like a pack of violent, hungry animals.

He was there, across the way, in a red convertible owned by his father. The car was surrounded by a riotous mob of adoring fans, who whistled and screamed his name with communal admiration. Andy hung out of the top - a girl in a dress that matched the car adjacent - a smile emblazoned on his face as his tough, muscular body glimmered with sweat under the stadium lights.

With a great deal of cheering, he dropped his legendary body into the driver's seat, started the car, and reved his engines violently. With an abrupt start and wildly squealing tires, he flew out of the parking lot like an airplane that can break the sound barrier, honking all the way.

That was not love. That was fleeting. That was convenience. Convenience is wildly driving away from a victorious football game with a cheerleader to go have sex in the backseat somewhere in the woods outsideParkersville before driving her back to Kicksville. Convenience is having sex with a different girl every week only because your the most popular guy in school.

This is love. Love is holding passionate feelings for someone you can never have. Love is pursuing someone who is not just indifferent, but is completely unaware of your existence. This is love, Andy, so promise me she's not your one. Cause Andy Hook, you're a star.

I need to meet him. I need to have an interview.


Monday, AP Physics, just outside the classroom, there he was. He strutted down the hallways of Luther Gambol High with an air of confidence basking him like he was plagued in joy, a girl perched on either arm. Like a journalistic linebacker, I rushed him.

"Andy! Andy Hook!"

He craned his neck past his cranes, glancing at me over his shoulder. He looked at me queerly before doing anything. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to have a word," I returned now that I was within nominal speaking distance. "Keifer Robinson - The Raider's Review."

"Hey, you're the guy who does the announcements, right?"

"That would be me."

Hook shook his branches and his birds flew away. He came close to me, body spray billowing off his body, his shirt tight on his unfathomably perfect physique, his hair in majestic blond waves across his head.

"What's up?"

He was so casual. So nonchalant. So perfectly chiseled out of stone by some omnipresent deity to taunt the rest of us callow peasants with his angelic beauty. I was sent into a stuttering fit, but recovered as hastily as could be managed.

"I... I... Hi, I mean. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your invariably amazing game against our esteemed opponents at JefferyWeems High. The performance your team put on was quite astounding, I must say."

He gazed back at me with an expression I couldn't exactly decipher. I continued, "Also, I thought since the homecoming game was quickly approaching, this weekend, that you and I could do a special feature interview of the Raider's star quarterback - yourself - of course - for the Raider's Review. Something of a before and after piece after our most important game of the year."

That gaze. That penetrating, mystifying, tormenting gaze. He gazed at me unblinking with that masked, curious gander for several seconds. I felt uncomfortable - as if I offended him, or had said something wrong, or rude or insulting - I couldn't tell. I couldn't just sit and let him dissect me like a biology frog.

"So I mean, if you're interested."

"Yeah, man," he finally replied, and I couldn't help but exhale. "We can do that. But like, I've got class in two minutes."

"Oh yes, of course. What say we meet up later this week?"

"I'm pretty busy," Andy said, as if, though he held interest, he was growing predisposed to not be troubled at all.

"If you can find time. It was just an idea I had for the paper, and to give you some well earned press."

He grew quiet again, visually mulling the scheme over. "Alright, I guess I can do it. But I've get to class right now."

I was elated, but didn't show so on my face. Must stay professional, mustn't we? "I'm perfectly contented with that. I'm free any time, all week long. Leave your number on my locker and I'll give you a call; locker number 218; hopefully I'll hear from you soon." While speaking, I quickly scrawled my locker number into my pocket journal, tearing the page out for him. He nodded at the paper, quickly sliding it into his back pocket.

"I guess I will call. Probably later... later today..." He was interrupted as a young girl with fiery locks wrapped her arms around his own, and locked lips like the front door without inhibition whatsoever, tongue and all. I cringed, but on the inside, of course; if your heart could physically cringe, I suppose that would be the feeling I felt. "Look man, I've gotta go."

"Of course. Certainly. I'll await your call, to convene with you thereafter," I blubbered. '...to convene with you thereafter?' Who am I? Eyre?

He walked off, the girl with her hand in his back pocket, no doubt fondling my phone number which rested neatly against his posterior. I hurried to class.

And my heart entered an emotional cavern the likes I had never seen, and my breath shortened like an asthmatic kitten; my life grew quiet like a folk song, and my mind diminished into a slew of thoughts, all painted colours of oil on canvas, contouring in no particular shape - a dazzling rainbow of coruscating illumination - as I saw him enter his classroom, and as my feet absentmindedly carried me toward mine own. I rubbed my eyes under my glasses and stared upon a blackboard filled with equations and calculations the likes of no soul could ever comprehend. And so it passed.

"Hey man..." his voice rang out. But to ascertain, his voice rang out two days later - Wednesday - as I lay in bed, typing violently on my laptop. I had inattentively answer the phone without establishing the caller, and almost yelped with shock as soon as I heard his choral articulation.

"Oh, hi! I mean... Hi... I mean, hello!" I stammered like the buffoon I was. My glasses slid off my nose, and in a futile attempt to retrieve them, I dropped the phone, which clacked loudly against the aluminum casing of my laptop. I quickly snatched the phone up. "I mean... sorry, I mean. Why hello there, Mr. Hook. I mean Andy... Hook? Um..."

Why yes, I was that helpless. I'm pleased you witnessed that, honestly.

"Andy is fine."

"Andy. Greeting, Andy." 'Greetings?' Who am I? Meloy? "I hope you call in good spirits, at least." I mustered desperately trying not to embarrass myself more. I only then realized I was without trousers at the moment, as was my habit when I was alone at night in my room at home, and I felt insurmountably self-conscious in seconds.

"Right... yeah, anyway, I'd be down for the interview thing. But I don't know when a good time would be, at least before the game, like you'd said." He spoke very monotonously, which was queer for him indeed. But I had a hunch he wasn't the telephonic type. To better him, I quickly affirmed I would rush through this conversation thereon.

I bumbled about my room, phone in hand, attempting to slide myself into pants to little avail, as I spoke. "I see. I understand, though. I had presumed you would call earlier in the week, so we would have more of an opportunity to plan."

"Yeah, dude, sorry about that. I had a date with one of the flag corp girls - Rosaline - on Tuesday, and then with this one girl from Intrepid High, in Central City - her name was... Stephanie, or Stacy, or Stella - or some shit like that - I can't remember - and I haven't had much free time. Especially with practice and everything. Like you said, a big game."

That wasn't a direct quote, but I decided not to call him on it. I also mentally noted how many sexual diseases he may have garnered, but quickly shook the thought away. "Oh yeah, I completely understand. You're a very busy man. Well, I assume today is a wash. Are you free tomorrow."

He mumbled to himself of plans, though the actual words were predominately inaudible over the phone. Like, I'm supposed to chill with this chick at lunch - some girl fromKicksville High; I'm skipping the last half of school, because I think she has a friend, and we're all going to smoke out or something. And then that night, I have this party."

I wasn't exactly in the party scene, by any measure, but even I knew how audacious a party in the middle of the week was. "On a Thursday? That's strange."

"It is. Like, y'know that drug guy the principal has been yammering about?" I did. Apparently, the guy he referred to was a woman from Portland who was an ex-meth addict; a rough and ragged shell of her former self, she apparently did tours to high schools across the nation to educate against drug use. Also, Andy said yammering. I was proud, for some very strange reason.

"Well," he continued, "the homecoming pep rally should obviously be Friday. But this guy is coming on in and taking over the auditorium all day. Whatever... So the team has organized this righteous party to pump us up for the game since we can't celebrate Friday. It'll be with some guy Tank knows in Central City, inNorthview or somewhere in that ritzy district by the lake; some really bad ass loft or somethin'."

"That's enthralling," I retorted quickly. I had a feeling he was ditching me, and I was feeling down. With consolation to myself, I had finally managed myself into my pants, though it offered little.

"Wait!" he cried. "Dude, totally! Why don't you come?"

"Me? Come? To the party? Um... me? To that party? The one in Northview? Really? Me?" I had never heard myself ask so many questions at one time, not even when I had interviewed Gibbard during his solo tour.

He laughed. His laugh was harmonic. " You ask a lot of questions, dude." His voice was no longer monotonic, which made the blood weaving its way to my heart simmer from within - I could feel my carotid artery shading my face a diligent shade of rouge. "Yeah, you should come. Everyone from school will be there. A few kegs, plenty of space to chill. And we can find some place out of the way in the house to chat for a bit."

The following emotions are indescribable in the English language. Know that.

"Ab... ab... absolutely. That sounds like a splendid idea."

"Sweet, dude. It'll work out, I know it. Seven-thirty, 330 Pleasant Grove, Northview, Central City. The zip code is, like, 51329, so you can look it up on the net. I'll see you then, bro."


The trip out of Kickville wasn't a long one. I meandered through the rush hour traffic until I was sailing smoothly northeast toward Central City, a slew of cars heading in the opposite direction, honest people with good jobs in the big city who were desperately seeking solace out of the Mile City Metroplex. The Mile City Metro was right down the highway, only twenty-five miles or so; the darkening countryside was quickly illuminated by countless streetlights lining the highway, and the sky glowed orange. I passed endless neighbourhoods until I reached the Loop, which I took around the west side of Central City - the downtown like a siren in the distance, trying to lure me inward with it's pretty lights on the horizon - and slowly made my way to Northview.

After squabbling with my driving peers until I found my exit, I sifted my way through the many neighbourhoods on the north side of Central City. The north side of the city was lined with Great Lake, an infinitely large body of water that was begging to be called an ocean, or a sea, at very least. I was soon in Northview, a neighbourhood - as Andy had described - as very glitzy and glamourous. The blocks stretched long here, with houses that could make any president or CEO feel at home. I finally arrived at the house; I buzzed in at the brick gate, and was quickly let in; the brick driveway had to be nearly a quarter mile long, more like a park, lined with trees.

The house itself was an extravagant affair. Three stories tall, windows everywhere, it was a monolith very near the lake; it must have had its own pier, judging by the size. There were cars scattered throughout the circular driveway, easily more than thirty haphazardly parked in any number of directions. I could hear the shouting and hollering of teenage frivolity before I even turned my car off. The tremendous house and the entire situation was reminiscent of Gatsby's Estate, albeit a bit less mature.

Within the confines of this gregarious abode, party-goers whom I recognized immediately (but who did not recognize me), gaily danced and ambled about frivolously, a deafening chatter filling the entire house. The interior was festooned with gold, from the marble floors, to the maple tables, to the diamond studded chandelier. Red plastic cups were being kicked at random on the floor, and I could never total the sum of all the cigarettes on the floor; the entire house reeked of alcohol, marijuana, and tobacco, respectively to the intensity of the scent.

I made my way to the prodigious garden that was the backyard, complete with a fountain that was filled with several drunk girls in white dresses, their clothing now see-through, revealing their scandalous - also white - now also transparent - thongs underneath, as well as their lack of a brassiere. They splashed each other drunkenly, as well as a group of guys in suits who looked drunk and cranky as they smoked like chimneys. A woman in a dress that was redder than Mars - who I assumed was the lady of the house, judging by her age, easily over forty - was strung out unconscious on a chair as Jesse McClinton - kicker for the Raiders - fondled her breasts and licked her neck. I saw a group of people in the distance stripping their clothes and rushing toward the end of the dock I knew was there, diving into the lake.

Back indoors, I wandered the room, helping myself to a drink that was thrust into my hands upon me re-entering. I hung around by the television, where several folks were playing rock band, receiving much acclaim from the surrounding audience, though it was hard to tell whether they were cheering for the game or the girl who was singing, who's strapless dress had failed her, exposing herself to the room as she sung on oblivious.

Then, there he was. Maybe it was his perfect body that helped me see him, or possibly the audible spank to some girl in an unbelievably short denim skirt, but he stood there, chugging out of his cup. I flew to him like a bird.

"Hey! Hey Andy!"

He turned, and his face lit up in the largest smile I've ever seen him smile, even in those convertibles. It took all the strength within me not to blush. "Hey, man. Kefer, right? Duuuuuuuuuuuude, sorry. I meant Keifer. Right?" He was thoroughly drunk, but I was flattered he remembered.

"Exactly right."

He turned to his friends, and pointed at me with the greatest air of sincerity and intensity. "This dude... guys... is AWESOME! He is going to interview me for the school paper." For whatever drunken reason, his friends cheered. "Come on, Keifffffer. Let's find'us a room where we can talk n'peaceeeeeeeeee."

He hurried ahead, tossing his cup aside - the contents splashing some girl passed out on the floor - and I followed, tucked in tow, as he quickly made his way through the mansion. Up two floors of stairs, as the screams of couples having sex in bedrooms down halls seemed to compete for volume in this wild affair, we went to the third floor. After interrupting several couples, already paired in inebriated trysts together in backrooms, we found ourselves a bedroom. This must have been the master bedroom, for it was almost as lavishly decorated as the entry way, with a bed that was infinitely large, and resembled a work of art, along with a view of the garden and lake, dark in the distance. I was awestruck with its beauty; it took several seconds for me to recall I was in this gorgeous room with Andy Hook of all people, alone.

He dove to the bed like a swimming pool, and flopped around a bit, before stretching out and getting comfortable. He was dressed plainly, in his football jersey and jeans, despite most of the others downstairs decked out in formal attire; this made me feel more comfortable, since I was only garbed in a button-up shirt and nice black trousers myself.

"So, where do we start?" Andy asked, but he sounded completely different than he did downstairs.

"Andy... wait... you don't sound drunk anymore. Am I just imagining that?"

"You aren't," he spoke very normally. "That's a show I put on for the others. I have an alcohol tolerance like a buffalo. So, where do we start?"

I sat on the bed, still in a bit of a haze over this strange sequence of events. I quickly pulled out a notepad absentmindedly. "I guess we'll start here... Let's see... So, how were you feeling last Friday during your game against Jeffery Weems High, one of the consistently highest scoring teams in the Miles End Metro?"

"Well," he said, sitting up, and easing toward me on the edge of the bed. "It was great. I mean, really great. When you face another team who's known for their ability to play a good game, you get this huge adrenaline rush that lasts for all four quarters. It's a real, like, natural high, y'know? Something that you can't replicate any other way."

It was immensely difficult to process all this information and scribble quotes into my notepad which his angelic voice begging to drift me into slumber by its sheer beauty. "I see, fabulous..." I muttered. "And how are you feeling about our forthcoming game against the North Richland Hills High Eagles, our notorious school rivals?"

"If the Beavers from JWHS were as intense as they were, and I tell yah, it was pretty epic; if they were that intense, then playing the Eagles is going to be something else entirely."

"Do you feel confident on winning? The Eagles have only lost one game this season, and of course, that was to us Raiders, though - granted - their own star quarterback Benjamin West was unable to play due to an arm injury."

"Of course I feel confident. I'm undefeated. We're undefeated. It will be a very epic game. But I know that the Raiders will be the winners in the end. It'll be that much more interesting now that Ben West is back..." He mused for a moment, humming nothing in particular. "Ben West... I remember that guy so well."

Did he inch closer to me? I wasn't paying attention. "Have you and Benjamin West had a relationship together, per chance?"

Instantly, he shook his head, and stared at me accusingly. "What?"

"Oh, not like that!" I can't believe what I just said. My feelings were getting me completely carried away. "I mean... you see, professionally. You know?"

"Oh..." he stammered. "Oh yeah. I mean, yeah, we've met a few times. Discussed past games, and whatnot. Of course, we're rivals to the bone. But they say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

Am I an enemy? He seems quite close to me. Or was I inching toward him? This was quite confounding. "And... Tell me... how you feel about the sport. About football."

He pondered, and I stared at his pink lips. "I love it. I grew up with it my entire life. I remember, as soon as I started walking, my dad started pitching the ball at me. He almost went pro, y'know? Back in the day. It never happened... but I'm thinking he wants me to try after I graduate. And I'd love to do that. I love it. I love football. I love the feeling. I love it, because I'm good at it. I can express myself perfectly, because I love it so much..."

I love this... I love that... He was yammering on, and I was being wound like string around his finger with his sensual voice, filled with passion and romance for a sport. He loved that, and loved this. 'I love... I love...' he was saying. I love, I love, I love.

And that's when I thought I passed out and began dreaming. Because the next thing I knew, he had stopped speaking, and I had lunged on top of him, embracing Andy in a kiss. It was one long kiss, one which seemed to drag on forever. I knew it was a dream... I could have sworn it was a dream.

But after forever had ended, Andy pushed me with all his might. The shove sent me toppling off the bed, landing on the floor with a loud bang. Forever must have only lasted five seconds or so, for as I quickly got to my feet, I realized that my body ached from where I had landed. I was definitely not dreaming.

Andy stared at me aghast. "I'm... I'm so sorry..." I mumbled. I had no clue what to even begin to say, his delicate taste still lingering on my lips. "You were saying something, and I was thinking something... not something about you! Something else entirely. Something totally unrelated. About girls! Or something. And... Oh my God..."

He stood up. I figured I was about to be murdered or something. "Really, Andy, I'm so..."

And then, cliche as it may be, completely purposefully, he kissed me. I tried to gasp for breath, but that only let his tongue slither into my mouth. Now I was aghast. But before I could muster the slightest neuron in my cerebrum to fire, he lifted me entirely off the floor, and literally chunked me to the bed. I landed climatically onto the unfathomably soft surface without a sound, and as soon as I had blinked, he had pounced atop me.

And once again, his lips met mine. I was on some form of heretofore latent autopilot system reserved for just such an occasion. Compiled, organized, and executed by my nervous system, I began to unleash every emotion I had for Andy all at once in fervent kissing, returning his every subtle motion with my own. He thust his rough hand between me legs and began to manhandle me, his other hand on the back of my neck. I couldn't move if I wanted to, not that I did, due to his immense weight atop me. I simply laid there and kissed him, my heart exploding with joy.

Before I had realized how glorious this kiss was, I realized I was no longer wearing pants, and that my shirt had been unbuttoned - neigh, ripped - open. He stopped kissing me for only a moment to gander at my pale body before he returned to his duty. That mischievous hand of his down south pulled down my embarrassing plaid boxers, and he grasped me, rubbing me in ways that most people wouldn't dream of caressing. An orchestral choir was building in my head as I felt my entire body melting around me, but suddenly he stopped.

Again, before I realized what was happening, his pants were off - jersey still on - and he pressed my head toward certain regions of himself I won't mention. When I wasn't thinking about him, I was reminded of popsicles, for the most childish of reasons. He was through fast, but held me down until he was pleased two times later. Our lust filled excursion had lasted who knows how long, and now that he was thoroughly dealt with, he pushed me down to the bed once more and picked up where he left off.

I remember feeling everything and nothing at once. Maybe that's love. True love. Feeling everything and nothing all at the same time, to the point where you can't describe the happiness and pleasure. Maybe love is something that has to be indescribable. Maybe it's supposed to be impossible to understand. But I guess it's kind of hard to take me seriously, when I have the high school quarterback putting his hands where no other has been before.

I came, but he wasn't through. He kept massaging me, and it hurt, though was more blissful than I could ever express. He took my hand, and made me take him on one more time. By the time he finished once more, he had pleasured me three times over. When the clock chimed four for me, the inevitable happened.

As I lay gasping on the bed beneath this beautiful creature, a rap came to the door loudly and quickly. "Go away!" Andy hollered.

"Andy... nigga, is that you?" It was the unmistakable voice of Tank. "Nigga, we been lookin' for you. Wha'chu doin' in there? We 'bout to all get together downstairs, but we needs yah kid. Get out here."

Without a second thought, Andy flew away from me like he had wings. His pants were on faster than I could comprehend. Then he was fondling me, but not lovingly. He lifted me straight out of the bed, and pulled my boxers back on for me. He pushed me back on the bed long enough to throw my pants back on me wildly, before dragging me by my shirt back out of bed, pulling me toward the door.

"I want to say this right now, because I may never get another chance. But you were great. Perfect. I've never felt like that before." He pushed me against the door roughly. "But c'mon dude, I'm the star quarterback. I can't have anyone find out about this."

I tried to say something, but nothing came out. A mess of Andy and I was still all over my stomach, and I couldn't think properly. "Nobody can know. Don't you dare tell anyone. Not a soul. Anyone! Or I'll kill you. Do you hear me?"

I nodded.

"Just don't forget this. Never tell. But don't forget. I'll always love you. Even if I don't seem like I do. I'll always love you."

Then my vision went blurry. I felt my nose bleeding from where his chiseled arm careened into my nose, then my eye. He plowed his hand into my chest next, and once more on my brow for good measure. The last punch sent my head into the door with a loud bang. He grabbed me by my still ruined shirt, and threw open the bedroom door. I was then off my feet, and I sailed straight out of the room until I slammed into the opposite wall across the hallway; by body crashed into a large painting that hung, which immediately fell to the floor ruined.

"What the fuck, you fucking fag?" I heard Andy say aloud, more to the others who gasped and yelled in the hallway than to me. "You think I'm fucking gay or something? Fuck you! The stupid kid just started taking off all his clothes. What the fuck's wrong with you, Robinson?" I felt his foot connect with my back hard as blood dripped down my chin.

"Yo nigga, that's sick. Should we kick his ass?" The Tank said, along with several other Raiders.

"No. This fag knows who he's dealing with now."

He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and lifted me up. I desperately tried to look past the blurriness in my eyes to see him. "I love you," he said. And he hit me once more hard in the brow, and I remember no more until the next morning. Blood and goop littered my body, and I awoke with an astounding headache to the trashed mansion. Like the others who just woke from their binging, narcotic, lust filled dazes, all tattered and bruised like me, or not, I fumbled for my keys, walked outside, hopped in my car, and hurried in a daze home.

A police officer pulled me over on the Loop for speeding in excess of one hundred. I told him I was going to a hospital. He offered to give me a lift or a police escort, but I said I'd manage, and promised to drive slower, which I did. I was back home in an hour. I tidied up my wounds, took a long ache-filled shower, and collapsed into my bed. Only later did I realize I lost my glasses and journal of Andy's interview that night, so I got demoted from my editor position for not having a story to present for the next issue of the Raider's Review.

Any time I saw Andy, he hollered about me rampant gayness to anyone present.

But he always winked afterward.

And my heart entered an emotional cavern the likes I had never seen, and my breath shortened like an asthmatic kitten; my life grew quiet like a folk song, and my mind diminished into a slew of thoughts, all painted colours of oil on canvas, contouring in no particular shape - a dazzling rainbow of coruscating illumination - as I always dreamt about the terribly reality that I loved so dearly, that took place in Gatsby's Mansion in Northview. I dreamt of my love for Andy, and his love in return. I knew we would never be together, and we never were. He joined the NFL, and I became a full time journalist for the New York Times, leaving the hallowed grounds of Kicksville and Central City, only to return for Christmas. Andy, you are my star. And he knew it. He knew he loved me, and that's why he had to hurt me. That's why he had to leave.

And my heart entered an emotional cavern the likes I had never seen. One which I would never would fully escape. Because I fell in love. True love

And so it passed.

I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You

I'm Not Gonna
Teach Your Boyfriend
How to Dance with You

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You” by Black Kids.

Off of the album: Partie Traumatic.

Idiot. IDIOT! What a stupid, sexist, conniving, flagrantly horny, intolerably profane, stupid fucking idiot. Idiot. IDIOT!

"Is that what you really think?" he asked with an impetuous air.

"I mean, it's kinda stupid, I agree..." Isabelle replied, trying to use democracy in the discussion which I was spitefully listening in on from the back seat.

"But-but-but! But-but-but!" Jacob replied with undue haste, trying to make a point. This conversation has been going on for four songs now. We're driving, and driving, and it's taking for-fucking-ever to get into the damn city, and the third chorus in the fourth song is singing-singing about whatever the hell pop artists sing about these days, because even though none of us like pop music particularly - because fucking Jacob - who secretly loves country - which Isabelle vehemently LOATHES - along with myself - is so insistent on arguing his fucking ignorant ignorance with Isabelle so he can prove a point like a pretentious douchebag nobody can take five seconds out of their life to tune to a new Goddamn radio station while the pop star finishes on a damn high note and a fade out and please, oh God, please, change the damn radio station and shut the hell up Jacob!

But-but-but we can't digress from the conversation. "But-but-but" Jacob replied with undue haste, trying to make a point. "But you said you liked them."

"I said a little bit..."

"But-but-but! But you said you liked them a little bit! Admit it!" Admit it, Jacob. But-but-but, admit you're a stupid ass guy who hasn't gotten laid in months and is getting desperate. But-but-but, admit that you're more excited to get drunk at a club and hope that while us girls are away in the restroom or something you can sneak peaks at the drunk girls doting about. But-but-but why the hell do you always have to say 'but-but-but?!' Once is enough, you pig!

Isabelle sighed. She sighed! Her lovely face sighed a sighing sigh that was unbecoming of her calm, quiet demeanour on her soft, relaxed visage. "Please, can we drop it?"

"Not until you admit you like them! You like them a little bit!" Yelled Pig... I mean Jacob the Pig.

"I like them. Just a little bit." Isabelle frowned. She frowned! She wouldn't have to frown if it weren't for Jacob the Pig. Damn you, you horrid beast!

Jacob the Pig guffawed. He guffawed! That bitch-ass motherfucker guffawed! "You like the Jonas Brothers! Hahahahahaha!!!"

"Whatever," Isabelle said, though she'd never have to use that word with me. "Whatever. Can we just drop it? You said you'd drop it."

"We can drop it," Jacob the Pig finally called for cessation of his offensive. "What kind of shitty music are we listening to now? I hate pop music."

"It's really not that bad, honeycakes..." Isabelle called him honeycakes. She hated calling him honeycakes. She had no issues with pet names, but didn't think honeycakes was a particularly good one. She hated using it, especially when addressing Jacob the Pig (A name I hailed as more appropriate, as you can probably tell. But don't tell Isabelle I said that.). But Jacob thought it was cute, and silly, and sweet, and he preferred to be called that, to the point where sometimes if Isabelle called, 'Jacob!' when a cell phone bill for him arrived in the mail, he wouldn't respond.

But I digress from the conversation. "It's really not that bad, honeycakes..."

But Jacob the Pig interrupted her as we finally found Ontario Street. "You better believe it is. It's crap. Slush. Crappy slush. Or like a crappy beer. A warm beer. A crappy warm beer. Or something European. A crappy, warm, European beer, or some shit like that." Jacob tuned through several stations. He stopped briefly when he glided over a country station, but so as not to reveal the truth, flipped to a different station as quickly as possible. The radio ended up on another pop station, but nobody mentioned it.

"How are you doing back there, Jo?" Jacob the Pig asked me.

"The back seat has its ups and downs. I definitely have the whole third-wheel feeling, but at least I have front row seats to you two for entertainment."

"Don't be like that..." Isabelle mentioned.

I apologized quietly in return, but Jacob the Pig masked it with his own profound statement. "Yeah, don't be like that, Jo! We're downtown! Downtown Chi-town. It doesn't get much better than this! Happy, happy, get happy dude!"

"Whatever," I said, though I'd never have to use that word with her.

In five minutes we were on the street, walkin', walkin', walkin', and in ten minutes, we were waitin', waitin', waitin'. It strikes me as strange, the whole nightclub scene. I enjoy it, don't get me wrong; it's invigorating to be able to douse the flames of your fiery, fervoured heart in tasty, strong alcohol, and join thousands of strangers in communal dance; I have always enjoyed dancing, whether it's with Isabelle, or our girl friends, or the hot boys we found in the clubs who flirted with us when Isabelle was still single. Though I guess that's how Isabelle found Jacob the Pig.

Regardless, dancing is a wondrous outlet. To move, to sweat, to groove to music, despite the melody or tune, is such a grand outlet for energy and feelings. Angry, sad, happy, depressed, stoic, wild, it doesn't matter; you can dance, and you won't have to speak a word. Your hips, your hands, your feet, they'll all speak for you, in languages you'll never learn to articulate.


But the nightclub scene still strikes me as queer. I guess it is how the different clubs form their own little personality, and people judge the clubs not by their actual good-bad distinctions, but instead by their contrived personalities. That club over there is lame for whatever reason, and that club over there is alright after this time for whatever reason, but this club is great always for whatever reason. But there are no real reasons. They're all clubs. They all play basically the same music. They all have the same deals on the stuff they serve at their bars. They're all typically fun to dance at. Loyalty to a nightclub is like loyalty to a retail outlet. Yeah, you could shop exclusively at Target, or Walmart, or K-Mart. But they all sell the same things, so why exclude the others?

We're at Blue Label tonight, but I bet you can guess who's choice it was. His name is Jacob and he is a Pig. Yep. Normally I would detest going to any club that he preferred, but frankly, we've been here quite a few times after he and Isabelle started dating. I would normally detest... but frankly, he knows the owner, so we get in free as long as we wait in line. I am perfectly content with a jerkoff getting me and my best friend into a club for free, even if he is a pig.

So here I am, standin' and waitin' and watchin' Jacob the Pig talk to supermodel Isabelle in line, as people to and fro chatter here and there. Oh, pig - you pig - Jacob - pig - you stand there conceitedly with your arm wrapped around Isabella's waist, your floppy hand resting on her inner thigh, so blatantly and grossly perverted in the middle of public. How obscene. How you stand there in your 'classy' white button-up shirt with the beer stain, and the somewhat tattered jeans, and unfashionable sneakers, and oversized belt buckle, and tousled hair, and shutter shades. Pff.

And there she is. Isabelle, such a beauty. Her dress was short, only halfway down her thighs, but not slutty by any means; with her body, it's a perfect length for her; it glowed a vibrant ruby red with an odd tone under the dark blue neon lights that glowed above. Her earrings were dark red, small, and modest, matching her dress to the hue. She wore matching flats instead of heels, like most girls would have; she doesn't need to impress anyone; she knows she's drop dead sexy, and would much rather wear something comfortable while dancing.

I'd say what I'm wearing. I'd say I'm wearing some nice black jeans, a sleek and freshly washed white shirt, with a slim black vest atop, with my "hipster" thick rimmed glasses over my eyes, and black and white Chucks on my feet along with the rainbow socks nobody could see anyway. I could tell you about the boy's tie I'm wearing for a belt, or the three different rings on different fingers, or a friendship bracelet on my arm given to me by Isabelle back in middle school, or the numerous other bangles and bracelets adorning my wrists. But I'd rather not.

We were eventually let inside, and we entered Blue Label on a lively Saturday night. There were just the right amount of strangers in the room, just enough to feel completely anonymous, but not too many where you would feel uncomfortable. The crowd seemed to be having a blast, and there were cameras hanging from somewhere which featured different dancing people on the large television screen.

The Pig had to go pee, though I assume he's off to get one of those condoms out of the filthy machines they have in the restrooms at clubs, just in case he couldn't wait until they got home or something. Pff. Isabelle and I chatted it up at the bar, getting alcohol into our systems. Jacob the Pig ordered something once he joined us, but I helped Isabelle not pay attention to him. I held her hand, or wrapped my arm around her whenever Jacob tried to talk to her, because I knew it annoyed him and made him jealous.

"Dude, Jo, how can you drink that much and not need to go?" Jacob asked. Which was his secret code for, 'Get out of here, because I want to make out with Isabelle.'

I ignored him, and whispered in Isabelle's ear. Obviously, she couldn't hear my whisper over the music, but neither could Jacob, which added to the comedy. Sadly, the worst song of all songs came on. It was some country song which some sell-out hip-hop artist got the bright idea to steal and use as his own. And it was Jacob and Isabelle's "song."

"It's our song, babe!" Jacob the Pig hollered. "Let's go dance!"

"Sure thing, honeycakes," Isabelle replied, much to my lament. "Will you be alright here, Jo?"

I sighed. "Sure. Alright, here, alone, bored. I'll find some friendly drinks to devour."

"Promise - Jo - I promise, you and I get the next dance!" They both wandered off.

By some freak standard, the most pronounced girlyman I had ever seen in my life took Isabelle's place. He stared at me as if he could look so intently, he might be able to read my DNA or something. Eventually, he averted his gaze when the bartender wandered back, and he got a drink. He was clearly one of two things: obviously flaming gay, with a light brown head of hair in a faux-hawk, an extremely pink polo, some nice jeans that looked very expensive, along with some very clean sneakers. Or he was gay, and trying to compensate by attempting to look very straight, sipping his domestic beer very cool-like. Turned off, I looked out in the crowd for Isabelle.

"Have I seen you before?" girlyman, whom I will now refer to as Faux, on account of the unfortunate haircut, asked. I didn't grace him with a gaze, instead continuing to look for Isabelle. "Seen you here, at this club, before, I mean. Have I seen you here?"

"Probably," I mentioned, finally finding Isabelle and the Pig in the crowd. "I've been coming here with my best friend and her boyfriend for the past month, almost every weekend."

"I knew it! So have I. Well, I mean, I've been here every weekend," Faux said nervously. "Do you mind if you help me out real quick?"

What in the hell was this? A tragedy? A travesty? What's the best word for it? It certainly wasn't dancing, watching lovely Isabelle and poor Pig trying his best to dance. Jacob wasn't a dancer. He has two left feet by nature. He stumbled over Isabelle several times while I looked on, and it infuriated me. Isabelle loves to dance. She deserves a significant other who can at least dance with her. That should be me.

Wait, Faux asked me a question. "What?" I replied. "Help with what?"

I finally looked at Faux, and he sighed with relief once he looked at my eyes and lips. He passed me his cell phone. "I can't tell if my phone's working. Like, I'm trying to call my pal Mark. But the signal won't go through. Could you call your phone on mine real quick to see if my phone's alright?"

Ladies, this is what you call, nipping it in the bud. I took Faux's phone, glanced at it, and put it on the bar next to his drink. "What's your name?" I asked with a coy smile.

"Jacob."

Good, this will be easier for me now. "Hi Jacob. I'm Jocelyn - call me Jo. Now, Jacob, let me tell you something. I know your phone is working. I know that you want me to call my phone so you can trick me into giving you my number. I know you like me, and let me tell you, I'm very uninterested.

"And this is the part where you say, 'Wow, that's harsh. Cause I mean, you're a hot chick, and I just wanted to buy you a drink.' But I'll have you know that you're not playing the right field with me - you're not in the ballpark right now - honeycakes - we're not even playing the same game. Bye bye now." I hopped off my barstool and wandered out toward the dancefloor.

The song ended while I was midway out and switched to something even more fun and lively than the previous. Once I reached Isabelle and her stumbling buffoon, I took her by the hand and spun her around. The Pig scowled, but Isabelle laughed. "I hope you met a lot of nice drinks in our absence!" she said above the music.

"That I did. But you promised. Honeycakes," I said to Jacob the Pig, "maybe you should meet some nice drinks now."

"Yeah, maybe," he replied, partially confused. "I loosen up for dancing more after a few more drinks."

The Pig made himself scarce, and Isabelle and I launched ourselves into fluid, passion filled dancing. We were queens! We were confident! There were millions on the dancefloor with us, but who cares, cause everyone knew we were the best. I thought of Isabelle. I thought, I thought, I thought, and as song, after song, after song passed through our ears, and as hip, after hip, after hip wagged and moved to the beat, I thought, and thought, and thought. Isabelle, Isabelle, Isabelle.

I thought of all the boyfriends we've had over the years. And how we were so crazy for them, but always realized later they were horrible choices. I remembered when she made me that friendship bracelet that never broke. I remembered truth or dare, when the naive boys dared us to kiss, and we gave them a show, making the whole room 'ooh' and 'ahh,' and how we couldn't stop laughing afterwards. I remembered sleeping over at each others houses almost every single day. I remembered our runway shows, where we saved our allowance for months, and then would buy as much lingerie as we could; we hid it, because both our mothers hated it; when everyone else was asleep though, we would pretend to be supermodels in our new lingerie, and would strut around our rooms in our see-through bras and thongs. We'd try our own on, then try each others, and strut, and pose, and dance all night long until we couldn't see straight.

Then we'd fall into bed, price tags still on our lingerie, and fight over who would get to have more of the blankets until we fell asleep, and just ended up rolling on top of each other sometime during the night anyway, waking up face to face, eye to eye. I remembered the summers, when the air conditioning broke at my house, and it was too hot to breath. Where we didn't even bother wearing lingerie, waking up to each others naked bodies, only covered by a sheet in case the parentals walked in. I remembered that summer, one morning, when I woke up before Isabelle, and I watched her sleep; our naked bodies pressed together close, our shaven, sixteen year old legs entangled, and her warm breath on my lips like lip gloss. I remembered realizing I love her like no boy ever could. I remembered realizing I never loved any boy. I remembered realizing I was gay, and my life wouldn't be complete without Isabelle. Life equals Jocelyn plus Isabelle... Isabelle and Jocelyn... Isabelle to Jocelyn...

"Isabelle to Jocelyn!" my beauty called above the music to me, in my right ear, over my shoulder. We were still dancing - how long we had danced already, I knew not - my back was to her - her thumbs through my beltloops as we continued, "I hate to be a total killjoy. But I could use a drink. Mind going to get one of me?"

"Of course not, darling," I replied with a turn of my head. "You don't mind being abandoned here? You don't want to come with? Don't want to look for your hopeless dancer of a boyfriend?" I spun around and grabbed her hands for support as we both continued dancing while talking.

Her face was making a shape I did not enjoy. Most would call it a frown. I disapproved. "I'd rather not," she said, which is when I said...

"Okay, fess up. What's wrong, sweetie?"

She was quiet, and watched her feet while we continued dancing. Isabelle shook her head, "Nevermind. We can keep dancing."

After a few seconds though, the song ended, and a slow dance song came on. I made a nod to see if she wanted to look awkward with me during a slow dance as usual. Her hair was mostly covering her eyes in an unflattering way, but she definitely nodded. We took each other in our arms and pulled each other close. Isabelle laid her head on my shoulder, and we moved our bodies to the beat of the music in silence.

"He really sucks, I guess is the problem," she said quietly, but loud enough for me to hear."

"Jacob?"

"Yeah... he can't even dance."

"Tell me about it."

Another pause as the first chorus finished, and the slow R&B song switched to verse two. "I read the text messages on his phone before driving here. He was talking to Quentin, the guy who owns this place. And they were talking about a girl that Quentin thought Jacob should hook up with."

I could see this story was not going to be a good one. I squeezed her lightly, and kissed her shoulder in comfort.

She continued. "I know this wasn't the first time he's cheated on me... He's been cheating on me for quite some time, actually. Remember that one time I crawled into bed with you in the middle of the night, a couple of months ago, when you had a cold?"

I rubbed her back in a way that was comforting and said yes.

"I told you I just couldn't get to sleep. I had been out with friends that night. I got home early, and thought Jacob was asleep. So I went into our bedroom quietly. He was having sex with someone. Who knows who."

"Why did you want to keep dating him... you act like your head over heels for him," I replied.

"I was hoping that maybe he'd change... maybe he'd realize, 'Wow, I have a beautiful girlfriend. I don't need to cheat on her - I have everything I could ever want.' But I guess that won't be happening. I guess I'm not everything he could ever want. I guess I'm pretty worthless..."

I told her to shut up. "Shut up." I kissed her neck. "You will never be worthless. You could never be worthless, even if you tried. Because you're everything without trying."

"Not his everything."

"You're my everything, Isabelle."

It was the second chorus now, and we both backed away from each other, so we could look at each other in the eyes. We kept dancing, because we had to keep communicating. Remember, our dancing was speaking a language we could never express. We had to keep expressing. We couldn't stop speaking to one another, not right now.

"So I was right," she said abruptly.

"Right about what?" I suddenly felt very self-conscious, which is odd, because usually I'm the complete opposite. Usually I'm a bit too confident.

"You don't like boys, do you?"

I hesitated longer than I intended. "No."

"And you like me, don't you?"

I didn't hesitate. "Yes."

The bridge in the song started. The singer wailed something passionate.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"I just figured it out," she said, resting her head on my shoulder again. "You stopped dating boys in high school. You asked my little brother to prom because you didn't want to go with anyone in particular. And we were always close. Closer than most anyone else has been in our lives. And when I needed someone stronger and braver than me, you did what my boyfriends never did. You protected me. You were very defensive when it came to me. You always defended me when I needed defending."

"I have to admit, I guess..." I murmured, "I've been in love with you for quite a long time."

"And I guess I have to admit the same..." she replied.

I almost choked on air to this, and looked at her in confusion and shock. "What?"

"Don't get me wrong," she said, very plainly looking into my eyes, as if we were sixteen and lying entangled in bed; as if she could see a reflection of my heart in my glasses. "I have, and I suppose still do, like boys. I mean, I've slept with a few, so I guess that speaks more than words..." A new slow song came on, still R&B.

"But I always had feeling for you. I didn't pay attention to them for the longest time. I thought it was just a phase in high school, or just a silly thought in the back of my mind. But you bathed me in your love for years. And you were subtle, but I eventually noticed. And couldn't deny I felt the same, in a weird way."

We were quiet and danced for quite some time, and we could feel every part of our bodies pressed together. I backed up from her, and kissed her. We kissed, and I cried. I cried while we kissed, and we only stopped once or twice, long enough for me to wipe my tears on her dress. Crying, kissing... it was almost pathetic, but who was I to complain?

This was love, true love. The worthwhile kind of love. Love is like dancing, if you ask me. It's a lot like dancing. Every song is different and unique, and every lover is different and unique, yet they're all somewhat similar if you look hard enough. You move the same ways sometimes, and you love the same ways sometimes. And it's always a lot of fun. But when you're dancing, the best part is right after the third verse, during the last chorus.

During that last chorus, the song has one more exultation - one more triumphant blast of repetition - where you hear the most crucial part of the song one last time. The last chorus is when the best dancing happens, because you get all the last tiny bits of emotion for that song out before it ends. But you have to save your energy - you have to be patient - just like with love. If you waste your energy in the beginning of the song, you won't have any energy by the end. If you jump the gun in love, you won't have any love to spare when love is really important.

You have to save your energy 'til the fourth minute in the song, when it's the best time to dance. You have to save your love, and hold on tight, until all the frustration, and sadness, and depression, and insanity you've seen while holding onto that love finally makes sense. You have to save your love for when it matters. It's the love that was worth the weight - worth the wait. It's that fourth minute, last chorus kind of love. The love you have to wait patiently for, or else you might not see it. That - this - is true love. The worthwhile kind of love.

A new song - a pop song - started when Isabelle's tongue was in my mouth, caressing a tongue of my own. That's when I felt someone yank at the collar of my shirt, ripping me away from my love, and spinning me around. It was Jacob the Pig, who had a fist ready like a riot squad baton. He gasped when he realized I was who I was. "What the fuck?"

"I could ask the same," I replied, wiping some of Isabelle's spit from my lips. I stood in front of her, and she stood very matter-of-factly behind me.

Jacob was quite confused at this point. "Jocelyn... I... What the fuck? Jocelyn, were you just making out with my fucking girlfriend?"

"It takes two to kiss, Jacob," Isabelle noted. "Though I'm sure you realize that."

"What the fuck?" The Pig blubbered.

"You've said that three times now, and you sound like a retard," I told him. "Here's a secret. Me and Isabelle - Isabelle and I - we kinda like pop music. And we like each other for good reasons. But I know you hate pop music. And I know will never love Isabelle as purely as I will. And I'm pretty sure Isabelle knows this too."

"Jocelyn, what the hell are you talking about? You're pissing me off," The Pig snorted.

"We're through, Jacob. Don't come home tonight. You're not welcome there. I'll pack your things and leave them on the porch."

"Isa... honeycakes... You're breaking up with me?"

Isabelle nodded appropriately while the crowd chanted to the music.

"Isabelle... I think you're just confused. Honeycakes, I..."

"And," I interrupted, "I hate how you call her honeycakes. And she does as well. You should've figured that out after dating her for three months."

"Jocelyn, I'm about this close," he showed a small distance between his thumb and index finger, "to knocking your damn teeth out if you don't shut the hell up right now."

I turned to my love, but spoke to both her and Jacob. "Isabelle, I really hope you forgive me. I'm not going teach your boyfriend how to dance with you. But I'm going to teach him some manners."

"Jocelyn, what the..."

WHOCKKKKK!

In three fourths of Jacob's sentence, I spun back around, and my ringed knuckles cracked against Jacob's nose. I hit him harder than I intended, and I didn't break his nose, but I definitely felt the bones move a little and pop unpleasantly. My right hand's knuckles were now quite numb, but luckily I'm left-handed.

Jacob was so taken off guard, that not only did he not have time to react, or retaliate, but he completely lost balance and fell on top nearby dancers, before slithering in a daze to the floor. Many people gasped and yelped around us. I glanced back at Isabelle, hoping she understood I decked her boyfriend in both of our best interests, and I luckily found her desperately clinging to my waist for balance, almost falling over with laughter.

"What the... What...?" Jacob mumbled from the floor. His nose was bleeding freely when he looked up at me, as soon as Isabelle kissed me. As the blood ran to his mouth, I saw a red stain around his mouth not left by blood.

"And next time you try pleading with your girlfriend, after cheating on her, wipe off all the lipstick first."

"What the... What...?"

But Isabelle kissed me again, so I didn't listen to The Pig. I took Isabelle by the hand, and we made our way off the dance floor and out of Blue Label. We hurried through the windy streets to our car, and made our getaway back to our home in Lake Zurich. Just like dancing - which is oh so natural - just like our childhood - which was oh so natural - we had a party and a sleepover. We celebrated by packing all of Jacob's things into a small suitcase, and literally kicked it out of the front door. Jacob was an idiot - IDIOT! - but smart enough to know he shouldn't break into a house with two girl residents. We were safe from his ignorance.

So, naturally, we had a sleepover. Of course, we have long since childhood been able to wear whatever underwear we please. But we happily had an old fashioned lingerie runway show, with loud music in every room, the entire house as our runway. We laughed, and strutted, and posed, and danced all night long. And when we were exhausted, we took off the skimpy undergarments, and fell into bed with one another. And we held each other close, and entwined each others legs, and kissed, and kissed, and kissed, just like true lovers should.

"Jocelyn... I love you..." Isabelle whispered between kisses. At some point, I guess the alcohol got the better of her, because Isabelle fell asleep mid-kiss without a further motion or word, a hand in my hair and the other on my breast. I couldn't help but laugh as I felt her warm breath on my lips. I kissed her in her sleep. And I loved her.

In that moment, Isabelle was perfect. And I knew that I would fall asleep with Isabelle's hand still cupping my breast. And I knew she would wake up tomorrow morning. And I knew the first thought on her mind would be, "I really have to pee." But certainly the second would be, How many people are there that would let me flop on top of them while making out naked together? Only one. Only Jocelyn. Only my true love. And who could I lie in bed with, tangled with no sheets or blankets covering us, since our mothers wouldn't see?

Only one. Only Isabelle. Only my true love. Only.

Michael

Michael

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Michael” by Franz Ferdinand.

Off of the album: Franz Ferdinand.

"It's time to go! Let's go! No more waiting."

"I don't know. I'm really not in the mood."

The night was hot and the room was cold. The AC hummed happily with the attention it was getting in the humid southern heat. It purred like a kitten with catnip, while the kitten Jonah had adopted, who was sitting on the phone, purred a similar mood. I couldn't say I shared his sympathies.

"Alex," Jonah lectured to me with a false sense of superiority, or greater sense of knowledge, or with a great deal of sympathy, I really couldn't tell. "I know that things with Shady..."

"Stanley, Jonah," I interjected. Shady was the nickname Jonah coined for my now ex-girlfriend, Stanley. He knew saying 'Shady' was infuriating to me.

"Whatever," he replied in a faux act of apology. "The fact is this: you have been whining and moaning about your break up with Sha - I mean - Stanley, for almost three months."

"It was a tough thing. Things were tough. Tough things are tough to deal with," I defended, sounding dumber than I did in my head.

"Regardless, it's time to move on! You can't continue to mope around all day and night like a prisoner to her."

"Really, Jonah, the situation..."

"The situation is that you're being a whiny bitch about this, and if I have to drag you back into the real world kicking and screaming, I will. Now I'm going to take a shower and get ready. You better be all dolled up by the time I'm through, because we'll be leaving whether you're ready or not."

Jonah bubbly bounced his way toward the bathroom as I slumped uncomfortably on our lumpy brown couch while the Food Network yammered senselessly about red onions to me. I got angry and smashed the button on the nearby remote. The television changed to the wrong station due to a broken, unresponsive button - CNN. I slammed the remote to the ground, and felt tears well in my eyes as I finally coaxed Discovery Channel onto the glass screen. I couldn't stop crying.

It's pathetic, I admit. But it had indeed been three long, tiresome, sleepless, frustrating nights. Months rather, but the months were filled with days, and with days come nights, so it's difficult for me to differentiate these days; regardless, those nights were all like the adjectives I just mentioned. I had never been so heavily hit with a bout of depression in my life until now.

First break up? Fired from my first serious job? First major car accident that totaled my car? First major class failed in college? Nothing - nothing - held a candle to this. This is the sort of depression that makes Poe sound like he's blithering about fluffy bunnies. This is the sort of depression that Haruki Murakami dared to explore. This is the stuff that makes Rob Flemming from High Fidelity admit he was overreacting and just being a melodramatic sod.

As said, her name was Stanley. Stanley Huang. She was a year younger than myself, golden skin, a cute, small nose, perfect, very dark brown eyes, a great figure, and hair that was so dark brown, you couldn't really tell it wasn't black.

Stanley certainly wasn't the first love of my life. But she was the one I fell hardest for. Where do the lines between affection and obsession and love converge? At what point have you taken love too far? When does one have to take into account their own life before their significant others?

Stanley and I have been through a lot together. We met in our freshman year of college, and hit it off right away, just like all the horribly inaccurate teenage-romantic comedies tell us it should happen. We both had been to private schools in the past, we both liked basketball, we both had careers planned out, we both were looking for the same things in one another, and we were both very physically attracted to one another. We quickly developed a relationship that seemed perfect...

Jonah broke the train of thought I had. "Are you excited?"

I hadn't moved more than the five feet it took me to get to the couch since he wandered away. Enthralled. "I'm not dressed."

"Well, get dressed! We've got to get going!" he replied enthralled.

"I'd rather not..."

"Did I not say kicking and screaming?" he smirked.

I went to my bedroom in our less than exciting apartment to prepare for this less than exciting adventure. I was not up for this yet. I wasn't exaggerating how painful this break up was at all. This one really hit home. She was a constant part of my life. She lived here, in this house. She put on her make up in the mirror I use. She made every meal at least once in that kitchen. She slept in my bed, with me.

This was her home, and she abandoned it.

And here I was, putting on my favourite jeans that were frayed around the feet and that were beginning to rip at the knee. And here I was slipping on my sleek, black, button up shirt. And here I was, throwing on my favourite corduroy blazer which only Stanley and I have ever liked. And here I was sliding on some Converse to match my outfit. And here I am, walking toward the door as Jonah coaxes endlessly from the next room.

This is my home, and I'm abandoning it.

We drove for fifteen minutes through the winding streets until we reached downtown, entering the still busy streets of Austin. The streets glowed hazy orange, everything was still wet - it had been raining all day - and the flashing crosswalks and green lights blurred the colours together into hues indescribable by words. Jonah wove through the city streets until we climbed high atop a carpark. We slowly made our way down to the street level as Jonah chattered endlessly as we walked down the puddle covered sidewalk.

"I promise," he confided, "a few hours out here and your world will be changed forever. You need a little life injected into you. And this is just the place."

"You mean this club?" I queried, purposefully stupid.

"No, you smart ass, the city! This place is filled with life!"

As Jonah tried to give me a lecture on the wonderfully obvious excitements that lay scattered throughout the city, I looked on for myself at the dark streets. Cars blazed their break lights across the avenue, many throbbing their irreverently loud chopped and screwed "Third Coast" rap to the public, a steady bass like a marching drum for us pedestrians. The college kids leaked onto the streets in search of drunken adventures, not to begin suggesting their party school campus dorms had emptied at all. A helicopter flew overhead as a band pushed equipment down the sidewalk toward their night's venue.

Yes, indeed, Jonah, the city was alive. There was a vivid, audible pulse that drummed through this town, that carried oxygen to us fair denizens, giving us life, reason to move - to live - to love in the city limits. I knew this already. Jonah, you need not remind me. You need not remind me.

The fact - the true question to be asked - is what do I have left to live for? I committed myself entirely to Stanley. I gave our relationship 100% and it just fell apart like a building in a demolition site - like a Jenga tower on the last turn. I did everything I could to make one of the truest, realist loves in my life complete, and it still failed - it still buckled, like those buildings always do, until it all falls into pieces on the ground.

I know - I know for a fact - that if I found another girl I liked, I would be emotionally assailed in the same fashion as before. And if I found another whom was every bit as wonderful, glorious in every aspect like Stanley, I would only be let down once more in the end. If I can put 100% of myself into something and still fail, that means I have zero chance for success in a relationship. So why should I even try? Why should I even make an effort when all is futile?

We finally arrived at our destination. The glitz bled out onto the street from this glamourous nightclub, ostentatiously named Nectar, lost amidst the gridded streets of the Texas capital. Jonah had attempted to drag me to this favourite club of his for quite some time. Tonight was the night I finally had no excuse to not join him. The queue outside was long, but the men filtered through the line quickly enough, and Jonah passed the time by lecturing me further under the purple, cursive neon sign - NECTAR - that hung above.

We entered the club finally after a miscellaneous amount of time, and we entered a true club of extraordinary flamboyance. Thin curtains were draped from the ceiling and caught the light in queer textures and odd angles. There was an orgy of bodies gyrating on the dancefloor, the speakers all around the room blaring something catchy and bubbly by Mariah Carey featuring an anonymous hip-hop artist whom was popular at the time. The DJ danced around in a mesh top, with an ostentatious looking furry hat, and some very awkward pants.

"I can't wait! Ahh! I'm so glad you finally came. You'll have so much fun," Jonah assured me, shouting loudly over the music, even though I still could barely hear him.

I nodded unenthusiastically.

"I'm going to see if any of my friends are here! They usually are on on Friday!" he continued with shouts.

I nodded enthusiastically toward the bar.

"Alright, I'll catch up with you in a little while." Jonah embraced me, speaking directly into my ear, though still shouting over the music, which was a bit painful on the ears. "Don't let Stanley bring you down, Alex. Just try and have some fun!"

I nodded enthusiastically toward the bar.

He let go and pranced off into the damp throng of dancing clubbers. I made my way enthusiastically to the bar, crowded by drunk wallflowers and tipsy dancers who had partnered up - not with each other - but with the side of the bar counter for support. The bartender nearest to me was dressed in a vibrant shirt that glowed brightly when he stepped under a blacklight, and his goatee was awkward. I was unenthused, but called him over, ordering a bottle of a popular German beer served in green bottles so I could slowly slip away from reality into a haze with some golden liquid.

The bartender smiled in return, and gave me the beer immediately. I quickly swigged out of it. This was when I saw her. Seven barstools down, in a cute but not ostentatiously short dress that prominently featured her chest. I watched her for a beer and a half before approaching her and her cosmo.

"Hey," I said as cool as I could manage.

"Oh, hi there," she replied. She seemed to have gotten a head start on our secret race of inebriation.

"I like the dress."

She looked down at herself, and began to say something profoundly intelligent, but belched. She quickly attempted to save face with a sincere apology, but belched again. She instead took a healthy swig of her poison.

She was clearly heaven sent. Why not?

"Do you come here often?" I asked.

"Yeah..." she blubbered. "It'sa reallyyyyyyyyyy nice place. Goodmusic. Fun Jades... I mean, DJs... It'sa reallyyyyyyyy nice place. Where did we meet, again?"

An unexpected question. Let me remind those interested, I have never met this person in my life before.

"No, I never said that. We just met, like, right now."

She nodded with understanding, and made to pat my shoulder in what was probably forgiveness, or attraction, or loneliness, or happiness, or attraction, or friendship. Unfortunately she was, as I said, in first place when it comes to this secret race of inebriation. She slipped straight off her barstool and fell into my arms. Ignoring her fall entirely, she patted me on the back anyway, before climbing back onto her stool drunkenly; I admit, I glanced at her flagrant lack of underwear as she did this.

"Sorry, Andrew. I'think Ive hhhad alot-to drink."

I nodded in agreement, and sipped at my own drink. "Hey, would you like to catch a cab with me? Maybe head to my place?" A bold question, I realize, but I opted for the theory of 'better soon than later.'

"Oh, that'sss so cute! But sorri, I dont go for gay guys."

"Amanda!" called a girl who approached from the dancefloor. "Come on! You're drunk, and we're leaving." The new girl awkwardly drug my Amanda away from me, and they stumbled toward the exit. I looked out upon the sea of sweaty dancers, groups of bodies writhing together in ecstatic entertainment. And here I am, still sober, alone, and I couldn't even pick up a girl.

God, I hate gay clubs.

I finished my drink pessimistically looking out upon the crowd. White lights suddenly lit the entire room for the length of a breath. I suddenly realized I was staring at someone, and he was staring back at me, and quickly looked away. I ordered another drink and devoured half the bottle in less than a minute.

"Hey there."

I turned to my right. Maybe I was stupid, but the person now sitting there, who had definitely spoken to me - when the hell did he get there? - looked eerily familiar, though I didn't know him at all. He had short brown hair, and a nose that was a little long, blue eyes that you could pick out even in the oddly lit room, what seemed to be a fairly toned body, and was an inch or so taller than myself.

"How do you like the place? Never seen you around," he said.

"I don't go clubbing that much, honestly." Why am I talking with this guy?

"Well I could see that," he replied with a smile. "What's your name?"

"Alex."

"Michael," he returned with a nod. "You look bored, Alex. Are you with anyone?" he asked politely.

"Yeah, my friend, Jonah." I thought about what I said, and thus became a stuttering idiot. "I mean - Jonah - a friend. I mean, no, I mean!, like, no - I mean - yes! I mean, a friend - he's a friend - Jonah is - just a friend - we aren't, like, together or anything."

"Don't worry, dude," he said, patting my shoulder. "I know what you're trying to say. That's not very nice, though. He just abandoned you in this jungle?"

"Yeah, basically," I replied as I attempted to save face by swigging from my beer.

"Why don't you get out there and dance? Just for a bit? It really takes the stress off." I noticed he looked very sweaty. That's when I realized who he was. He was the guy I was accidentally staring at in the crowd, who was staring back at me, during that breath of white light.

"I'm not really the dancing type, to be honest." Swig.

"Fair enough. You seem bothered by something." He wasn't taking his eyes off me, not that I was looking back. I vaguely watched the DJ dance.

"You could say that. Relationship issues." Swig.

"Now that, I can directly relate with." He rubbed sweat off of his forehead on his arm, hopped off the barstool, and then blasphemously took my hand ever so gently. By now I was a little tipsy, but not that drunk. But my mind couldn't react at all - the synapses simply didn't fire - and I only felt the slight tug he gave me.

He smirked coyly, "Come on, this song is about to end. And I have the feeling the next song will be a good one."

"A... a... and?" I blubbered.

"And, I can't dance alone." He still smirked at me. Was that a wink, Michael? Are you pulling on my arm a little more firmly, Michael? Are you going to answer me, Michael?

"But I'm... I, uh..."

"I know, you're not the dancing type - you told me," he replied to my nothingness of a stutter. "But you're feeling down, and sitting around getting drunk won't help at all. So come with me, just for a couple songs. What've you got to lose?"

"I don't know." Swig.

Wait... swig?

What? Beer bottle, how dare you fail me! How dare your German hops goodness be gone?

My bottle was empty.

All swigs have been swug.

Shit.

"Nothing to lose but a beer bottle and your coherency," Michael replied with a laugh. "Now come on, so we can be ready for the new song!"

I stumbled off the barstool, my hand still wrapped within Michael's firmly gripped, sweaty, surprisingly soft hand. He tugged just gentle enough for me to leave if I wanted to. But that devilish brain of mine refused to fire any synapses. Clearly the United Nations had enacted some new ceasefire on the cerebellum. I was powerless as I trailed after Michael while a pop star in the song playing told the crowd I was joining how wonderful her love was, and how everyone should dance because they are in love. Should I, pop star? Should I really dance because I'm in love? My heart is broken - that's not love - this Michael is not Stanley - why should I dance?

The song ended and the crowd cheered as we - Michael and I - reached the centre of the dancefloor, which flashed different colours from lights under the glass floor that made my tipsy self dizzy. The new song came on, and it was a cheesy powerpop song that got overplayed on MTV, which was reminiscent of the 80s and Madonna. The zoo around me began to shift to the rhythm, slow at first, then loud and glorious. The lyrics sang something about lying together, and someone being the one for someone else, and someone missing someone else terribly. Something like that.

Michael let go of me - unbuckled my leash and collar - and freed me as he began to shift his hips in what is normally a suggestive mating ritual performed by certain exotic avians, but is often forgiven as entertaining dance movements in Western society's clubs. He motioned his hand in that way that says, "Hey, do you remember that scene from The Matrix? The one where the guy who was really good at karate motioned to Keanu Reeves, and was all like, 'Come get me?' Yeah, come get me."

Strangely, I found that my body was beginning to match the rhythm of the song. Was my head even slightly nodding to the beat? Was that me tapping my foot? I knew I must have looked like a robot dancing, and even so, it was tragic by the standards upheld by dancing robots. Michael must be an enforcer of robot dancing standards, because he spoke over the music to me, though not loudly like Jonah. "Move your hips a little more, and take steps with your feet."

I replied half in panic, half in complete confusion, "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Don't worry," he said with a laugh and a full, pearly white smile. He stepped close - really close - to me, and put his hands on my hips - those gently firm hands of his. He began to push my hips with his hands in time with the music, and oddly, my movements seemed slightly more coordinated. "Dancing well is for show offs. All you have to do is move your whole body, and you'll enjoy it."

I admit, I wasn't entirely repulsed by these odd shaking motions. When did Michael slide his fingers through my beltloops? Suddenly, he took my hands in his, and moved my arms a little in the way you move puddy. He showed me how he was moving his own arms, apparently suggesting I do the same, which I did. Apparently I was surviving this dancing thing.

The song switched to something popular and dancy, as you might expect in a club setting. We continued dancing, and our bodies drew even closer together, to the point where we very occasionally brushed our sweating bodies against each other. The alcohol really began to get into my head, and I began to think less about what was going on.

Two, three, four songs later - I lost count - I was thoroughly soaked in sweat. The crowd cheered with the completion of another round of dancing to yet another song. Michael and I were together now in the way pencils are when held together by a rubber band.

"And now, a song for the couples. An old one, a great one, for that boy who's just as great." As soon as the DJ shut the hell up so people could continue enjoying their dancing, an old hit came on. It was by an R&B star who was confessing something extraordinary - something about making love nice and slow, and driving to someone's house in drop top convertibles - but nobody noticed the lyrics, because the love began to leak out of every sweaty pore on the dancefloor.

Michael got closer than ever before. He turned to face me, pressed his entire - I do mean entire - body against mine, wrapping his arms around me, letting his hands rest on the waistline of my jeans. Every bone in my body, every section of my brain, screamed, hollered for me to run as the famous black singer wailed something about love in his song. I pushed Michael off me - not violently, but enough to get him away - and quickly pushed my way through the crowd. Move, excuse me, sorry, but I must retreat! This is a tactical maneuver, and it is critical that the retreat objective is accomplished.

I plopped out of the throng in a part of the club I didn't recognize. But I was hot, dizzy, and tipsy still, and made an awkward dash to a nearby column made of plastic. Since it was made of plastic, I had no problem hitting it with a closed fist. I was crying. I didn't know why - maybe it was certain ex-girlfriends with ironically masculine first names - maybe it was dancing with a gay guy - but I cried there on that column until I was turned around by a person turning my body around with their gently firm hands. Michael was there.

"Well, I was going to ask if you were alright, but I guess this answers my question," he said.

I wasn't ready for sarcasm, and decided to yell to him - not at him - not about him - but he was near me, and I felt certain personal parts of his body through his well tailored jeans when he tried to slow dance with me, and he happened to be in front of me at the moment, so he received my yelling. "Stanley! I loved Stanley! I loved Stanley more than I think I can ever express. And she dumped me and broke my heart! Broke it, like a wine glass, or like a TV remote, or like a window - broke it - into millions of pieces. And here I am, dancing with a strange man I don't know anything about!"

He hugged me. What kindness! What charity! Michael embraced me loving and comforting. I made his sweaty shirt more wet. "That must have been one bad boyfriend... it's alright... it's alright..." he said, just loud enough to hear over the music, and the crowd, and the beer.

"I loved her. I truly loved her. But I'm not sure I've ever been happier dancing with you."

"Really?" he asked, seeming a bit taken aback.

"Yes. Really. This might sound stupid, and this might be the booze talking, but I think I love you. Michael, you're all I ever want."

And then he kissed me. He - a man - masculine - kissed me. Open mouth and all, no reservation, we made out as two, three, four songs flew by - I lost count. And we went to the restroom together, and it was very crowded. We used the restroom of course, but when the attendees filtered out of the restroom, we did other things as well. Then we kissed outside of the stalls, but went back in and did more things before coming back out and washing our faces and hands.

We left the bathroom hand in hand. I saw Jonah, and he was with his friends, of course - he probably forgot all about me - but I saw him, gasping in complete shock, trying to shout something at me, but obviously I wasn't listening. When you fall in love, it's hard to hear things that used to annoy you or not make sense like bad rap songs that blared on club speakers. Things that you couldn't stand or before - that you downright hated before - that you may not have even considered before - have entirely different meanings when you have love. And love was hand in hand with me, walking to the centre of the dancefloor.

I wasn't drunk anymore, or didn't feel like it, at least. And we danced, oh did we dance. And did we ever dance together, because the first song we encountered was another slow song, but we loved it, and I felt Michael press against me as we danced with the throng of sweaty gay men surrounding us. We kissed when everyone kisses during the slow songs, and looked at each other coyly when the song was over like the couples who are really in love tend to do.

The music then sped up and everyone resumed wild, frivolous dancing. Dance, Michael, dance! Dance you sexy beast! Look at him dancing to that under-rated song from some Scottish band named after important political figures of World War One - that song that was a little fast, and a little hard to dance to, but was far too fun to complain. Dance, Michael, dance! Because I love it, Michael. Dance, Michael, because we're beautiful boys on a beautiful dancefloor, and I love it. Michael, you're dancing like a beautiful dancewhore, and I love it. And you're dancing with me, and I love it. We danced, and danced, and danced the night away; lone stars on the dancefloor in the Lone Star State. Oh yeah.