King of the Dance-Floor

[ AUTHOR'S PREFACE - This is a story that I wrote quite a while ago as a cautionary tale of sorts. The dedication here is to all of the "Kings and Queens of the Dance-floor" out there. You know who you are, all I ask is that you take a few moments to read. SO without further ado, I present for your reading pleasure: "King of the Dance-Floor" ]

Look over there, the corner of the bar. The space of the room just outside the reach of the dance-floor lights. See the guy leaning over the bar talking to the bartender? He’s the one wearing the tight red shirt and the low-rise jeans that show just a little bit of a treasure trail. The one with the skin that borders on yellow and caramel. He’s holding the purple drink in the short glass. Yep, that’s the one.

His name is Jeremy and, well if you could accuse anyone of being downright evil, it would be him. I suppose that you would like to know what event was able to prompt such a strong remark. The scene begins in that same corner, nine years ago on his twenty-second birthday.

...

Meat Market. The only club in the entire city shameless enough to embrace its identity. The neon sign out front acting like a bug zapper, drawing nearly every young gay man in the tri-city area to it at least once, but usually much more. Still, there were few regulars, which is to say few people that went to the same pickup bar every night. But there were the few Adonis’ with enough je ne sais quoi to get into and take someone home from the city’s most exclusive gay club every night. Jeremy was naturally one of them.

He had by this point become a sort of impromptu king among these beautiful elite. This status came from a combination of both the best looking and most promiscuous among the lot of them. And besides that Jeremy had every single one of the others beat hands down when is came to intelligence. He was a student at the city’s premiere university studying philosophy and political science, though fortunately, at least in his mind, he was able to keep others knowledge of this fact to a minimum.

Jeremy thrived on clichés. After all he had been raised as a cliché. His father was Japanese and taught of all things martial arts. His mother was black and owned, of course, a beauty salon. So, being one to not defy the edicts of tradition Jeremy drank, dosed, danced, and fornicated as much as he possibly could. He imagined that life was a stage and that who you were had nothing to do with the part to were told to play. And so it was with a great deal of inebriation that we find Jeremy, in the far corner of the Meat Market, drink in hand, newly twenty-two years old, and looking as hot as ever.

...

Jeremy stood next to the bar with a drink in his hand, as usual. It wasn’t that he especially liked alcohol but it enhanced the look of it all. With a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other he was the epitome of recklessness, which at the time was the vogue thing. He was wearing a tight shirt with the word “SLUT” emblazoned across the chest in a graffiti font. His pants were one size too small and hugged his crotch so tightly that anyone within ten feet, even in the dim lights of the club, would find a black hole of attention drawing them closer. It was early, at least in club time anyway, it was only eleven o’clock not even midnight yet. The dance-floor was just beginning to become populated with dancing revelers, none of the really chic people began to dance until at least one. Scanning the room Jeremy ground his cigarette into a nearby ashtray and set his drink down. He began to slowly sweep his gaze over the assembled crowd that even at this hour was almost at capacity. The expression on his face was that of sheer boredom. Which is not to say, of-course that he was bored. He was having the time of his life and in fact for some reason or another he was especially happy that night. It was his birthday and he was going to get laid, a present to himself in a sense. The suspense was the best part, waiting until the proper prey revealed themselves.

It is of course a natural instinct of man to attempt to regress to his most basal urges and desires. That night Jeremy was the apex of animalistic. He imagined himself as a great lion hunting down his prey on the open Savannah slowly stalking his prey until he was prepared to make his attack and pounce. With a slight internal start Jeremy spotted his target for the evening. Sitting at a table on the other end of the dance-floor nearly completely obscured by people and poor lighting was perhaps the most beautiful boy he had ever set eyes upon, though he was sure to add the mental qualifier, except my own reflection that is.

Forgetting his drink Jeremy slowly rights himself and, ever mindful of his pace he began walking towards his newly discovered target. He pulled it off with acute precision. His gait gave nothing away but a sense of assured coolness. If one walked too fast one looked too eager, too slow and one would appear as if he were trying to be chic, though he was of course, he just never let on. As he traversed the floor his body was caught in majestic poses by the flashing of the strobe lights. He gave off the illusion of being made up of still pictures in time, ethereal and staggeringly compelling in their majestic beauty. His eyes never left his target the whole way there. Arriving at the table he discovered that his approach had not come unnoticed, the element of surprise it seems was lost. Oh well.

The figure sitting down stamped out his cigarette and looked Jeremy directly in the eye. The effect, for the first time in what in that instant felt like an eternity was a small, barely noticeable sharp intake of air. Idly in the back of his mind Jeremy realized that people called it a gasp. The figure opposite him was wearing a black muscle shirt with one-quarter sleeves and pants that looked the twin to Jeremy’s own. Even sitting down Jeremy could tell that he was tall, at least six foot three by Jeremy’s rough estimation. His skin was the most delicate shade of cream the world had ever seen, it was as if his complexion yelled I tan under the dance-floor lights. His mouth had a subtle curve and was full without being feminine his cheekbones were high, giving Jeremy the impression that he was being faced with a rival predator on a lonely mountain path. His hair was the sheer essence of “in” it gave off the look as though he had just had amazing sex and he wanted the world to see. The last thing to take effect was the power of this creature’s gaze, like an Arabian Ballisk this boy could kill a man with his stare. They stood like so for not even a fraction of a second, though to both of them it felt like an eternity and a half.

The strange new encounter was the first to speak. “Hey. Rohan. And you are?” The timbre of his voice was perfect, for a moment Jeremy wondered weather or not he was facing an incubus. Shaking the thought from his mind he made his reply, mindful as always to keep his tone and pace at just the right levels so as to appear as a god condescending to a mortal. “Jeremy. You’re new.” It worked. From that moment on both of them knew that they would be sharing one of their beds by the end of the night, it was just a matter of ritual from this point onward, it didn’t matter who initiated it.

“Let’s dance”

...

The next morning thin motes of winter sun stabbed at Jeremy’s eyes slowly rousing him from his deep, exhausted sleep. He rolled over from the edge of the bed, the position he had adopted in order to make it clear that he was only interested in those he brought home for a singular reason. To his shock, and surprisingly dismay Rohan was not on the bed next to him as expected. Bolting upright he groggily scanned the room. Rohan was sitting precariously on the narrow ledge of Jeremy’s bedroom window in a pair of red jockeys, he was holding a thick stack of papers.

“Oh you’re up. I’m sorry, I found this on your desk and I couldn't help but start reading.” Jeremy instantly recognized it as one of his more in depth papers for one of his philosophy courses. He was usually so good about hiding those away, that one must have avoided his gaze that particular time. This provoked only one thought in the back of his mind. Damn. So much for vacuous. “I can explain...” Explain what, how he wasn’t really intelligent, that he was a good-looking vacuum of the human condition?

“I don’t care how you explain it, you are giving Kerouac way too much credit for the fusion of eastern philosophy and popular American literature, I mean Ginsberg alone and his studies with the Zen masters are much more influential than any one of Kerouac’s novels or haiku.” Jeremy sat dumbfounded. It seemed that there was more to this guy than he let on, then again the same case held true for him as well. The only downside was that it was actually shocking to have taken someone home who was more interested in an intellectual ponder than having one more spurt for the road. It wasn’t right, this was not the way that things were supposed to go. Jeremy made it up in his mind that he would do something about it right then and there.

“Yes, but if you look at the timing of the works which were published and the time at which Ginsberg did study with the Zen masters it becomes quite apparent that Kerouac was the predecessor and therefore most important within the movement.” Where the hell did that come from? The debate continued through breakfast and well into a walk through the nearby park. Eventually though there paths were forced to diverge and to Jeremy’s great surprise Rohan left bearing his real number instead of his stock fake one that he gave to all of the others.

That night as Jeremy was preparing to go out to the club his phone rang, it was Rohan. He invited Jeremy over to his house and atypically Jeremy accepted. He reasoned that the sex was just that good and that he could use a night away from the club scene. He called one of his friends to tell him why he would not be at the club that night.

“Watch out man, you could be headed towards a relationship.” Relationship. The word haunted Jeremy all the way to Rohan’s apartment. All of this time he had done so well to avoid being someone's boyfriend and he was not about to throw it out now.

That evening Rohan and Jeremy talked, ate, and well, talked. When he awoke the next morning Jeremy realized that he hadn’t even removed so much as a sock. Perhaps it was true, it could be the budding flower of a relationship. This could not happen. He was king of the dance-floor the most renowned lothario in the club circuit. And what was worse he actually liked this one. It was nice to finally have someone to converse with on a higher level, someone to share something meaningful with, it really was nice.

Relationship.

...

In the following weeks Jeremy thought, he thought constantly, in class, in bed, in the shower, everywhere where he was conscious. Is occurred to him one day that something had to be done. So with this in mind he set out to remedy the dilemma which he was now facing. And what a dreadful dilemma it was. He had found someone that was everything that he could ever ask for and to take it to another level someone that he could quite possible come to love, someone so perfect that is made him hurt. And it only got worse, Jeremy began to think of being faithful to Rohan, he thought about living with him and sharing a bed with him without sexual intent. To say the least it was the largest fright he had undergone since his birth. Chiefly he was scared, secondly he was angry. He was furious that that life had become this complicated. He was a gay man in the prime of his life, this was not supposed to happen. This, this love that had so callously intruded in upon his life was not part of the role he was meant to play in life. And so with a shrewd determination he set out to solve his confounding conflicts.

By the time a month had passed since their first meeting Jeremy had made up his mind and set out upon a course of action. Calling one of his friends he devised a plan to make sure that no relationship could ever blossom from their interactions, ever. And so it was with a light heart that Jeremy sat down and constructed the following letter.

Rohan,
I am writing this because I just don’t have the time to meet you in person for this. You are such a great guy, and I mean it but I just can’t see or talk to you anymore, it’s all just too much to handle. I really hope that you find happiness in life, and trust me I regret not being a part of it, I really do. Well I have to run, I’m off to go club hopping, very busy I told you. Well goodbye then.
-Jeremy


Jeremy had one of his friends drop it off, just to get the message that clubbing and hedonism were more important that Rohan. After all when it came down to it, it really was. He was king of the dance-floor and no one was going to take that from him, ever. That night he went out and met someone new, the next night the same thing, so on and so forth for the next two years until he graduated. After that he decided to stay in the city, mainly for the convenience of the constant stream of good-looking guys that he could sleep with.

Some time later he found someone else that fell in love with him, the details are irrelevant, he broke the poor creature’s heart for the sheer amusement. He began to take a sadistic thrill in using people and tossing them aside when he was done. He repeated this process with another. And then again there was another one after that. It continued on like that. He began to live in a cycle of evoking love and then shredding it. By the time he hit thirty he was still as good looking as the day he turned twenty, and he often lied about his age to younger men to get them into bed and proceed to win their hearts. Though by this time he was no longer the king, he had lost that title a long time ago to someone who was fresh and new. The transition came without popular opposition. It was a seamless transition of power. Then he had to work and could only go to the clubs on the weekends, and his once precision skills in picking up men had faded as new styles and techniques dated those he had come to hold so dearly. By the time he was thirty-one he had stopped going to the clubs entirely. He worked and went home. He worked and went home alone. He began to sleep in the middle of the bed. Sometimes he would wish that there were someone there he could be master of. Sometimes he thought of Rohan. On the eve of his Thirty-second birthday he decided to return to his old haunt, the Meat Market.

...

And here we find him, lonely and alone, looking for someone new to take in and destroy. You see, even though he regrets it, it is so ingrained within his nature he can do naught but use people for his own pleasure and then discard them when he is done. It seems as though he has become a method actor. Looking up from his conversation with the bartender he notices someone sitting at a table across the dance floor. Excusing himself he puts down his drink and walks towards the table and approaches the sitting figure. The seated man is the first to speak.

“Hey. Rohan. And you?” This meeting the gasp is more audible and both parties are painfully aware of it. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.” With that Jeremy turned and walked towards his home, to sleep in the middle of the bed.