From the Archives: Club Stories, Mr. Molly
So I recently went back and looked at my old blogs at LJ and DeadJournal (remember THAT?!? Wow.). Truly purple writing, but the glimpses into my early twenties are priceless.
And now I shall share. Witness the madness that was January, 2002.
4:41 am - A night of drinking, dancing, and disappointment... oh, yes, and some fun...
So I am decidely NOT going to my karate class tomorrow, seeing as how I am still awake... terrible, terrible, yes I know... I am such a slacker, it is unforgivable. And I really like the *idea* of karate class, but I cannot seem to make myself go. Tragic, really. It would be so good for me... well, it WILL be good for me, when I get around to going. ;)
So tonight... the club. *sigh* It was a good night, I suppose, but I leave feeling hollow, somehow, incomplete. I don't understand quite why, and this is why I am typing when I should be sleeping, seeking always that final understanding, the knowledge that will let me rest. Let's describe the highlights, and see where that leads us...
One, I had a smashing time with my girl Tiffany and my boi Josh, the crazy mixed-up kids that they are. Their quirky sensibilites make me smile, and Josh is effusive in his praise of me, which strokes my fragile ego. Shallow of me to like him for this? I need it, so sue me. Josh is my strange soul-brother, punk rawk gay boi who calls me "his Poppy Z," and recommends good writers like Dennis Cooper. I always have a good time with him, even though he is a drunk and a terrible dancer.
Now, dancing... that is always pure fun for me. There are moments when the music completely sweeps me away, and I do not notice that sweat is pouring down my face and my breath is rasping in my lungs. I become the expression of sound in a human body, an echo from a human mind moving through limbs. And up on that tiny stage, if I look up through my lashes at the sea of bodies writing and jumping, I know a strange sort of peace. It is as if each and every one of those people is putting off this vibrant energy, this pure joie de vivre, just letting it spill out of the top of their heads to hang in the air like a mulitcolored cloud. I feel as if I can bend my head and sip from this well of energy, and it tastes as heady as wine... that is how I can dance all night, and only collapse at five a.m. I am well fed, and happy...
So, at first it was all fun and games. I ruled the tiny stage, as per my usual, sucking down Cherry Vodka Sours as if they were pleasantly flavored water, posing and chatting it up with various acquaintances, dishing with Tiff and Josh.
At the bar, ordering one of the many drinks of the night, I meet the cutest geeky Asian boi I have ever seen, really. His name is Haiden (I have absolutely no clue how to spell it, but that's how it sounded) and he is so adorable he makes my teeth ache from sweetness. He told me that he had seen me on the stage, inspected my broken glasses, and talked with me about drinks and music. He reeked of innocence, which makes me want to fuck him until he cries, and he had also that faint whiff of homosexuality about him that always makes me giddy, that unbearable sweetness of being. I will see him next Sunday, and unlock the mystery, but definitely, definitely he is on the list of possible toys.
Later, Tiff points out one creature who "looks like Annie Lennox." I glance over, catch a nice suit and a spill of platinum hair, cut short at a strong, pale chin. I am intrigued. This creature approaches us soon after that, oddly enough, with an attendant shadow, also dressed in a fine black suit. It is Mr. Molly and her attendant (I swear he was like a servant, a sycphant.) Gus. Tiff tells Mr. Molly that she looks fabulous, and I concur. Molly's blonde head swivels drunkenly towards me and fixates on my breasts. I see her red-painted lips crook. I shudder because (up close) she has NONE of the natural grace and style of the immaculate Annie Lennox.
And yet.... in my drunken state, I am oddly compelled to flirt with this creature. Tiff and I have just had our obligitory girl chat about how I am bi but she is not (or has 'messed around' with girls, which I take to mean "curious") Perhaps I am flexing my lesbian muscles. Perhaps Mr. Molly's suit and pearls appealed to me, but that feeling was to wane by the end of the night. (If only I had seen it coming.)
I find that I have the ideas in my mind, these fantasies, imaginings, precious visions of What Could Be. A well dressed lesbian is one of them, I will admit it. Gender-bending never fails to turn me on. But then I confront the reality... especially the reality of Mr. Molly's drunken fondlings, her slurred comments about her art and her photos... that, that sickens me. Why? Because she does not live up to my perfect visions? Or is there a better Mr. Molly out there, in some beautiful city I will visit some day, some place were people have style? Please, please tell me it is the latter, because I can deal with moving out of Austin. I can't move out of my body or my mind as easily.
Speaking of Austin and how miserable it makes me, I talked briefly with the owner of the club tonight about the "fetish shows" they host on Tuesday nights. I remember the few nights I went, it was terrible, but I am continually curious if I could actually take part in it, maybe try to force a change for the better. Yet, I can never seem to muster enough interest to pursue it. John seemed to like the idea of me participating, and recommended that I talk to the DJ who runs the whole thing. *sigh* I still cannot decide if I should even bother...
Oh, yes, I know when the moment came that I disliked Mr. Molly. When I was dancing on the stage and Gus the butler came up to me just to inform me that "Mr. Molly" wanted to speak with me. When I turned, he scurried back to her, and I followed like a stupid girl, not realizing it was fully within my power to snub her. Next time, I will... if I actually gave her the right phone number, and if she didn't drop it from one gloved hand, then I will snub her. Even though she asked me to be in a fashion show... fashion shows are a dime a dozen, (though maybe not for girls built like me, short and curvy) and "modeling" for her would probably consist of me getting naked and her trying to put her grubby paws all over me. So forget it... I have better fish to catch and fry...
...oh, lordy, lordy, please tell me there are better fish out there... because I can't take this dance much longer... I am so tired of dancing alone.
mood: disappointed
And now I shall share. Witness the madness that was January, 2002.
4:41 am - A night of drinking, dancing, and disappointment... oh, yes, and some fun...
So I am decidely NOT going to my karate class tomorrow, seeing as how I am still awake... terrible, terrible, yes I know... I am such a slacker, it is unforgivable. And I really like the *idea* of karate class, but I cannot seem to make myself go. Tragic, really. It would be so good for me... well, it WILL be good for me, when I get around to going. ;)
So tonight... the club. *sigh* It was a good night, I suppose, but I leave feeling hollow, somehow, incomplete. I don't understand quite why, and this is why I am typing when I should be sleeping, seeking always that final understanding, the knowledge that will let me rest. Let's describe the highlights, and see where that leads us...
One, I had a smashing time with my girl Tiffany and my boi Josh, the crazy mixed-up kids that they are. Their quirky sensibilites make me smile, and Josh is effusive in his praise of me, which strokes my fragile ego. Shallow of me to like him for this? I need it, so sue me. Josh is my strange soul-brother, punk rawk gay boi who calls me "his Poppy Z," and recommends good writers like Dennis Cooper. I always have a good time with him, even though he is a drunk and a terrible dancer.
Now, dancing... that is always pure fun for me. There are moments when the music completely sweeps me away, and I do not notice that sweat is pouring down my face and my breath is rasping in my lungs. I become the expression of sound in a human body, an echo from a human mind moving through limbs. And up on that tiny stage, if I look up through my lashes at the sea of bodies writing and jumping, I know a strange sort of peace. It is as if each and every one of those people is putting off this vibrant energy, this pure joie de vivre, just letting it spill out of the top of their heads to hang in the air like a mulitcolored cloud. I feel as if I can bend my head and sip from this well of energy, and it tastes as heady as wine... that is how I can dance all night, and only collapse at five a.m. I am well fed, and happy...
So, at first it was all fun and games. I ruled the tiny stage, as per my usual, sucking down Cherry Vodka Sours as if they were pleasantly flavored water, posing and chatting it up with various acquaintances, dishing with Tiff and Josh.
At the bar, ordering one of the many drinks of the night, I meet the cutest geeky Asian boi I have ever seen, really. His name is Haiden (I have absolutely no clue how to spell it, but that's how it sounded) and he is so adorable he makes my teeth ache from sweetness. He told me that he had seen me on the stage, inspected my broken glasses, and talked with me about drinks and music. He reeked of innocence, which makes me want to fuck him until he cries, and he had also that faint whiff of homosexuality about him that always makes me giddy, that unbearable sweetness of being. I will see him next Sunday, and unlock the mystery, but definitely, definitely he is on the list of possible toys.
Later, Tiff points out one creature who "looks like Annie Lennox." I glance over, catch a nice suit and a spill of platinum hair, cut short at a strong, pale chin. I am intrigued. This creature approaches us soon after that, oddly enough, with an attendant shadow, also dressed in a fine black suit. It is Mr. Molly and her attendant (I swear he was like a servant, a sycphant.) Gus. Tiff tells Mr. Molly that she looks fabulous, and I concur. Molly's blonde head swivels drunkenly towards me and fixates on my breasts. I see her red-painted lips crook. I shudder because (up close) she has NONE of the natural grace and style of the immaculate Annie Lennox.
And yet.... in my drunken state, I am oddly compelled to flirt with this creature. Tiff and I have just had our obligitory girl chat about how I am bi but she is not (or has 'messed around' with girls, which I take to mean "curious") Perhaps I am flexing my lesbian muscles. Perhaps Mr. Molly's suit and pearls appealed to me, but that feeling was to wane by the end of the night. (If only I had seen it coming.)
I find that I have the ideas in my mind, these fantasies, imaginings, precious visions of What Could Be. A well dressed lesbian is one of them, I will admit it. Gender-bending never fails to turn me on. But then I confront the reality... especially the reality of Mr. Molly's drunken fondlings, her slurred comments about her art and her photos... that, that sickens me. Why? Because she does not live up to my perfect visions? Or is there a better Mr. Molly out there, in some beautiful city I will visit some day, some place were people have style? Please, please tell me it is the latter, because I can deal with moving out of Austin. I can't move out of my body or my mind as easily.
Speaking of Austin and how miserable it makes me, I talked briefly with the owner of the club tonight about the "fetish shows" they host on Tuesday nights. I remember the few nights I went, it was terrible, but I am continually curious if I could actually take part in it, maybe try to force a change for the better. Yet, I can never seem to muster enough interest to pursue it. John seemed to like the idea of me participating, and recommended that I talk to the DJ who runs the whole thing. *sigh* I still cannot decide if I should even bother...
Oh, yes, I know when the moment came that I disliked Mr. Molly. When I was dancing on the stage and Gus the butler came up to me just to inform me that "Mr. Molly" wanted to speak with me. When I turned, he scurried back to her, and I followed like a stupid girl, not realizing it was fully within my power to snub her. Next time, I will... if I actually gave her the right phone number, and if she didn't drop it from one gloved hand, then I will snub her. Even though she asked me to be in a fashion show... fashion shows are a dime a dozen, (though maybe not for girls built like me, short and curvy) and "modeling" for her would probably consist of me getting naked and her trying to put her grubby paws all over me. So forget it... I have better fish to catch and fry...
...oh, lordy, lordy, please tell me there are better fish out there... because I can't take this dance much longer... I am so tired of dancing alone.
mood: disappointed