Not just men

I walk into the bathroom. I shouldn't start, because when you drink, once you start, it never stops. But my bladder sends signals to please, please, please relieve, and so I obey. Sometimes there is a higher order that one must follow.

I feel hot, and happy, the beauty of letting onelself go, dancing, is that once you start no one else is there, no one matters, nothing matters, but the patterns of light and the tactile sensations, synaesthetic surges, and the movement that flows. One does not have to apologize for lack of beauty, nor disavow future failings, one just falls, swaying, stumbling in place. Re-enacting the sublime. At least it is that way for me. I used to think that I couldn't dance because I didn't want to feel like a fool, like I was being watched, now I know I am a fool, and it doesn't matter who sees me, the watching is all in the eyes that I want to see me. I can decide who matters. Whose lack of interest doesn't hurt.

The girls in the bathroom, and I use this term liberally because they were not indeed "girls" were friendly, nothing like restroom solidarity, they giggled, "I like your underwear!" one exclaims to the other as the thong sneaks out above the low-rider jeans. "They're Tom's favorites... I was hoping I might get laid tonight." "Yeah, I hear you, me too..." this is said with a slight longing, and an air of dubiousness, "I wore Mike's favorite underwear too..."
"Hey!" exclaims the first to the third who has just emerged, "You're going commando!"
And the second declares, "I love newlyweds! She's going commando..." giggles and OFF.

And I smile to myself, and I know there is a lesson in all this, a reason why relationships seem to fade, wear thin. And I glide, happily, drunkenly but still with a bit of grace, if it could be said that I possess any such thing, back to the floor, where I close my eyes, and invoke an image of myself that I would like to believe in, build an aura of light around myself to protect me. I am free.