"You know things, you know things, you know things."
I went slutting, dancing, low-life trailer park shake your bootie night
Waco has one place to dance that is big, that I can kind of float into and move from one dance room to the next without looking too much like a forty-one year old woman waiting for a pick-up.
Hip-hop, country//COUNTRY, and old-fashioned BEEGEE disco pummels the enter-re.
I do dress to be seen.
I cannot be NOT seen.
This night, I am in a slip of a black skirt, flip-flop Chinese sandals
replete with toe rings. I wear my clunky bicycle chain ankle bracelets so that people will know I ain't no wimp bitch. My t-top is "Tweety-bird" gone hippie. My hair-cut is boy-crop short. I always say that men are either attracted to my butch femininity or they don't get it.
Geeks, nerds, weird-os, men who have no personal s-xual aura appeal with me often ask me to dance. Studs never do. There is always ONE though, ONE MAN who sees me. And a bravado truth, He is usually the only REAL MAN in the crowd.
I skip through the crowds, I settle on a dance floor to flish, frish on. My flip-flops impede so I neatly place them at the edge of the dance floor like a Geisha gal, and twisting I go like Shiva. All spider arms and leggy loops, I have a friend who says I am an octopus.
On occasion a seeing man calls me "lean and svelte." It is the eye of
"Getting too old for this. Getting too old for this." I wonder what the
young folks think of my aging frame being a loose rope on the floor. I don't want to be pathetic. I love the beat though, I love the anonymity, I love the drums inside my breast. I learned to just not look, to fasten a face of "don't f-cking touch me while I am honoring the g-ds of rhythm.
Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. I hate the squirm that looks like loose
s-xuality. I like the loose of sensuality.
"Yeah, yeah." I saw the pack of soldier boys when I entered the joint. I like a club when the space is limited and cruising through the crowd is a slight tip here, a brush there to make a path. This night there are too many blank spaces. I just will stick out too much in blank space. I know the soldier boys will notice me. I ain't like the wimp-ette girls with dye in their hair, nails, nails, decorum of everyone else's dress on each one of them like the same, same uniforms the soldier boys wear. I am in the bathroom and girls are preening, preening and I pat my butt, I rearrange my bra to lift up my breast to perk-perk-y perfection. One gal says "I am glad someone else does that" and this little pack of chicks purr around me talking about bigger boobs. I don't want bigger boobs. I want more lean meat. The gal pulls fake pink plastic jell from her breast places. The spots decrease maximally.
"Wow, what do you do when you get home later in the night with that guy that finally bull-shits you home?"
Then the outcome all seems clear, "O you just go to the bathroom and
remove them and by the time you crawl under the covers in the blackened
room it is the feel that counts not the artificial come-on that got you
there. Feel me up. It all feels the same in the lush of the dark."
The girls all kind of laugh and one pontificates on bigger boobs and I
think surreal, SURREAL, PICASSO SURREAL. I exit, exit and step out into
the open space that has shrunk with the advent of later night. Dance
floor is full.
I am being skulked. I know this. I knew this when I saw the pack of
wolf-boy soldier boys huddled walking like confident g-ds through the
rooms. Those uniforms are impressive. Bars and stripes, and little gold
cross blades. I don't even look at them in the face. I don't want HIM
to know I know he saw me. I brush past him several times and though he
ain't directly looking at me and I ain't even looked at his face, I know he will move into my space. "You know, you know, you know."
Been a long time since I was come on to by a man that moved me
sychotically. I position myself close to the enclave of uniformed boys.
Ba-boom, ba-boom if that ain't a bass rhythm looking for some tenor
accompaniment, I don't know what is. HE moves into me. He moves into me
and I move right back into him like play-do pressed back together.
"Bull-shit is bull-shit."
"Where you from? Where you from?"
I know I never look like I am from where I am from.
I am not looking at him full on but I can feel bull on bull muscles, his arm has already slithered around my trim waist, his hand has
rested on my buttocks, and I am feeling s-xual energy.
"I told my buddies," all army men call their male friends "buddies" no
matter how intimate they may or may not be, "I told my buddies, she is from Germany or Switzerland, NORWAY." It could be my high cheekbones, my European élan, my thin-ness, my far-away face. I am not from where I am from. I tell him not in jest--"I am gender-less, nation-less, no permanent name of import--I am a free spirit, I am a gypsy." And this all is true.
Uniforms always look so good next to me.
Some slather ensues, he is thirty-eight, he is a leader among men, he with bravado, beer bravado (no not quite,--bull-shit army bravado) reveals that HE sucked me in. The man just don't know, the man just don't know that I sucked him into me. It is a "touché" competition of which of us had the "strongest f-cking energy."
"NO, NO it is true, I told my buddies (there's the buddy thing again),
'watch this'. Watch this, when I saw you dancing in the disco without
your shoes, 'I am going to draw that woman in'."
And I don't think he ever even looked at me and I know I didn't dare look at his eyes because I felt the feel of man to woman, yin-to-yang and I wanted the full game. I want him to come to me. I won't pander.
"You have heard of René Descartes. I think, therefore, I am. I thought
you to me." We are immediately intimate, feeling the forms of the fullness between us.
We are not confident intimate but a few dances and we are twirling around in a single sircle and there is no one else there, no one else there, we are one like we never were not one. I am anah, he is Charles. I am writer, he is Captain.
"Look at my uniform. Compare it to the others. All those bars, stripes, cross-blades stand for actions."
Retort from me, "Blood spilled, guts poured, courage exhibited."
I want his stories, I want his stories as only a writer like Ker-o-U-ac or MillR could have. "You have stories?"
He bulls up like a boasting rooster, "puff, puff, fluff". "I have stories. I came from extreme destitution, no father, an unfit mother, I
had a guardian. I went to college. LALALA." I am not listening to his
blather I tell him, "These are stories best//BEST told in bed, naked."
"Hhhrumph, I like naked first then stories."
"Yes, yes, those are the stories I want. Where you wrestle into intimacy and then the flood of overflow is your stories. I ain't no cheap writer."
There is a lull, one of the buddies takes me out to dance and next thing I look some little blond is attached to my man pulsating looseness. I hate her, I hate him for moving into her too. I don't know how to move back into him so I wait. He comes to me in time. "I felt your energy move away from me."
I want to pounce him and devour him whole leaving no room for doubt but I hate loose. I am not desperate but I am desperate for what he might tell me for the attack of man that he owns.
Those f-cking uniforms brew women, stir men. Two drunk on drunk stud
cowboys take the army boys to the bar. They take him from me. Shots,
Shots, but not the kind from rifles are administered. Shots. His back is board straight. I am not a waiting woman so I go away to dance. A man I had danced with earlier in the evening saunters toward me liking the opportunity to re-open doors. "I see you lost your suitor."
I want to bite the obsolete man's head off. I have not lost. We found.
I mumbled something about the game "he and me were playing." The obsolete says "That is the difference between men and women." Alluding to the fact, I am sure, that all men want is s-x. This man does not know me, he does not know that I am a man mostly.
He is probably jealous that WE did not jell just so with play-do like s-x drips.
Charles said to me, "Look in the dictionary under 'charisma' and you will see my picture."
I say, "I am an enigma."
I would become a Persian rug for this man to walk over me.
"Walk me to my car." I am forward and I hate this. "I am leaving."
He leaves his beer with his buddy. For a meek second I let him take the lead---then, then as if reminded, I take the lead. I want to have a look of submissive written on me. "Conquer me, you warrior, if you like, conquer me."
His kiss is a gulp. His tongue, my tongue, a twist off fight, his force, my return fits of force, there are bites and thrusts and foreplay that feels like a fist-fight and moans and mews, growls, sighs, ummm, I like the whole slash of s-x.
My neck, my neck, there is a war of male and female, domination, who can whiz the farthest. I am turned completely on.
His hand is up my skirt like a slider to home base, the twist of the butt, the full and flair, the move to the front and "ahhhh" like a man in the midst of thirst finding fresh springs--"You are a natural woman."
I stand wild like a Carole King frase from a favorite tune. I am a natural woman. I don't have underwear and the curly frill of pubic
hair is the boy's fetish.
"Eureka. I found this real woman."
There will be a separation, a pull apart, he bites my arm.
I give him my card that reads, "UNIVERSAL SOUL-UTIONS. SIMPLIFY
I want him to call me. I want him to finish this business of completion, I want his story in complete nudity. I want to outline the feel of his penis in mid-air, "saluting me" with proper respect for a "REAL WOMAN."
I have been pondering lately the import of my life. Is it destiny and all planned to pinpoint of all things that occur in my life. That soldier man preaches in the midst of the too loud country music that all the cosmos led to me meeting him, him sucking me in, me sucking him, til we did "sircle" in the midst of those low level, little energy souls that settle for mediocrity, while we, while we were possibly the two strongest MEN in the room and we were willing to have s-x and determine the stronger of the two.
It was a destination dance of determination.
It is all too much for me.
INEFFABLE. INEFFABLE. INEFFABLE.
I drive away weak in the knees, my admonishment is my prayer---"Don't lose me now that you found me. Don't lose me now that you found me."
Wow, and in the final hug that passed between us, in the final torrid kiss that slushed between us--there was this stop--this pause, this cling.
Perhaps no one is as strong as they think.
"Soldier boy, what's your last name?"
"Like the color?"
"Like the color."
© 2001 anah childs