I am officially worn the hell out. I'm not looking for any sympathy, it's all totally self inflicted and I had a good time doing it. And no, it's not what you're currently thinking.
I went out dancing last night. To a dance party, as the kids say. And danced for a little under six hours, non stop. In my underwear. With a group of large, predominately hairy men also in their underwear.
Now I haven't been out dancing in more than ten years. And never before in my life have I been dancing in my underwear.
After the initial moment of "what the fuck" wore off, it was liberating and less titillating overall, but it was easier to have a good perve on guys I thought were hot, especially those in jockstraps.
And weirdly because I chose something more... involved... than regular underwear I did feel a little like I was wearing a tuxedo to a barbecue for the first half hour or so. I also wish I'd decided on something else, just because as minimal as my garment was, I did end up working up quite a sweat.
Given that I danced pretty much continuously for six hours and sweated, there is an issue of inner thigh chaffing, which is going to be problematic and painful for the rest of the week.
Thank god I also have a chiro appointment tomorrow afternoon, because I'm pretty sure I've shaken everything loose and my shoulders are all kinds of big knots of muscle.
I did remember/realise a number of things during the evening though...
Firstly, thankfully there were less than a handful of guys I'd previously hooked up with in the room (four, possibly five, I can't actually remember now), which is always a danger.
Secondly the difference between an underwear dance party and a gay sauna is actually incredibly small, all things considered... and even less so given that fact that I know there was some hook-ups going on, although I didn't witness anything first hand.
Also, I remembered why dancing is an incredibly bad idea for me... it occupies my body but gives my mind free reign to over-think or obsess or fixate.
And because, despite what people may say or even think, all sections of the gay community (even, and sometimes especially, the sub-groups) are essentially like high schools (I'd say Mean Girls, but I've never actually seen the movie). Not quite so much that there are the "jocks" and "nerds" and "popular kids", more so that everyone makes snap judgements on who is on their level and who is beneath them.
For the purposes of this analogy, I'm Ally Sheedy's Alison from The Breakfast Club... I don't fit within the established groups and hierarchy, I'm the weird kid who doesn't speak and sits by themselves. Partly because I prefer that a lot of the time, but also because that's the role I get given.
Which, as a general rule, gets into my head and just makes me both mad and depressed. And it's not even that so much as, the more base and fundamental issue, that it would be nice to get hit on. And especially in that particular crowd.
Maybe it's the fact that I really never stopped dancing... maybe it's that even within the specialised niche of that crowd, I'm my own specialised niche... maybe it's the armour I generally clothe myself in for going out into the world, the "don't talk to me" wall I use on public transport and in shopping malls on those people who try to engage you in conversation as you walk through the mall.
Maybe it's a permutation of the line from the Buffy episode, Earshot...
Every single person down there is ignoring your pain because they're way too busy with their own. The beautiful ones, the popular ones, the guys that pick on you... everyone.Although maybe I'm over-reaching/thinking it.
If you could hear what they're feeling - the confusion, the loneliness... It looks quiet down there. It's not. It's deafening.
There were a few things about last night that made it different from previous excursions.
I was one of the first people there... in fact when I walked into the room, I was literally the first person in there (there may have been one other, I'm not sure). A few people showed up gradually and I was checking out one particular guy as he walked from one side of the room to the other because in the dim lighting and without my glasses and given the colour of his skin/underwear, it honestly looked like he was naked.
And then he came and sat at the stupid wobbly little bar table with me. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes and then he asked me something inane, possibly about the fact that I didn't have a drink (which is a whole other conversation), and then we were pretty much off to the races, as they say, having an overly superficial but entertaining enough conversation. And it was slightly flirty with the added frisson of us both being mostly naked, but he'd mentioned his partner a couple of times, so I didn't push anything beyond harmless flirting.
Then he went to get another drink, I got bored with sitting around and went to dance and we drifted apart for a bit. While we'd be talking, he'd said some of his friends had told him about it and that he should introduce me to them when they got there. Which I took with a grain of salt, just because, you know, alcohol and whatever. But a little later I looked around and he was talking with his friends, and I knew a couple of them.
Because, you know, Adelaide.
He did come over and dance with me more than a few times (after initially saying he was more interested in the drinking than that dancing), and made general references to my awesomeness, which was sweet. But he did pike out relatively early.
So, yeah... it was good for the ego and I had a bit of a crush, but the main thing that amused was the friends thing.
Then later this skinny dude in, to be honest, the least interesting or seemingly appropriate underwear for an underwear dance party (it was pink, which is fine, but it didn't seem like it was his "best" or "getting lucky" underwear, it was a little too baggy and boxerbrief-y for that) started dancing not so much with me as at me.
And I was having one of those moments where the whole clique thing was getting to me and I was getting way to into my head about things... but he just managed to break through that and remind me that I was supposed to be having a good time. Sure I think he was, at the very least, three sheets to the wind, if not on additional mood altering substances, but he made me laugh.
Particularly because the best word I can think of to describe his dancing is "fierce"... he was a fierce drunk queen all over really... especially when he started putting his sunglasses on, at 2am, in the middle of a dark dance party (laser lighting notwithstanding).
Would I have gone there if offered the opportunity... oh fuck yes, in a hot minute... but other than one point where he hugged me and told me he loved me (and I'm pretty sure that was more in reference to my non-stop dancing than his desire to get into my... well, not pants, since I wasn't wearing any, but you know what I mean) but if he'd really been interested, he could definitely have danced in closer and I would have made a move. But, it didn't happen... which is fine, it was more important that he made me smile and knocked me out of my fugue than whether I got him out of his underwear.
Would I go again? Yeah, probably, although some serious thought about appropriate undergarments will have to be made between now and then. As well as reminding myself that more water is always the correct answer.