Warning: The following entry is deemed Not Safe for Work. If you are offended by graphic details regarding sexuality and the fetish culture, please do not read further; likewise if you are a member of my biological family, do not progress if the candid details of my lifestyle bother you.
I dance the night away.
At first the start is slow, like a medley, curious and lifting; conversation is short, to the point, and lighthearted – the sound of laughter is melodic to my ears, a smile goads me to press further and all it takes is a simple silence that enables me to let go. The song I play is a harsh yet gentle one, not unlike the other sounds that echo beneath the radiance of the booming throes of music itself. I dance with people regardless of gender, age or appearance – my pacing is deliberate, the attention slow. Each of my actions voices gratitude, relishing off the little reactions and slipping away from the eyes of others.
The tempo lifts and sweat trickles down my scalp, unnoticed the steps increase and the ache in my joints slips away; instead, I forget the physicality of my being there, awash in the aim and focus of my intentions – raw, carnal and gritty. I dance as if though my life depended on it, passionate and attentive, and all too soon the session ends and I count not one but many moments in the night. While similar, no dance is alike, no partner the same; superficiality would be the most mortal sin to commit, the worst emotion to displace and in catharsis, I lose myself in the arms of desire and wanting.
Throat dry, sweat plastering my scalp, the world spins in a mad fury of adrenaline and I’m alert and hyper aware of the symphony unwinding around me. I bid my farewells and move on to the next and the next and the next, dancing until time stood still and I smoke and smoke until my eyes stare off into the distance; conversation becomes stale, forgotten in an instant, and I’m high as a kite and loving every second of it. I gorge on food and drink and flesh alike, always hungry and eager; there’s a fire in my veins, the kind that burns and consumes and overwhelms. I’m brimming with want and taste a sip of ambrosia, caught in the throngs of the taboo and the strange, and biding the minutes I burn each and every face that whimpers and cries and begs and moans into the recesses of my memory. I’m reminded again of things I’ve lost and things that will never be, by people I barely know, and who have trusted me on that endeavor; by pain and by pleasure, I thank them for it and ache for more.
I’m aching so hard that I loosen my trousers and conceal the aching with the hems of my shirt and vest. The sleeves of my shirt are damp with sweat, my tie’s undone and even then I’m still going. My hands mingle with fingers, lips, breasts and thighs; breaths mingling together, brushing fiber to flesh; caressing with thumb and tip and joint, losing myself to lust and sin. I forget all my inhibitions and fears, seize control and hair and limb, enabling my head to swim from adrenaline with the desperation of an addict. I feel bold and alive and in control, unstoppable and ready; I’m King Kong, I’m Superman – wild, young and alive.
I dance and I dance and I dance, staggering and panting and sensitive to touch, I stop to rest, remembering to breathe then I dance some more. The world may be watching, laughing, even wanting over my little dances but I don’t care; soon enough, they’ll get their turn and I’ll be dancing further and further until my head hurts and my knees are sore. By bruise, by welts, and by warm bodies of flesh I leave my wake; I feast on sweet cakes and pork and beef – I’ll need the nutrition – then I dance again until between warm bare flesh and wandering fingers along my clothes, I collapse for minutes at a time.
I dance and I live and I am thankful for it.
By the time I get back to my hotel, tearing off my suit and tossing my gear away, its late into the early morning. I drink enough water until my stomach growls, then wander off the barren streets and eat donuts and fast food and cheap beef jerky then go straight to bed. The surreal haze that encompasses me that evening would return tomorrow and I can’t wait and I can’t sleep, so spitefully I smoke in the parking lot with deafening tunes until I feel weak and collapse on my bed.
The following morning I opt to skip the early classes and sleep until noon instead.
The following morning I am happier than when I left and feel new and fresh again.
I dance and I am free.
Next Update: KinkFest Day Two