(This post is part of the Share Your World Journey, which you can follow here on Avanoo)
She has dark brown hair, a demure smile, and engaging eyes. The kind of engaging that makes me want to engage too. Even more than usual. So that I can explore and know and understand.
But I avert her gaze. And talk to the wall. And the ceiling. And the wall again. Not because I feel exposed or even afraid. But because I feel tempted. And I suspect that she is the girl G.Q. met last night – a crazy night that, he said, included “pistachio nuts, a cappuccino rap, and really foggy car windows”.
When someone else at the party asks me how Avanoo is different from MySpace, she deftly slips away. And I wonder if she’s the pistachio nut girl. But I don’t wonder for too long, because G.Q. enters the room.
And introduces me to Drue. Who he connected with last night. And I laugh. Because she’s not the same girl. And because I know all about the pistachio nuts. And the cappuccino rap. And the foggy windows!
*****
Hours later, I finish talking with people about Avanoo. And I walk onto our makeshift dance floor that is also a makeshift paint studio. The painter is still painting, the band is still playing, and she is still dancing. Oh… how she dances! “Where’d you learn to dance like that?” I ask.
“I’m a professional dancer,” she says. And I smile. Because my mother, many of my friends who are girls, and most of my girlfriends have all danced professionally.
I touch her hand. And we dance. Which is easy. Because dancing is being aware of energy that slips between bodies. Energy that creates movement. That flows with movement. That submits to movement.
*****
The drummer keeps drumming. The guitarist keeps strumming. The painter keeps painting. And we keep dancing. Now the only ones dancing.
As we dance, she tells me that she feels as if we’re naked. Not just her and me. But everyone who is left – the painter, the guitarist, the drummer, and the two of us. And I tell her that we don’t need to remove our clothes to be naked.
Because moments flow into each other like pistachio nuts flow into cappuccino raps. And if we let them, they can expose us totally. And continuously. And create climaxes that don’t require climax. Because, really, climax has little to do with crescendo or orgasm. Instead, it is simple flow and rhythm.
*****
She asks if I want to go somewhere quieter. Perhaps into another room. Even the back room. And I say yes. But only to talk about how crazy this world is.
A world in which nakedness isn’t required for nakedness. And climax isn’t required for climax. Instead, we can do it with paint and music and dance. Or, as we soon find out, with stale potato chips, a rusty harmonica, and sweet, seductive laughter.
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