Saturday night

I am a drop of water falling down a muscular back. No. I am the owner of the back. Good, I've been working out. Hot. Where am I? There's light in the horizon, it must be Mars. Where else could the sky look so fiery, a shining orange? We can't be on the sun, that's silly, we'd burn up. If it's Mars I can't say I remember traveling here. I remember stairs, lots of stairs… There are bodies around me, they're wet. I must hold on tight or I might fall. I have already found a tether. My finger is anchored in a guy's asshole. It feels safe. It's warm, it keeps me steady. I will leave it there, I hope he doesn't mind.

When I look around I see my fellow astronauts. Did you know China calls their astronauts "Taikonauts"? from the world 'taiko', meaning cosmos; from the word 'tai', meaning sky. God I'm smart. Actually, I'm not smart, my knowledge of quantum physics is extremely superficial. I'm a fraud. Is my finger feeling sore? I must hold on tighter.

I was born in the warmth of the collective womb in this club, for I have ascertained that I'm in a warehouse in East London. I was birthed from the sweat of a thousand possessed gremlins, and I love each one of them, I hope they know. I have escaped the gaze of the proverbial mother (my needy friend) and I can now roam free.

I make my way down the stairs. A gush of cold wind, I look down, I'm shirtless. They're welcome. I walk into the dark room. I haven't been to a dark room in years. Someone pulls down my pants; that someone is me. A hand immediately reaches for my dick. How were there so many bodies swarming so close and yet I haven't crashed into anyone? Sexuality in the latent space, sexuality only when summoned. I'm a fish in water, moving in sync with my school of fellow fishes, a shining example of the fluid dynamics of sex. The chasm separating daytime me from sexual me is a planar distortion. A burst of dopamine sets my brain alight and I'm now a feral creature of the depths. I exist as a polite observant of the exploits of my bodily enclosure. It has agency, that body, and my brain is not interested in taking command of a body which seems to be getting on perfectly fine by itself.

An eon has passed in 10 minutes and I find myself transfigured into a drop of sweat again. I fall down my chest, I find an avenue down the valley of my V-line into the inside of my thighs, and down the length of my balls. Gregor Samsa could never.

I must come back up. I see my friend, his eyes widen upon seeing me, he's disassociated hard, I'm grounding him. I collect my needy friend, a frazzled trio surrounded by an assorted troupe of characters which comes and goes as they detach from their own schools of fishes. Let's catch some air, I propose. I bring them outside, to a picnic table. The IFS Cloud Cable Car™ is somewhere above us but I do not care to locate it, I worry that my thinking brain will hop on a car and leave my body to do what it wants, which we know is something between going to the dark room and waging war in the European continent. No good.

The concept of a fumoir takes over my brain, the notion of sitting just outside a party for air in the vague memory fog of a thousand clubs in Paris, London, Madrid, Shanghai. I have done this for a lifetime. What does The Plan call for me to do next? I have the feeling that there's a schedule to follow. Is everyone following the schedule? I hope no one is holding back the schedule.

It is time to go. There are a million lives I have never experienced, and yet the branches of possible futures narrows while the roots of my past widen and grow. I have the sensation that our time is over.