Thursday, October 13, 2011
My new friend Chiara--from Italy--went to the Cat Club in San Francisco for goth night. Here's a rated G version of the story:
A skeleton dangled from the top of the cage. The cage was taped off so no one could play inside it.
Sweet, dark music was already vibrating in the back room. One girl in a body-gripping dress and veil was dancing on the floor, swirling her arms and legs and very slowly leaning back into sensual poses. Two tall, skinny transvestites danced in the corner, together yet not together. The more masculine of the two was wearing a black hat and trench coat, and his partner shimmied in fishnet tights and a short-short skirt, with long hair and paint on his face. I danced every second throughout the night. The fem-tran scratched his fingers at me and we competed to see who could sink lowest to the floor.
Dancers on the floor keep their hands outstretched but to themselves; we keep our own space. No one invades the bubble, unless invited.
I wore a dark blue corset, a ruffled black and puke-green skirt, and knee-high platform boots. A friend clipped black netting in my hair to serve as a veil. The night's theme was "Undead Wedding," And my friend and I were hoping to get in for free if we looked enough the part. Sadly, there was a girl at the kiosk, and we had to pay the $3 entrance fee.
There were dancers on the side stages. One of them was this man with long hair and a painted face, a white, long-sleeved button-up--bloody. He moved like he was fighting demons with shoulders and arms and fingers, spinning around to get the ones behind him. I wanted him fiercely.
The music was sweet and lovely, like a seemingly well-behaved child, but underneath it slipped around longing limbs.
It was a lovely, intense night. We danced for so long that my feet were bruised for days afterward.