What must it be like to be male? To live with an overclocked metabolic system that’s always on the lookout for brazen and unmistakable propositions - like a smile or a "please pass the salt."

I mean, at times we all have those feelings - primitive as oil -  but not the constant, fast forward, high density need that males seem to live with.

It must be like wrestling a trapped demon.

Take my advice, I’m not using it.

During our recent, year-long pandemic imprisonment, my room - which, objectively, is a very nice room - seemed to transform, late-nights, into a tomb. I had to open all the windows just to feel like I could breathe.

Night after night, when the lights were out, I’d lay perfectly still, perfectly awake until all-hours, listening to crickets. There must be a billion of them in Georgia.

Persistent consciousness can drive you mad.

“Why are your windows open?”, my mom would say, hurrying to close them in winter (to save heat) and summer (to save cool).

I wouldn’t argue - I’d just shrug, wordlessly and reopen them once she left. I seldom argue anymore - I surreptitiously do whatever I want to.

The force of desire
stalks the very boundary
of my confidence.

In simple wanting
do I trespass on taboo?
How will I then learn?

Even in fantasy
my corrosive self-distrust
twists ****** vision.

Doink! A text knocks at my phone and I fish for it in my backpack purse

Looking at the name, I shiver. “Oh, yeah,” I think, “THAT’S not going to happen.”

But I am, for a moment, pulled back in memory to early mistakes.

At the time we met - I, of course, was looking for love - or more like a confirmation that I was lovable to someone who had experiences. He was just taking me to parties and trying to get in my pants.

So you could say we met at the busy intersection of realities and we became entangled at the invisible speed of hummingbird wings.

He was charming in an “I don’t care” way - because he wasn’t a great actor and he didn’t care. Careless is the perfect word for our relationship. He was like an out of towner at some rowdy conference with one eye on the exit.

I thought, for a hot minute, that he knew something about the world that I needed to know. I teased him, pressing for details about girls he’d slept with and in general mined him for ****** stories, tidbits, truths and lies. He pressed me for new stories to tell.

I wasn’t “myself” with him either. I was difficult but sincere and vulnerable because, at that point, I couldn’t commit fully - if you know what I mean - and didn’t know HOW to not care. Yet, I was trying to be what I thought an older guy would want. Maybe I should have worn a sign: “caution: imagination in progress”.

Memories. *shiver

It was suggested that we wear something comfortable (especially shoes) and that we bring a cover. I wore a black one-shoulder bow-tied satin mini dress and G Ballet Flats and I was able to fold a sheer shirt into my tiny purse (for a later cover).

The stretch limo pulled into our driveway.
“Is it prom night already?” my brother Brice snarked.
“Be careful,” my mom said sternly, pulling my short dress down a bit. “you have your phone?”
I rolled my eyes, produced my phone and she made sure “Find my” was working.
“You’re staying at Bili’s (my BFF), ya?”, she confirmed. “You three stick TOGETHER.”, she adds.
“Yes mam.” we answer, with nods all around.

As Bili, Kim (my 2 BFFs) and I excitedly settled in, the boat-like car moved smoothly off into the night. There were ten of us - five guys and five girls - but no set “dates”.

Everett (nick-named “Ev”), all business at the moment, made sure he had all of our cell phone numbers - which he sent back to us as a custom contact list called “Dance Monkeys”, HA! Then he pushed a button or two, the interior lights dimmed, background music filled the air, a partition lowered and a bar appeared. The club, in Atlanta, was an hour away.

The cover charge for the Havana club VIP lounge is $500 a person (but you get a “free” drink). Everett waved, said, “Eddie!” and two Dwayne Johnson clones parted like a bank vault door. We passed through an airlock-like foyer where “Ev’s” polite apple-pay tap allowed the ten of us to enter the industrial looking, VIP lounge area.

A pretty girl dressed in black leather named Holly was our “steward” for the night - Everett, our guide to pleasure, passed her our cell number list. A second later we all received the message, “Hi!, I’m Holly - text me if you need anything.”

We passed through one last set of black glass doors and I practically flinched as the night exploded into shards of light, ear grinding bass riffs and pure, laser-lit decadence. “Holy crap,” I said - I couldn’t hear myself so I knew no one else could either - my arms prickled - it felt like the room was 45 degrees.

We were led through an ocean of writhing people below a live, aerial, Cirque du Solei like ballet display. Video played on every inch of wall space - the song “Get out of my head” played like a jet engine - the video was skin on every surface - the effect was stunning and somewhat disorienting.

Eventually, we came to a private “cabana” where we settled in.
Someone pulled my arm and I was out on the dance floor. ****, THIS is what I’d been missing - FUN.

Every few songs I was able to get back to the table and gulp whatever drink was at my seat but then someone pulled my arm and again, I was out on the dance floor. The club seemed to morph with every video - the crowd roared each time a favorite cut, like “Wasted love” began.

I was offered, more than once, a triangular pill with an “X” on it - we (Bili, Kim and I) were pretty sure it was ecstasy. We passed on it. However, it seemed a tray of shooters arrived at our cabana every 5 minutes.

There were half-assed horderves, but I hadn’t really eaten and after about 90 minutes of shooters and dancing I was starting to spin. Then, like magic or an unconscious prayer, the field of dancers parted for - a pizza delivery!!

Ok, now, in my animal-like hunger, I’m thinking maybe Everett is a genius. People at other  cabanas point and eye us with naked envy. No one else thought of this. I greedily, unladylikely help myself to a life-saving slice of cheesy heaven and groan with pleasure at each new bite.

I’m greedy for more than pizza.

A summer house-boat party - Matey - toss those cares overboard. The scout boat found a deserted cove so the party can be privately fierce.

The lake's broken reflections of moonlight look like jewels on black satin.

There are all kinds of drinks - ALL kinds - and herbal refreshments flare like lightning bugs. It isn’t long before perfumed bodies are flexing to music in the hot, moist, summer air.

Dance, swim and repeat as needed - cool water evaporates off bathing suits immediately - replaced by prickled sweat. It’s too hot - I’m staying in the water. There’s a group of us in tubes tied, spider-web like, around the boat.

There’s a guy who’s been watching us (Bili, my BFF, is my tube-mate). He’s extremely fair, and he’s gotten a bit too much sun giving him a feverish appearance.

At one point, I meet his gaze - to see what he’d do. His irises are a light blue that, in the lights, reflect like little blue flames - unwavering and alien.

I don’t mind a bit of attention - I think that’s how the system works - attraction, pursuit, investigation, and eventually seduction. But usually from someone we know. A stranger's attention can make one feel as if they're in enemy territory.

He gave me a nod and a smile that seemed like a proposition. I whisper about this “encounter” to Bili who takes command and just rows us over to him.

He’s older than I first thought - 22 - with cream-colored hair - thick, like horse mane and eyelashes and brows so pale they’re almost invisible. His name is “Noud” and he’s from Holland - at Georgia Tech studying atmospheric something or other - and girl watching.

“What are you doing at some random Georgia lake party?”, I ask.
“Soaking up the local atmosphere, of course.” He says. Which makes sense, I suppose, because that IS his chosen field.

I do an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, arbitrarily, which I think is pretty good (you can’t beat the classics) - Noud, does an even better one.
His, “I’m going to take [pause] you OUT” got a laugh.
His later, “You need to take [pause] that OFF” earned a “nuh-uh” finger wag.

Thanks to vaccinations, the atmosphere around here is a lot more fun.