LIVES AFTER DARK
New year, same moments of mischief
He’s hoping for more strange nights of silly chaos and mischief. They will forever remember the night they saw a shadowy form in stilettos crouch down by the edge of a massive dance floor, protected by a friend who stood in front of her. The bewilderment in their faces as they watched a stream liquid exit her body. (I grabbed your shoulder and turned to you.) “Is this actually happening right now? Is she peeing on the dance floor?” They moved away quickly in the fear they would get caught staring and being perceived as perverts. Clearly this was an emergency situation. Let the woman pee in peace.
***
No one’s looking to find drugs on a dance floor (except sometimes when they do). It’s a faux pas. Who knows what kind of crap is in there. Don’t trust a stranger, trust a friend, find a service, get your shit together before you leave your apartment. But there are things he does miss. The thrill of looking, searching for people in the crowd who might have something, who might know someone. The awkward but upfront conversations, the intimacy of shouting in someone’s ear asking for a favour. How flattering it feels, the idea that people think you have connections.
***
Maybe not the smartest idea to approach the 6”4 skinhead sitting on a motorbike, the one with the spider web tattoo on his Adam’s apple. But a few pre-drinks and an espresso martini with dinner apparently turned out to be the right amount of liquid courage you needed to walk over. Besides you and your friends were lost. Hey man, you say. Do you know where the Cock is? Not the old Cock. We know where that is. But it’s moved and we’re trying to find it. We’re looking for the new Cock. Not the old Cock (in case he hadn’t heard), the new Cock. It was a ridiculous string of words but the buzz was wearing off from walking the block and it was Terry’s turn to pay for shots so we needed to find it pronto. The Cock? he says. Is that some kind of bar?
***
It wasn’t the club night that made the evening so special that time we met late in the summer. We met at what felt like the edge of the city, at that cafe that was about to close. In the darkness from our seats in the empty terrace we could see out onto the black body of water that shimmered with the reflection of the moon. We could sense that vibrancy of a warm summer breeze slowly disappearing to make way for a tsunami known as September. Did we have enough fun this summer? Did we do all the fun things our finances allowed us to do? It started to rain as we made our way to the club. We rode our bikes there because this is Amsterdam and what’s a little rain? We’re not made of sugar. We passed a warehouse that had strange mannequins in the windows and as we got closer this old man with a joint dangling from his mouth appeared near an entrance, moving old furniture. “I live here,” he told us. “Come in.” The warehouse was huge, filled to the brim with old furniture, porcelain figurines, glass cabinets stuffed with strange tea pots, racks of vintage clothes colour coded. “I just find things I like and when people find me I just sell them for whatever they can give me.” We spent a bit of time chatting with the old guy and looking through his things. I made you try on a giant coat that the old man had spray painted in neon pink and green. He told us about how he got his heart broken and fled to the jungle and did ayahuasca and found his spiritual path. To prove that he could release himself from his ego he had pulled out his teeth.
***
The music begins to swell and beside the DJ table are two podiums on either side. When did techno get so fast again? It’s almost unbearably fast but the groovy undertones in the bass line keep your feet planted in place. Your hips jut from side to side and you let your arms sway slightly. There is a group of guys beside you and you wish you could join them. You want to belong but somehow you keep dancing on your own. It feels like no one is alone at the rave but you. Two performers come onto the stage and take their places on the the podiums. One of them is a slender figure, towering in her platform heels. She’s a rainbow fairy with giant rainbow wings from an alien planet. Her skin is completely painted purple all over. The other performer is in a circus lion-tamer outfit in red, and black boots. She has a thin moustache atop her upper lip and her red coat is open, exposing a breastplate that has three fake tits. You watch the boys beside you take in this strange sight, as the beat makes our bodies bounce in unison. The dancers stare out onto the dance floor, distorting their bodies into suggestive gestures of sexual defiance and desire. The boys grin as they watch the lion-tamer unabashedly massage her triple breasts, the rainbow fairy across from her, laying on her back with her legs open in a V. You watch as people begin to pull out their phones to capture this moment. One of the boys makes a video for snapchat. A group of girls rush to the front to take a group picture with the rainbow fairy behind them. On their podiums, they look down at the masses, commanding attention, craving the spotlight. The dancers are strong in their gaze, purposeful. They move their bodies with the confidence of a panther.
***
It’s 2025 and I want more nights of connection. I want weird encounters and moments at the cinema that make me cry and think. I want to eat more sushi and travel to places that make my skin feel good and expand my mind. I long for people to go on trips with. I want to be off my phone. I want to wean off social media. I want to recapture the art of being bored. I want more nights in the dark that are not just parties, but dinners and live-theatre and museums and conversations. I want to explore the dark and live in the light.