I’ll keep this one short. Webster Hall. Early 20’s. Leave the coats at home, we’ll freeze in our tank tops, jeans and chunky-heeled boots. Don’t forget the lip gloss. Eyeliner. Hair blown out to perfection. Mad body glitter. Coated in stardust. Bodies slithering, shaking, grinding. A guy in an silk olive button-down shirt, open to his navel. We called him Flock of Seagulls–his ’80s hair was a sight to behold. It became a game every time we went: spot Flock of Seagulls. He never disappointed. Always showed. Same shirt, same hair.
Put the purses in the middle of the circle and shimmy shimmy shake. ’90s club bangers, a freestyle jam or two, and then, just when fatigue threatens to set in, this song. And we’re moving again, shouting, jumping, writhing. Hair frizzy from the collective body heat. Eyeliner smeared, bleary-eyed, glossy bubblegum mouths, “Hey Mr. DJ, put a record on, I wanna dance with my baby….”
Singing it as we stumble to the diner or Gray’s Papaya, singing it on the train, singing it as we crawl into bed, traces of lip gloss at the corners of our mouths, staining our sheets with kohl and stardust. “Music, music, music, music….”