It was after last call had been announced. They were winding down the night, letting people know it was time to go. It had been a Madonna-themed night at Metropolitan. I danced, really danced, to songs that I hadn't heard in a while, some of the less frequently-played Madonna songs, losing myself to all the feelings I have ever felt to this music, from those days when I was a kid and watched MTV in the eighties with my sister, both of us drawn to Madonna's videos even then, music I would discover again and again throughout my life, from teenage years, to early years as an out gay, from time later on when I found new meaning in particular songs, really heard them in ways my youth had never allowed me to do. The feelings invoked by particular Madonna songs is pretty crazy, and last night a bit high and a bit drunk, those feelings were particularly heightened.
I was a clown, a mime, something. Sequined outfit and face paint, a bob wig.
There was this guy, beautiful man. It was the last song they were playing. "Take a Bow." Perfect choice for a last song of the night. I played out this fantasy in my head of approaching my bullfighter, this hunk of a man, beautiful thing, being forward, to this song, dancing with him, going home together, always remembering how our relationship started with this song, with that time I approached him during Madonna's "Take a Bow." I made eyes at him and followed him with my eyes as I saw him approach someone that looked very much like his boyfriend.
I kept dancing. On screen, my man, out of reach. I fall to the floor, rub myself against that bullfighter on the tv screen, eroticize distance, unavailability, the joy in pain, of heartache, of wanting. Push the sword in deeper. Bull down.
I hung out on the street after the bar closed, smoking cigarettes underneath the awning of a funeral home. Unpack the symbolism in that sentence. Or don't actually.
I ran home in the rain, chilly, cold.
This morning, I woke up hungover, scattered sequins all over my floor.