Jennifer Benningfield
Rapid Reds And Purples

Walking out into the world after a killer concert isn't post-coital. Not entirely, anyway, and thus, not at all.

The street lights turn my body--and the few dozen other bodies dotting the sidewalk--rusty yellow. We smell like car exhaust, sweat, and the ghosts of Haight-Ash past. We're overheated and underrepresented, and the sole solution is soul absolution.

How the five and a half foot tall college sophomore whose purse nearly touches the ground gets her rock salt off concerns me as much as how the eagle-nosed fifty-something who saw the band the first time they played in San Fran gets his rock salt off, because I already know the answers: self-manipulation in the bathtub for her, self-righteous haranguing of a stranger for him.

The modest venue holds 400 peeps tops, and ooh were we tops, bopping and buzzing, stealing oxygen from one another in the crowd and carbon dioxide from the elevated elites. Three hours of interrupted positivity, and then we're shepherded out into the chalky night. Come alone, leave alone, it almost always plays out so. I stalk twenty feet of sidewalk like a junkyard dog, and if that didn't make me look goofy enough to the stragglers, my burbling laughter when I see a Jack Russell and its owner cross the street sure did the trick. Neither dog nor woman were particularly comical; the joy came from memory.

My first visit to the land of trolleys and rice so excited me, I left Oakland (another city now off the list) just after nine a.m.--or, eleven hours before concert start time. I'd planned nothing, bookmarked no sites of interest, so when the taxi deposited me in front of the club, I headed down the street and proceeded to act as though I'd been there before. "There," being not just that specific area of the city, but the city itself.

Before long I chanced upon a dog park, where I bore glorious witness to a baby chihuahua trotting along for their itty bitty life along the windy and winding trails. I swaggered, letting Mother Nature sweep up after me.

Two blocks east stood a Mexican joint, which I patronized in between the lunch and dinner hours--the best time of day to eat when misanthropy lives in your body like a tumor. Enjoying loud live music on an empty stomach is, for me, impossible; no song beats a great meal. A trio of chorizo tacos drizzled with orange chipotle sauce left me with a tangy, smoky tongue and a full belly.

Sometimes a show'll agitate me so masterfully, the stomach forgets its satiety and starts badgering the brain. Depending on the distance from me and an enticing eatery, the brain A) wins the strength test with ease or B) wins the strength test after a formidable struggle or C) submits to its fate quicker than a chipmunk in a lion's den. No signal from nearby compelled me to bite into the air, no, that's not why I stalked the pavement like a Malkmus groupie. I wanted to get back to Oakland. I had one more paradise to lose myself in.

"Hey, stilts."

I'm just five-nine, hardly nickname-worthy, although when I see the speaker/sobriquet-slinger nudges past five-zero, it's understandable. I open my mouth before formulating a sentence beforehand, and the resultant visual--tall broad, waves now a tsunami on her head, gleaming and gaping--sends a painfully brilliant smile across her round face. Her own hair looks immaculate, although she's less of it. Her eyes are 80% pupils, and remind me how rude I'm acting.

"Was the concert good?"

"Great, actually."

She looks at me as though she might believe my praise. "Cool, cool. I'm Shannon, by the way. Are you by yourself?"

Now there's the $64,000 question (non-adjusted for inflation). My modus operandi is to give info out in drips and drabs. To give unembellished answers. To show why fishers attach bait to hooks.

"Yeah, I'm just trying to get a taxi. I'm from Baltimore, I came all the way for this show. And to go to the White Whale in Oakland."

"Oh the Whale is great!" she squeaks. "I haven't been there since my birthday, and that was in June." With an agility befitting a more lithe woman, she hopped off the curb and into the street, the blur from her right arm disturbing my inner ear.

"If you cover the fare, I'll cover the cover. Deal?"

For some, kicking in cash-for-cab would suffice. Shannon, however, threw in a brief history lesson of the Dub-Dub, the oldest gay bar in the U.S. apparently, serving queers since the early 30s. (Perhaps due to its age, it's renowned as more "low-key" in comparison to other, younger spots.) She's great and cute and our spontaneous acquaintance will combust in less than ten minutes once we hit the club.

"11:30. We have two and a half hours if we want. What's your name, by the way?"

"Melissa."

No name on the marquee, just a white whale design. "You're gonna have a blast," Shannon winked, drowning out the cabbie's parting words.

Whenever entering a club--for the first, second or last time--I gravitate to the signage. Who's performing? Who's on decks? What's so special about the drinks special anyway?

"DJ Chuck D? Where's the shame. I assume he's in a group with MC Terminator X?"

"I'm gonna order a vodka-cran. You want anything?"

I forego--for now--and pass time smoothing out my shirt and shorts. I've lost sixty pounds in over a year, with another fifty to go before I'm happy. Happier, I mean. I'll never be happy with my body. Surrounding me are forty, fifty gathered gays, chilling on cushioned seats, shooting pool, and knocking silver balls around (no pause, yes homo).

"Follow me," Shannon orders, cup in hand, and I do, to a dance floor where DJ Shameless is cueing up the 90s dance hits underneath a blessed disco ball! Green, white and "gold" lights! Low-key or no, the White Whale experience is now my unchallenged ideal of the Cali gay club experience, free of preconceived notions, or a yearning for a time period impossible to recreate. (I've visited NYC a dozen times over that many years, and one thing I've not done, will never do, is sample the club scene. Studio 54 lore has been entrenched in my head for too long, dooming all others. There's no place in New York I can go where I'll be able to sniff coke blind on a balcony while getting my back road dirtied to the ethereal strains of "I Feel Love," so why bother?)

Sure enough, Shannon recognizes a friend at the bar and without a word strides over. A pillar shoots out magnetic waves.

The body is the flesh and the flesh is weak. The brain is the spirit and the spirit is strong. The one leads the other and soon they are whole. The White Whale is a place for revelry, and revelry requires revelers. It does not require the presence of pillar-leaners and wallweeds, droopy and dewy dullards lacking the common sense to roll down that inhibitive screen and own their slice of the stage.

With each new breath, I clock a new part of the dance floor. Two black women move in relative unison, smiles wider than their hips. A super-skinny white boy, intent on holding up his end of a conversation while rooster strutting. A man on a mission, more hair over his face than atop his head. The beautiful detritus, caught up in their own comedies.

Inspired by beard-o, I ease into a solo boogie. Stiff to start, since "Pump Up The Jam" ain't the ideal cherry picker tune, but once I order my body to respect every other beat, the scene turns copacetic. Taking over the floor on some Travolta ish isn't me--isn't in me, rather--so I respect self-imposed limits, a box, a closet, dimensions sufficient for shoulder-heavy shimmying.

Five and a half minutes of Eurodance exercise blessed me with the illusion (delusion?) of weight loss at song's end. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I ready steady myself for the next go, hoping the next song's a goodie--I'm in no mood to bop begrudgingly.

      ***

By the time "Vogue" rolls around, and despite my rampaging sobriety, I pause my primitive motions, tilt my head upwards, and treat the housing of the nearest hanging light to a practically perfect lip-sync of the "old Hollywood" rap section. (The highlight of my appearance at the parties I attended in the mid-to-late 90s as the tag-along of my more popular best friend.)

An appreciative whoop from the bar area yanks me back into my inherited plane. Shannon is the culprit. I curtsy and nod at my admirer. Her shirt is tighter than I've ever willingly worn, thick lavender and black stripes offset by smaller white stripes. The bell-shaped skirt is plainer; yet not at all plain. A twinge of envy, a smudge of green. To make a woman, you need these ingredients two: the intelligence to know you can pull off a look, and the confidence to pull off a look.

I'd like to pull Shannon's look off.

(Her friend's hot too, probably--I only ever carry the one thermometer.)

"Hold that thought," Shannon calls, as she places her iced-out plastic cup on the bar and bounces over to me.

Our height difference is nearly as funny as the pony-tailed, ass-less chick "singing" along with "Unbelievable." Shannon's moves are rudimentary and mesmerizing, heavy on sidesteps and swivels. The impulse to mimic is impossible to disobey.

At a pace of 104 per minute, the British-white-boys-love-American-rap beats transport me back to the dog park, where chihuahua and Jack Russell race across grass while "Rhythm Of The Night" swooshes and blares from the shade trees. I hear laughter--too piercing and authentic to be mine. It's Shannon, by my side, her stripes multiplying under the sun's shine. She places her hand in mine, a pearl in an oyster, and leads me down a small hill. We are alone, blocked from the sidewalk by a wire fence and further blocked from the road by a line of parked cars. Whatever I'd planned on saying dies in the chamber, killed by Shannon's hands, transmitting to my skin her diametrical desires. In less time than it takes for an elderly person to bitch about the weather, we're reveling in a bit of the ol' Miss Jackson (I am for reaaaaal), my face down in the dirt, my ass up in the air, firewater rendering me a lynx in heat.

It's the observation of a tipsy me in the midday that snaps me back to the observation of a tipsy me in the midnight, staring down at my dance partner's head, a gleaming oil spill. I reach out and run a hand through it.

"Do you know the rap to this song?" she asks.

This song is "Groove Is In The Heart" and yes, Q-Tip's subdued verse is one of several dozen lounging about in the lobby of my cerebellum, patiently awaiting the turn of the knob.

The dry humps of Ricky and Britney inspire a shared breather. "Let's get drinks," Shannon suggests, and I hesitate, paranoid as ever of inadvertently making myself the star of a funny story for the bartender to tell later. Sensing my trepidation, she offers to order on a screwdriver on my behalf. (Or a Fizzy-Lifting Drink, I dunno.)

Crazy crazy…I'm on a heretofore unscaled peak (and I'm afraid of goddamn heights), I'm paddling foreign waters (and I never learned how to goddamn swim) and the same insecurities are catcalling me.

"Are you having fun?" Lord, but am I unaccustomed.

"I am." Big smile, gums and all.

We return to the dance floor, smelling like Russian breakfast.

###

"Temptation" by Corona is good;  "Temptation" by Heaven 17 is better. Ooh, if only we'd come on 80s Night! (The White Whale probably holds five 80s nights annually.)

Believing you're a talented dancer is easy when you're moving across from a talented dancer. Believing you're a sexy woman is easy when you're exchanging winks and smiles with a sexy woman. Forgetting the nagging pain in your lower back is easy when a sexy woman, who also happens to be a talented dancer, is bumping and grinding against you, playfully and persistently.

Then she squeezes my ass and I forget my name. (It's a substantial ass, although no longer in need of a mayor.) I raise my eyebrows and quirk my lips in a show of approval. I'd need to practically assume a three-point stance in order to reciprocate, but she's not bothered.

We don't spend much time together-together. This is the low-key queer club, after all, no one is walking in with a live flamingo or taking their spot in line for "The Best Sword Swallower In The Bay Area" as per some local magazine. The difference between "foreplay" and "for play" is distinct, and the combination of ounces and bounces isn't strong enough to blur my vision.

In a younger, looser space--under a more frantic sky, amid more profligate souls--

Shannon's shapely body is pinned against a pillar, writhing and emitting all appreciative sounds humans are capable of emitting. I'm grateful that females can hide their arousal better than the other. (Between blatant boners and one-and-done orgasms, I kinda feel bad for men.)

"Cotton Eye Joe" reaches its merciful end, DJ Chuck D announces there's only a half-hour left before the Whale goes vertical, a Swedish woman starts singing about a one-night stand, and Shannon asks, without really truly asking, if now's the time to depart.

We amble into a night that is neither taffy or pie.

"Where're you staying?" she asks.

"Bay Bridge Inn," I admitted. "It's just five minutes away."

"Why didn't you pick a hotel in San Francisco?"

"The band played here yesterday, at the Fox Theater. Two days ago, I mean."

She steps in front of me to hail a cab. She turns, raises on tip toes, and we taste the diluted vodka on one another's lips.

We're halfway to the room when I blurt it out.

"I've never been with another woman before."

I may as well have said my suitcase was full of cheesecake and hundred dollar bills. "Nervous?"

"Of course."

"So am I. Seriously. I get nervous every time. It enhances the experience."

Every time? At least I'm being broken in by a pro.

The room is the same rusty yellow as the street outside the club where Shannon and I crossed paths. How long ago was it--one hour, three hours, five days? Wait--I'm not asking the right question.

"What do you want?" she asks. There's the right question, but the right answer keeps sliding down my throat. What do I want? Whatever Shannon wants.

I open the door, shoot my hand out to the left and two lamps on either side of the headboard light up. Shannon pulls off a similar feat using both hands. Traveling kisses, homebody hugs, and one tingle is followed by a thousand. For hypochondriacs, tingles spell trouble--blood clot for the legs, woefully inadequate potassium levels for hands. Normally, that's my mindset. Now? My mind stood up and stepped outside.

Our embrace breaks, and for the sweatiest of seconds, I'm convinced it's down to my armpits, and sweet God how I wish some intrepid mind would just hurry up and invent deodorant pods, dinner mint-sized and hassle-free: just place one under each arm and hold in place until dissolution.

"Those curtains," she squeaked. "They're hideous."

She's not wrong, yet they're the sort of "hideous" that worms its way into the heart, a technicolor dream pattern reminiscent of the bathrobe my mom rocked for much of the 80s, the bathrobe gifted her the same Christmas morning I spent drinking my body weight in grapefruit juice to replenish the fluids I'd lost from a violent illness the night before.

A small energy ball begins rolling down my rib cage. I take Shannon by the elbow and guide her to the bed. She watches me with a sweet expectancy, a friend on the other side of the river waiting for me to navigate the rickety, incomplete bridge and join her so the journey may continue.

Instead of disclosing my fondness for having my hair caressed, I treat her glossy black strands with downright solicitousness. She meets me halfway and our mouths meet for the second time. I close my eyes--the ultimate in trust. The fervency of our kisses unlatches doors; doors I am wary of walking through. Shannon moves her hands from my head to my legs, a light touch over heavy thighs. I wouldn't be able to suppress my reaction under threat of death, but returning the favor is hard when fists won't unclench.

Shannon tears her mouth away, and the resultant sound is every primitive urge expressing at once. We each stare at a face turned tomato, unwilling to alter the mood with something so unnecessary as words.

Stripping clothes reveals physiques far from perfect. Shannon is all upper body, full breasts and love handles, whereas my bodily blessings are more comprehensive. I've got loose skin hanging off my upper arms and thighs like oil drums. Unlike the partners conjured up by my cruel imagination, Shannon doesn't give enough of a shit to fill a thimble. The silent approval empowers me. With a hand on either shoulder, I encourage her to lay back. The surprise and pride I detect in the shape of her eyes prevent a transformation into a feral, selfish creature.

Addicted to the sight, needing it to last, I touch her everywhere I'm able, delighting at the reactions, learning her language, discerning her dialect. Human nature takes over, and the fear falls off of me like leaves off a cherry tree. I turn my head to the left, where the curtains hang deathlessly. I close my eyes, so rapid reds and purples replace the ugly, lethargic streaks.

I am the rescue animal, grateful for the opportunity. I am eager to lavish affection on the most deserving, I am prepared to trust the promise of a stranger.

Sound is the key sense, when the subject is sex. I worry briefly over our volume, before realizing any irritated neighbor is free to crank their TV.

A few times, I thought Shannon might string a word or two together. That she did not, could not, is worth all the porn-inspired praise in the world. My amateurishness is a gift, and I keep on giving. My jaw aches, and it's incredible. I don't have her name on my tongue; I have her.

And she, as is her due, has me. The transition from sated to savage is stunning to behold. The scaredy cat is still traipsing along the fence top, though, so I slam my eyes shut. More reds, more purples, new blues and greens. Blackness is oblivion, and pleasure is the anti-oblivion. I feel her touches, surer than mine, and I submit to the delirium swiftly. My fingers, her shoulders, my palms, her back. She knew exactly when to let me go off, and when to let me go, and there's no higher compliment I can bestow upon a lover, any lover.

When the abysmal bliss fades and I deign to face the world again, I see Shannon, taking a smug survey of my prone, heaving form.

She didn't stay. I didn't ask. There's a woman in the world suitable for me, a demigoddess tolerant of my entropic tendencies and indulgent of my creative tendencies. Shannon is not that woman. And the night was all the better for it.

I lay on my side, craving pizza. Hot and sloppy and topped as the queen demands: sausage, mushroom, black olive. Food and sex go together like sky and stars (come for the constellations, stay for the constellations).

But there's no pizza joint open at this hour, and hell, I'm too exhausted to pick up a phone. I roll onto my back, sluggish and sated--and butt-ass naked. I spread out a sheet-angel and spare a sweet thought for my ex. He'd sooner sleep on a bed of nails than in a bed naked, and I sensed his judgment each and every time I hit the sack without a stitch on.

What I most long to do I cannot do--slough off the dross underneath a warm shower. The water pressure here couldn't drown an injured spider; to say nothing of the Bay Bridge Inn's apparent "bring your own shampoo" policy. I might as well collect my sweat in my palm and mix in some soap.

Per the phone, it's a speck past four. The plane back east won't depart for eight more hours. The alarm is set for eight. Four hours rest won't suffice for a woman with a day of serious business ahead--a job, say, or an important meeting. For a woman who's not collected a check from a legit employer in over six months, however, it'll do.