The Angel

We die everyday. The moment we step out of our houses, we become sensitive to how the world will see us. We mute our colors and hide the mannerisms that could betray us. We try as hard as possible to be inconspicuous in our words and actions. We look for nuances of what makes a man straight and so we stifle our tendencies and inclinations in order to be like them. We call the men bro or dude  or whatever sounds manly in the offices that we work in.

The last two years were a case study of sorts.  I've never been so unsure of what I was getting into.  I stayed mostly on the sidelines, a silent observer of repartees and flirtations, wandering eyes and double takes, glances held too long.  This was the surface where noise and excesses permeated.  All sweaty in the dance floor dancing with a stranger or a friend you've recently met.  Numbers and, sometimes, salivas are easy and muted transactions under strobe lights and loud music. Why are we there? Different reasons.  Different excuses. Some could be quite upfront.  A hookup.  A date.  A serious relationship.  Others could be a little indirect.  I'm here with friends.  To dance.  Just hangout and drink.  To have fun.  The most common and vaguest of reasons.  It straddles both the clean and the naughty side. It goes on, repeatedly and repetitively, every Saturday night.  On some days you tell yo...