Erase and Rewind
Mini-essays about love and the dancefloor
THE GRANDATHER CLAUSE
It was January, and on a Saturday night like any other, I found myself in a melange of shirtless bodies, eye-to-eye and tits-to-tits with a dark beauty. We kissed, I allowed myself to hope, and then I saw, upon his wrist, a tattoo. It read:
1998
Not again. I’ve been alive since the crucifixion, and yet here I am, falling for the same fantasy every time.
But the dancefloor is where I come to clarity. So I made a new law, that night: no more kissing strangers. Of all the self-imposed interdictions for my so-called emotional sobriety, this one would prove to be one of the most essential. It’s not substances I lose myself in, but other people: my ideas of them, and of what I need to be to lose or keep them.
Since then, for the most part, I’ve honored the rule. If someone is interested, we can exchange numbers—and then it’s open season. I’ve spared myself a lot of grief on the dancefloor these last few months, restoring the innocence of the night.
And yet: what do we do with those who are grandfathered in, those boys with whom I’d already gotten messy on the dancefloor, before the law was instated? Their entitlement, and my inability to say no, sometimes makes me feel like there is no way out, no matter how severe the restrictions.
But with time, and without the option of total self-abnegation, I’ve gotten a bit better at a firm hug and a passing goodbye. Perhaps this is how Elizabeth II, or Patty Buckley felt at state functions. It’s nice to see you. Excuse me, I must inspect the cheese table. And, among those cronies whom I still do share a song with once in a while, there’s a feeling of camaraderie, like we’re old friends from a porn shoot ten years ago.
There’s one I always get down with, one of the best dancers around. It doesn’t matter if it’s to Britney Spears or Faithless—once it’s on, it’s like we’re in a Jamaican dancehall. He’s married and works in tech; we have nothing in common. In the past, I tried to play the part, keep him satisfied. Last Thursday night, we danced as friends, and it was the best time I’d had in ages. He helped me come down from my thoughts and into the moment. It was all the thrill of dirty dancing, with none of the neurosis.
I still wonder, every time, if by doing this I’ll never know true freedom. Maybe I’ve only further consigned myself to stay alone, forever. And yet: I’m not reenacting the past like I used to, not playing out the same tale of self-abandonment. Any price to be relieved of shame.
THE TRADE-OFF
We haven’t spoken since last June, which was your decision. We thought we could be friends after breaking up. When we were together, I was harsh and distant, like Buffy to Riley. Only when we’d split, when I wasn’t afraid of being assimilated, could I see you and admire you, and finally fall in love with you. In those months of trial friendship, I revealed myself to be a loyal puppy dog, the kind who always gets shot at the end of the movie.
You were right. We couldn’t be friends, and I could barely see you at the gym without shutting down. I can’t say why, but everything from Sex & the City to Babe made me think of you and cry over all my mistakes. I went over it a million times, over the next months, working as a dogwalker. We weren’t a match/I wasn’t ready/you weren’t mine/I wish I had you back. But you were right. In this year without you, I’ve started to find my people, the ones who really speak my language. And you found real love.
Nearly a year later, there was one thing left unresolved, one relic which bound us together, as if by magic: my book. I turned it in last May. I’d had three weeks to edit it, the hardest thing I’d ever done (professionally). I broke down many times, fearing that I might not make it, that this thing with my name on it would be an embarrassment. You were my champion, and I made that clear in the acknowledgments. When I wrote those lines, I never would have guessed that within a matter of weeks, we’d be strangers.
So, on the day of publication, we met for coffee, and I handed it to you. It was no feeling of triumph. You’ve found your soulmate, and you’re living together in a nice neighborhood. Anyway, here’s my book. I’m the same as I was. I know you’ll never read it.
My only victory was the melodrama, the season-finale closure in an overwritten life. Nothing on the horizon, but this chapter has at least been edited and concluded, definitively.
GENERATIONS
For a brief spell in the summer of 2023, I fell in love. It was at first sight, at a rave, and, before the month was over, it went down in an instant. In no reality were we compatible, and it’s likely I chose him because I knew he’d someday disappear. After our last night together, I got home and pulled cards. The Two of Cups. Lord of Love. Reversed. I knew I’d never see him again. This had not been a real relationship, and yet, I’d still run through an airport for him any day. Finally! The one that got away! What anguish could be finer?
A few weeks ago, I met someone on the dancefloor, and, observing my new rules, got his number before walking away. We met for coffee and had a decent time together. Only after, did I realize: he was a clone, a reincarnation, of my long-lost love. One could note some differences in the ethnicity and height ranges, but otherwise, it was all the same: the big brown eyes, thick lips, bad style. They were even both in medical school, and total martyrs about it.
It was like a movie sequel: one that isn’t half-bad, but still kills the nostalgia for the original. It finally hit me: the one I’d lost, the one in million…wasn’t. It’s time for a new concept.
RIPPING DOWN THE VEIL
I had a Grindr—or as my friend Molly used to call them, a gringo—over, on the eve of Purim. We’d chatted a bit, and frankly I’d forgotten what he’d looked like by the time we’d made a plan. I’d just read from the Megillah reading, where I’d danced like a lunatic to ABBA. The Rabbi wouldn’t let us leave the dancefloor. I was wiped, but he was already in his car, so what was I to do?
No matter how many pictures you see, you never really know who will walk through your door. Sometimes, someone comes in and changes the music—maybe permanently. I haven’t seen him since that night, I know nothing about him, and it’s possible he’s even closeted. We didn’t bond in that way.
But it felt for a few hours like someone was actually paying attention, and like I couldn’t put up the same reruns that have been playing for years now, which haven’t been remarkable for a long time. I just thought: for someone like this, for some reason I don’t understand, I would change. I don’t mean that in the usual codependent, code-switching way which has defined every interaction of my life so far. More like: maybe I could finally play a different role. Maybe all this has just been an armor, and it’s not so relevant anymore.
I doubt I’ll ever see him again. But I saw a different side of myself. So there is more to discover, still.
UPDATES:
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My book is out and it’s real. I am so grateful to every person who has bought one and told me about it! I hope you’ll enjoy it, and, if you can spare a minute, share a review on Amazon and Goodreads. It goes a long way.
Astrology and Tarot readings are now open for the summer. New offerings include SATURN RETURN readings and SATURN IN ARIES readings. I am looking forward to working with you.
Ever,
David