We’re standing outside on a warm, Florida night waiting in line with the rest of the circuit queens who’ve made the annual trip to Orlando for Gay Days, the June PRIDE kick-off weekend where we all amass within the Happiest Place on Earth wearing red shirts and holding hands. I cry every time I see the stream of red following the afternoon Dreams Come True Parade.
But that was the day before and now we’re cued to enter Hard Rock Coliseum with yards of glammed-out gays. They say more than 150,000 folks come to town for the events, and we (this group of four) are among the 10,000 or so who will dance the night away inside to the sounds produced by DJ Abel. From here, we can already hear the music, currently a non-stop, muffled thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. The gay heartbeat.
I’m wearing my green camouflaged pants with the extra pockets, since I must have extra pockets when I’m on the dance floor. I can stash my cigarettes and gum and cell phone – those seldom used dancing requirements – without taking up the valuable pocket real estate at my hips where I stash the frequently used items. I don’t include a wallet for these adventures, so I button down my driver’s license and cash in the back right one, being right-handed. And the water bottle slips into the left side for easy access.
I don’t understand how others can dance so unencumbered. I see these queens in their sparkling hip-huggers with not even room for a $20 bill, and somewhere in my thoughts I curse them merely for being thin and for appearing so unattached to the things of this world like water and food. Yet, in the same whisper as the curse, I thank the gay god I didn’t pack those Nutter Butters.
Gaggles of gays have converged on the dance floor, and this event finds as much ritual built in as any Sunday church service. The tribes gather and migrate: LaLa boys primp and glow with tanned botoxed faces, while the Chelsea boys sneer. The Twinks flit about gingerly, while The Bears lumber to their corner of the dance floor. For all its diversity chants and being different sing-songs, the homo life is filled with homophily. Birds of a feather flock together or as the case is here Bondage boys truss the Leather Queens.
Walking onto the dance floor is like walking into a blast furnace. The depth of the air hits you first. It smacks you with this damp, hot breath of roaring thump and brassy vibrations and multicolored facets of beat, and I can see the crowded floor from this vantage point, but I can’t see where to go yet. I struggle to categorize the various things wooing me as I enter. It’s all accosting me at once: the lights, the sounds, the smells, the energy. That’s the main and over-riding sensation: this jarring snap alive from being there at that moment. That’s probably the biggest appeal to attending these events and why certain DJs have a clear following. If the DJ plays it right, this feeling ebbs and flows throughout the night. The lighting production plays a big part in setting the mood, as does the location and the crowd. But the music is the key, the heart beat. The Thump. Thump. Thump.
Through this din we find our way. The four of us crowd surf consistently on nights like these, letting the music and the muscles guide us. Usually we head to stage right up at the front, though we have been known to adjust our place if the muscle bears are close by. Then, a passing woof or two helps direct us to that place: our spot. No matter where we roam or wonder through the course of the night, we will always return to our spot.
It is close to the stage, but not so close as to restrict a full view. We encamp here, because it feels right. The sound is loud, but the speakers are far enough away to not cause too much pain. A few other groups appear to have staked claim nearby, so the neighborhood looks promising for a good time. It helps to have those around you in a similar frame of mind, because there’s nothing like circuit drama to fuck up a good time, and those dancing around you do matter.
Circuit events across the country and world are filled with gay men who have to have their spot on the dance floor. I always wondered why a spot was so important to gay men at circuit events, and then I remembered there is this place where it all comes together. Some call it the heart. Some call it the soul. It’s this connecting place of essence within us all that links and binds us to a place and people and events. It seems it’s the attachment of energy to flesh and blood marking your presence within this event. Everyone loves. Everyone hurts. Everyone smiles. Everyone cries. Everyone dances. Here is where we will dance.
Welcome to the dance floor. Now, let’s Find Your Spot.
