Sinners Circle Read Online Free PDF Page A

here.”
    I lean in, “What?”
    She waves it off, “Never mind.”
    I nod and look for the waitress
but I can’t see her anywhere. There’s too many scrawny
gay guys and fat lesbians in the way, so I can’t see a damn thing. After a
couple minutes of this, I get up and slip through a sea of exposed midriffs,
facial piercings and pungent odors, a stinking cocktail of dozens upon dozens
of different perfumes, hair products and body sprays, the stench of sweat and
body odor permeating everything.
    I’m not sure how anybody can
breathe while standing this close to one another. Every person in your elbow
space, every person vacuuming up the oxygen around you, and if stealing it away
from the vicinity isn’t enough, they’ll shove their tongue down your throat and
suck it right out of your lungs.
    I wave at the bartender, shout
out for three more beers. He gives them to me but when I hand him a twenty the
waitress, the blonde-leggy-model- thing, she snatches
the money from him and pushes it back into my palm. There’s so many people
around I can’t hear what she’s saying and I can’t tell if she’s talking to me
or the bartender, so I just pocket the twenty, raise the beers to her and nod
appreciatively before slipping back into the crowd of colliding queers.
    Back at the booth I put the booze
on the table and sit down. Carl and Alison are gone, but I can see them mashing
into each other on the dance floor, not noticing the dirty looks being shot at
them by the surrounding dykes bopping up and down on the floor. I chug my beer and sip
the one I brought for Alison.
    In this light people look like
faded versions of themselves. Pale skin flashing in and out
of focus under a disco ball of revolving burden, everybody looking like a color
photocopy of their actual self. Everyone swinging
their bodies to the same beat, the same chorus, yet each vessel of mirrored
flesh swaying out of synch with the others. In my opinion, the only kind
of dancing that makes any sense is choreographed dancing. Choreographed dancing
is the clear sound of human rhythm. It is the course essay of human body
language. The careful comb of final edits. Martha Graham said that dance is the hidden language of the soul. Ruth St.
Denis described dance as being used as communication between body and soul, to
express what is too deep for words. Looking at the small mob of men and women
flailing this way and that, knocking into and another, I see nothing inspired.
I just see what is probably a thousand dollars worth of booze
swishing about inside the bellies of these serial one night standers .
Angela Monet once said that those who danced were thought to be quite insane by
those who could not hear the music, I guess this is true in my case, because
the more I watch these strangers straddling one another on a foggy floor, one
that hides their feet entirely, I feel colder and colder inside my skin, I feel
frozen at the bones, chilled in the guts. I feel alone, empty and apathetic.
    “...ends in about ten minutes.”
    I look up; the
waitress-model-blonde thing is standing in front of me waving her cell phone in
front of her. “Mind if I join you after?”
    The beer I’m holding is empty. I
look from my hand to the vacant seats around me. Carl and Alison still bumping
and grinding each other in the fog, under the disco ball.
    The waitress touches my arm,
winks and walks away, her body swallowed up by the crowd. I go to the restroom,
stand around and watch she-males stroke layers and layers of mascara onto fake
eyelashes until a stall opens up and I can take a piss. On the wall someone’s
written ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me.
So throw me down, and tie me up and show me that you like me.’ Underneath is a
heart painted in orange nail polish. I push my thumb in the middle of it and
when I take it away, my print fades away instantly from the cold scarred steel.
    Outside the stall a girl is
pounding on the door next to