Monday, March 4, 2013

Go-go Dancers Strategically Placed in Literature

The Metamorphisizing

One day when Gregor Samza awoke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a go-go dancer. He lay in his sparkly silver booty-shorts, and when he lifted the covers he saw pink boots rising above the bend of his knees. The bedding was hardly able to cover the sprawling display of hair atop his head and the pillow seemed water-logged with glitter. His arms and legs, pitiful thin things they were, waved helplessly in involuntary gyrations.

“TEAR THE CLUB UP,” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper non-go-go room, unadorned with suspended dance cages or even the barest of laser lighting, remained peacefully between its four walls. He tried sleeping a bit longer in hopes of forgetting his consuming need to dance, imbibe sweetened alcohol concoctions, pop mollys, and sweat, while hip thrusting in assorted places, but that was something he was unable to do because his room was dreadfully absent of the pounding wub of repetitive electronic beats.

Anna Karenina-na-na-n-na-na-na-n-na

Honorable dancers are all alike. Every dishonorable dancer is dishonorable in their own way.

Everything was in confusion in Club Rain. Bailey had discovered that the bartender Trevor was carrying on an intrigue with a new girl whose specialty it was to work hula-hoops into her routine, and who had been once a trainee of Bailey’s at a previous club, and Bailey had announced to Trevor and all their mutual besties that she could not go on working in the same club as him, but each of them refused to seek a new job elsewhere, or even change shifts. This position of affairs had now lasted two weekends, and not only Trevor and Bailey themselves, but all the stage girls and night managers, were painfully conscious of it. Every person in the club felt that there was no sense in their working around each other, and that the stray club-goers brought together by nothing more than the basic need to gyrate under the influence of high grade E, held more in common than they, the employees of the club.

Three days after the quarrel, Tyler Collins—TC, as he was called in the DJ world—woke up at his usual hour, that is two o’clock in the afternoon, not in his gf’s apartment, but on the understuffed cushions of the sofa in his best boy Steve’s place. He shifted his lean, well-cared-for person on the sparse sofa, as though the weed he had smoked the night before still beckoned him into a long sleep; he vigorously embraced the balled up hoodie he had used a pillow on either side and buried his face in it; but all at once he jumped up, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.

“Fuck dude?” he thought, going over his dream.

-By Justin Sanders

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