The Euphoria of Contact

A whiskey on the rocks. A man's drink. I sip it while sitting in this smokey night club, cigar in hand, watching a girl dancing for the fellas. Perhaps she's dancing it for me to. I guess she doesn't understand I'm not interested.

 

Yet, I sit here and feign amusement. Well, maybe that's the wrong term to use. I'm certainly amused, but not in the way I'm supposed to be. It's actually quite funny. She looks pretty ridiculous, that skimpy attire, that fake seductive smile. I suppose she's feigning amusement as well. Or maybe, like me, she's amused for the wrong reasons. No doubt she finds the gawking gentlemen equally as amusing as I do.

 

I suppose she's attractive, in her own sort of way. No, that's a lie. I really don't see it. Why is this fun? Why is this what men do as a pastime? How do they find her enticing?

 

The friend on my right asks what I'm thinking. Apparently I look pensive. I look back at him, his face lit up and a little red with drink, a general satisfaction in his blue-grey eyes. He's happy, at least for the moment. It suits him.

 

"Nothing," I tell him. "Just enjoying the show."

 

"Me too, buddy. Me too," he says happily, patting me on the shoulder. My heart beat quickens for a moment, just for as long as contact is made. It's some sort of rush. I can't explain it, but it's like a drug. Every time he touches me, even for the shortest moment, I feel it. The closer he is to me, the more I feel it. I just want to get closer, as if his essence is some sort of feel-good narcotic. I want his hand to linger on my shoulder, just for a little longer.

 

Then I realize it. I'm addicted. Addicted to this man, against all the laws of nature. Addicted to his presence, his air, his aura. I want more, just a little more. I return the shoulder-pat, cherishing the fraction of a second of contact with fabric of his shirt. Even through a layer of cloth, maybe two, I feel it, as if the drug is rushing right from him into me, filling me up, making my heart beat faster. That fraction of a second feels like minutes, yet still it ends. The contact is severed, and the period of withdrawal begins. My brain begs for more, I long for another touch. But what can I do?

 

He turns back to the girl, and so do I. Yet I steal the occasional glance back at him, longing for another touch, admiring that gelled-back blond hair that's losing its stiffness after a long day, little strands falling down over his forehead. I smile harmlessly and look back if he catches me. Thankfully the dimness hides the blushing. I don't think he notices I'm looking at him more than the girl, or at least thinking about him more than her. He's more concerned with the girl, who has since removed some of her clothing. I suppose he's as incapable as the girl of understanding that I'm not interested in her.

 

Many drinks and another girl later, the fellas and I leave. He starts singing a tune they just played back in the club while pulling me and another friend close, putting his arm around our shoulders. He starts singing louder and a bit off key, slurring a word here or there, and we join in, sounding equally as good. My head is fuzzy, not only with alcohol but with the euphoria of his touch, the drug seeping into my body, filling my veins and my brain. I feel great, I feel satisfied, but I dread the moment he lets go. The longer the contact, the worse the withdrawal. All I want is more, and this time no fabric between us, just skin to skin. I want is to embrace him, naked, with nothing to dam the flow, and I want to never let go.

 

And then it does end. We've arrived at my place, the closest one, and my euphoric stupor dissolves into a fuzzy, spinning reality. We shake hands, one last hit. I milk it for all it's worth, then make my way up to the apartment. I collapse onto the bed, still fully dressed, and dream of him and that feeling, that euphoria of contact.

Author's Note

Think Mad Men-era nightclub