Club Foot

Set to Kasabian's song 'Club Foot'.

Tonight it felt empty.

As though hundreds of grinding, swaying, shaking, quaking dancing topless men couldn't fill the space.

The merging of reds, pinks and bodies felt hollow.

Which was bullshit, when you think about it, as though your emotions and feelings were effecting your outside world, when really you where the one that was less.

Justin-less mostly.

So it was you that wasn't filling the thumpa thumpa and not the other way around.

For once, the world wasn't bending around Brian Kenney.

As you think this, taking another sip of vodka, leaning your head back and wondering if there was an E to take in the small recesses of your leather trousers, you wonder why the sky wasn't burning, doves weren't refusing to take flight, and a swarm of locusts weren't gathering at your ankles.

The world must have been ending, want, need and sweat making it's way through your skin.

A dark consolation prize makes his way through the masses and proceeds to grind against your hips.

Your eyes open, meeting his, one eyebrow raised.

"Fuck off." You mutter and, knowing what was good for him, he obliges.

Watching him cross the floor, you pause in your dancing, why the hell did you do that?

But then a glimmer of pale smooth skin glints in the corner of your eye and you can't help the slow predator smile crossing your lips.

The chase - the dance was back on.

And night had purpose.