Love on the Dancefloor

by Liam Livings

  The next DJ, Wayne, stood outside the booth—white vest and baggy trousers, shaved head and mouth frantically chewing—while we played our last track and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and a ‘safe’ and a ‘wicked’ before he stood between the two turntables and took over the reins of the club.

  We walked through the dancing crowd, and Paul pointed to them as they surrounded us.

  Paul started dancing, but I wanted to sit, to chill out with a cigarette and a drink in the club’s office, tucked away in the bowels of the building, where we could cuddle on a squashy leather sofa, talk about our set, then drive home in our new little Seat Ibiza, which Paul had persuaded me to buy—“We need something to get around. No point managing with some old banger. It’s what Luella would have wanted.”

  He held my hands and pulled me back towards him, in the middle of the dance floor. He kissed me and pushed a pill into my mouth.

  I shook my head. “Let’s have a quiet one tonight?”

  “Why? Come on, just the one. Let’s dance, let’s relax, we’ve been working. It’ll do us good.”

  And so, with all the inevitability of the sun rising tomorrow, I swallowed the pill that was on my tongue with a swig of water Paul handed me, and we danced together until the lights came on and the staff cleared up the rubbish on the floor into black bin bags and the crumpled dancers tumbled out of the club’s doors.

  We went to an afterparty, invite courtesy of some guy Paul had bumped into at the bar buying water. I had been standing by the entrance, ready to go home, but Paul introduced me to this guy and his friends: an assortment of men and women in various states of messiness, dreadlocked hair, smudged make-up, sleeveless T-shirts, pierced eyebrows and crop tops.

  Despite my protestations that he was totally banjaxed, Paul planned on driving to the guy’s place. He walked in a straight line along the pavement. “Fine. I’ve not dropped for an hour or so. Besides, it’s not far. What’s-his-name says it’s, like, five minutes away.”

  “Can’t we walk?” I was high, but I wasn’t fucking stupid.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go in this?” Paul stood by the open car door.

  “Are you still spannered?”

  He shrugged, jangling the keys. “Not spannered, maybe a bit forked, a bit floaty. But no worse than anyone else we used to get lifts from back home.”

  I folded my hands and noticed I was chewing a bit too enthusiastically; the inside of my cheeks were becoming sore. “Doesn’t mean we should do it again. I said why bring the car? I said let’s get a taxi. But no, you wanted to bring the car. I knew this is what would happen.”

  “Wait there.” Paul ran off to talk to his new friends, who were crowded round a pink car with dents on all four corners and each door.

  I pulled some gum from my pocket and chewed that instead of my cheeks. Fuck, I really am pretty spannered still. So much for an early night.

  Shortly afterwards, back at the man’s flat—a zigzagged walk from the club, there never really was any need for driving at all—we carried on, dancing, drinking, talking and dropping. I still don’t remember the name of the man whose flat we were in, or any of his friends, but Paul was talking intensely to them the whole time we were there. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t sit there with a face like a slapped arse, wishing to be home the whole time. Oh no, I did enjoy myself.

  In the small living room, the music was turned up, and rather than sitting on the sofa, I needed to dance. I danced with the short woman with long blonde dreadlocks. I danced with the tall man with the shaved head. I danced with a couple of other guys who kept giving me their cigarettes and didn’t mind when I complimented them on their bodies—they had taken their T-shirts off and were dancing topless, pecs and abs glistening with sweat, on full beam pointing towards me, with low-hanging combat trousers exposing their pants and navels a mere few feet from me. I had to concentrate on not staring at them.

  One of the topless guys asked how long we’d been in Ibiza, and how we’d got our big break. I explained about Slinky Simon, who both the topless guys had heard of. I told them about the orbital parties, and they both nodded, telling me stories of their best nights while rolling themselves and me more cigarettes, which we smoked together dancing in a circle in the middle of the living room. One of them asked how long me and Paul had been together; I counted on my fingers and told him it was a year—a whole year—but we’d known each other before that, explaining about the shops where we had both worked. It was all sound, wicked, sorted and brilliant, as we danced together.

  “My mate told me about the DJs to look out for. Before we came out here. They mentioned you and Paulie Paul. Said you were the ones to come to for the best party. The best tunes. Songs that would grab us by the Balearics. You know what I mean?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I leant forward and hugged him as we both danced. I pulled back.

  He smiled, a black hole where one of his front teeth was missing. “It’s sound. You two. I don’t have a problem with it. It’s so laid-back here, innit?”

  So I suppose that was why the time passed quickly, once I had got into being at the afterparty, once I’d realised we weren’t going back to the leather sofa in the office at Spaced. I glanced across the room at Paul talking to one of the girls, gesturing with his hands as he explained something.

  Paul caught my eyes; he blew me a kiss.

  I caught it and pressed it to my heart, winking back at him. This was one of our things we had developed from the many nights in clubs together. If one of us caught the other one’s eyes, we would blow a kiss and catch it. It made us feel connected, close, in love; even if we were at opposite sides of an aircraft-hangar-sized club, talking to other people, we both knew how much we loved each other.

  Sometime later, as the sun turned from an orange glow to bright white streaming into the living room, I opened the curtains and stepped out onto the balcony. I watched people making their way home, others leaving their cars, their flats, bags over their shoulders, heading for the little supermarket on the other side of the road. Behind the row of shops and houses opposite the apartment was a stretch of yellow sand, covered in beach towels and people, and beyond that the deep-blue sea and the light-blue, cloudless sky. I felt a kiss on my neck and hands round my waist. I knew it was Paul; I recognised his smell: a mix of his favourite CK One scent and sweat.

  Facing him, I pointed at the view. “Beautiful, eh?”

  “You are, yeah.” He smiled, then kissed me. “Shall we make a move?” He nodded to the door.

  “Thought you were never gonna ask.”

  As we walked to the door—and said goodbye with hugs and kisses to the others, our friends for the night, the people we’d shared philosophical thoughts, theories, the best creative ideas ever, all now forgotten, disappeared into the blue sky where the clouds weren’t—we took each other’s hands to shouts of “Laters” from the others.

  “Where now?” I asked once we were outside.

  “Let’s go home and fuck like rabbits.” Paul winked.

  “If you put it like that, and you insist, then who am I to disagree?”

  Back at ours, we lay naked under the covers, facing each other and kissing like horny teenagers. Paul grabbed me, and I responded to his touch, stiffening more than I already had from the warmth of his body so near to me. He squeezed me.

  I kissed his lips, then moved down via his nipples, his chest, his navel, down until I was completely under the warm duvet, the musky smell of our bodies filling my nostrils. I pushed him onto his back, licked his inner thigh and, using my hand, squeezed him, expecting him to respond by pointing towards my mouth. After continuing for a while, I licked him and took him in my mouth, and got stuck in, expecting him to quickly stiffen as usual.

  After a while, Paul pulled my head up. “Sorry. It’s not happening.”

  “What’s wrong? I’m bursting. Look!” He doesn’t fancy me anymore. I’m a useless lover.

  I pulled the covers back
and sat astride his chest, pointing ceilingwards. As I leant forward to kiss him, I pushed my stiffness on his chest, hoping it would reignite his passion.

  “I dropped with that guy in the kitchen.” He paused, avoided my eyes. “We were dropping partners. Said he’s coming to our next set. Said he wanted to come out when we have a night off.”

  I pulled the covers round myself; a sudden chill came over my whole body. “When?”

  “Next time we’re out. When is that? You’ve put it on the calendar, haven’t you?”

  “No, when did you drop with him?”

  “Not long before we left. It’s not really touched the sides, to be honest. It’s flogging a dead horse, I think. Can’t feel anything. It seemed like a good idea at the time. He offered me one, so I just…” He shrugged. “Give it a while. I’m sure it’ll come back.”

  I wanted to come and go to sleep, but even though I didn’t know what to say about what he’d told me, I knew saying that wasn’t very sexy or loving, so I said nothing. I moved to climb off his chest, noticing how my excitement had obviously subsided too in the wake of his news.

  “It’s nothing you’ve done. I really want to fuck like horny rabbits, in here—” he tapped his head “—but down there, it’s a bit all over the place at the moment. Normal service will be resumed soon, I promise. You’re gonna ache if you try to sleep now, after that.” He stopped me climbing off his chest. “Stay there and I’ll do you.”

  “It’s all right. Moment’s passed now. Cuddle up and we can go to sleep, see how things are in the morning.” I leant forward and kissed him, then lay on his chest, my legs still astride his waist. The warmth of his body, the hairs on his chest, the gentle stroking of his hands on my back, all conspired to defeat my intentions, and soon I was just as excited as I’d been before.

  He kissed me, pushing me backwards so I was pointing at his head, in between his nipples. He grabbed me and, using both hands, pulled at me with one and pressed me underneath, with his thumb, exactly how I liked it. He smiled as his pace quickened and his thumb pressure increased.

  I reached behind me, grabbing him so I could reciprocate, so I didn’t feel like I was the only one benefitting from the sex, but despite my efforts, he remained soft and unresponsive.

  “It’s all right. Later.” He smiled, his thumb pushed harder, his hand pulled quicker.

  I arched my back and pressed down on his pecs with my hands, the wave of pleasure building up through my legs, into my groin, more and more. With a gasp and a shudder, I finished in a shower covering his chest, up his neck and on his face. Once I’d got my breath back, I apologised; I didn’t like it in my face.

  Paul pulled me forward and kissed me, his lips covered in my stickiness. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, you fucking pill-head.”

  And we lay like that, under the covers, me on top of him, until, with a few gentle movements, we adjusted our positions to drift off into a warm, fuzzy sleep together.

  CHAPTER 12

  PAUL HAD MANAGED to arrange for us to play Amnesia midweek during the day. This was a prestigious slot as it generally attracted a classier sort of clubber, a less full-on messy, more chilled Balearic clubber. Apparently, that was the audience we needed to chase—subtly, of course.

  The room where we were playing, if you could call it that, had a frame of fake Roman columns at each corner, with a horizontal ornate carved cornice around the top of the four columns, green plants and flowers winding around the stone, if it was stone. I doubted, really. I’d knocked it as I walked to the DJ booth on its raised stage in the middle of the room. The stone thudded and felt quite light, probably polystyrene, but with its carvings and stone colour, it did look pretty realistic from afar. That was all that mattered.

  Paul and I were trying out some lighter, more chilled sounds for the daytime crowd, and in the middle of this set, Paul explained he’d be back and not to worry. He disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone in the DJ booth surrounded by sun-drenched clubbers in colourful shorts, T-shirts and vests, some wearing their swimming trunks or bikinis, all waving their hands above their heads at the crescendo of the music and swigging water with great enthusiasm.

  I felt like I was having as near to a religious experience as I’d ever had. The only catch was the lack of Paul.

  I played two more songs and checked the time. He’d been gone for half an hour. I couldn’t leave the booth and had no way of getting in touch with him, so I lined up the next record and played on, plastering a smile on my face, waving my hands in time with the dancers, debating whether to neck a pill to take the edge off the anxiety but deciding it was best to remain straight, in case anything kicked off and required sorting out.

  Just as I was about to lose my cool, the sweat pouring down my face, cursing myself for not wearing a hat in the sunshine, Paul reappeared, wide grin, arms open for a hug.

  “Where the fuck you been?”

  “Here and there. I’m back now. Let me do the next track.” He took the headphones from me and stood between the two decks, mixing into the next song to a cheer from the crowd.

  Once we’d finished our set, we walked to the bar. I turned to ask if he wanted water as usual, but he’d gone again. I looked around, walked back to where we’d just come from; no sign of him. My heart rate rising, the sweat on my brow dripping, I walked round the whole of Amnesia, checking the bars, the dance floors, pushing my way through thick crowds of dancers, asking bar staff if they’d seen him, returning to the DJ booth and asking the next DJ if she’d seen him, but everyone shook their heads.

  Desperate for anywhere else to look, I checked all the toilets, calling his name as I stood by the door. Then I went to the manager’s office, explained the situation and asked if he’d seen Paul. Another shaken head. I was out of ideas. The ‘he’ll turn up, he’s a big boy’ from the manager as he sat at his desk didn’t really help either.

  I had wanted to go home over an hour ago, and yet I was still out, looking for Paul. I left the club and did the only thing I could think of: I reported him missing at the police station, using my broken Spanish, with the help of a female police officer’s rudimentary English.

  With a sympathetic tone, the police officer said, “He is not gone for long enough. He is not missing. I’m sorry. He is an adult.”

  “Yeah, but he’s gone,” I pleaded, pointing to the form she’d taken from the drawer before I explained when he’d gone missing and how old he was.

  She shook her head. “This happens all the time. He will be back. I am sure.”

  Without even a case reference number to show for it, I returned home and tried to sleep alone in our enormous double bed, feeling like it was mocking me every time I turned over.

  ***

  The next morning, I woke with a start to a ringing noise that filled my head. I rolled over, reaching out for Paul’s body and finding only empty space, and then remembering what had happened. The ringing was the phone. It would be Mum calling for her regular chat to see how things were going, make sure we hadn’t gone too far off the rails, and tell me how her and Dad were getting on. It’ll finish in a bit. I’ll just roll over and it’ll go away.

  I rolled over in bed and the ringing stopped. The apartment filled with silence, the glorious noise of nothingness, only the quiet background chatter from the world outside beyond the balcony. I put my pillow over my head, but the ringing started again.

  Eventually, after three more sets of rings, I picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “What sort of a way’s that to greet your old mum, eh?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A bit less of the bloody attitude, thank you very much. I’m only ringing when we said I would. Don’t you remember?”

  “I’ve been busy. It’s been all go. Didn’t get in till late last night.”

  “Still having more fun than you can manage, then?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What was it this time? Beach party as the
sun comes up? Dancing in the bones of a hollowed-out beached whale? Four-day bender in a volcano crater?”

  I told her about Amnesia and the daytime set. As I stared at the empty bed, I bit my bottom lip, then lit a cigarette, my hands and lips shaking and making the cigarette jump all over the place until I’d taken my first drag.

  “Me and your dad was thinking about coming over to visit you. See how you’re getting on with this new life of yours, you know, in person, not just on the phone.”

  I was still staring at the empty bed. I swallowed hard, tried with all my body to hold down the cry of fear and worry that was building from the pit of my stomach.

  “You still there, love? You listening?”

  “Yep,” I let out with a yelp.

  “Big comedown, is it? Feeling a bit sore, are you?” She paused as she lit a cigarette. “I can call back later if you want, when you’re feeling a bit more human. Although I’d have thought daytime clubbing, by now you’d be back on your feet, but then again, what do I know?”

  The thought of the silence in the flat alone was worse than the tortured conversation I was in the middle of, so I told her to carry on, that I just needed some caffeine.

  “Dad didn’t know what to do with himself since giving up work, so he’s gone back. I tell you, that week he retired from the council was the longest week of our lives. He wouldn’t get out from under my feet. Sat about moping, asking what to do. I almost killed him. Who’d have thought money would cause so much stress? Not that I’m complaining, mind. No, but it’s just something to get used to, to adjust to, I suppose. No way he’d have upped sticks and moved abroad like you did. Getting him to eat a curry or French toast were big enough battles without persuading him to move abroad.” She paused.

  I was still staring at the empty bed, twiddling the phone cord round my free hand, pulling it tight so it left a red mark on my wrist.