the most private thing i do

is dance in my living room.

Masturbating to questionable porn is embarrassing. But it’s not personal. It’s not me.

When I get back from work, I turn the lights out and roll the volume dial to 11 o’ clock.

The needle trebbles and then it sings. Music sprouts from the speakers.

Without a cue, the feet are shuffling. They kick, point, push, and turn. Arms swim through the wind. Pausing, elaborating, and extending. They reach and orchestrate the body below. And sometimes the below orchestrates the above.

Inside the sound, there’s the electric boogaloo of my imagination. Styles like clown-walking and tecktonik are blended into a movement Cappuccino–curdling then melting. I sip and savor it.

Ah.