A momentum was building during that first week leading to the Saturday night dance. There was a frenzy of dates being secured, outfits being picked, parties being organised for pre and post, dance cards being filled, stages being built. It was like nothing else I had experienced. Even the queen of last minute threads, yours truly, was feeling frazzled to impress. I picked out what I called ‘the good girl’ uniform. Basically a white linen shirt that flowed seductively around my figure and something tight-fitting for the rest of me. The white made me feel pure and relaxed, which served to shield me against the sensual feelings the land stirred within.
Arriving at one of the pre-festivities, my appearance was met with confused anxiety. The kitchen crew boxed me as a sporty/butch so to acknowledge me wearing something feminine was awfully confronting. I charmed them back with my best gay man impersonation and it wasn’t long before the brewskis enabled everyone to settle into their party characters.
The dance stage was something else. A comprehensive female production team called ‘carps’ laboured all week to ensure the stage was boogie ready for party night. By the time our mob descended the floor was pretty full. Picture an outdoor timber stage on the edge of an open field and a low sun carving dusty shards of final light in the background. An enormous elm tree just to the side unveiled itself as a vast canopy for romance later, its branches hung tenderly near the stage invoking a feeling of natural connection.
To Be Continued..
No comments:
Post a Comment