Coming Out Dream

Friends dragged you there again, to a place called the Mars Bar. Not simply a nightclub but a site of sub-cultural significance. The legend was that this place defined and perpetuated its norms through the worship of youth and naivety. People there motivated by admiration of socially approved beauty and on a never-ending journey to attain it one way or another. You subscribed to that philosophy too and since there was free entry before 11.00pm you figured, what the hell! It appeared that the new were surviving on youthful exuberance and the old on notoriety, but you found that you were invisible. You faded into irrelevance against the dull backdrop of the wall just as conversation disappeared behind the droning music. You decided that you needed a label to gain recognition. You had to have a tag, some sort of identifier - a handle perhaps. You had to be boxed like a chocolate waiting to be chosen.

On this night you were under the influence of an unnatural high and if it weren't for that, you would have been slumped in one of the chairs in a dark corner, miserable because he wasn't there. You were in love with him; you were always in love, in love with the very idea of love and all you imagined it was meant to be, so you carelessly threw it around in every direction. In fact, you had no idea what love was at all.

Acquaintances, people you had little time for, approached you squealing, "Hello gorgeous, you look faaaaaabulous tonight!" You lavishly returned the compliments, barely concealing your bored disbelief at this superficial pageantry. Everyone was telling lies but no one seemed to care. As you drowned indifferently in the kisses and hugs of these strangers invading your personal space, you suddenly remembered that you were happy, and you pushed your cynicism aside and continued to pay tribute to bad hair and ugly fashion.

The artificial energy got you up, dancing and laughing, and in spite of your inner mood you felt the tingling sensations rush up and down you like a wave of happiness washing over the surface of your skin. Your eyes darted around searching for a view to settle on, one to keep you entertained, which in the smoky fog of the crowded room seemed an impossible task. You thought that you knew it all and although you were determined not to find a valid reason to be in this place, you kept looking, just in case.

Several drinks later as your body danced and as your lips smiled and as laughter emerged effortlessly from your mouth, sober reality kicked the shit out of your brain. You asked yourself over and over again, "What the hell am I doing here?" Before you could find the answer there came a non-verbal invitation to dance opposite someone else. You watched this woman closely as she stepped in front of you and moved seductively in perfect time with the beat. She was so confident, her movements masculine and rehearsed. You felt as if you stood on the edge of a cliff, energized and apprehensive. You desperately wanted to lose control, to let go and enjoy the moment, but you couldn't quite execute it. With a smirk, your anonymous partner acknowledged your hesitance as if she could tell what you were thinking just by looking, as if she was reading your thoughts. Perhaps your inhibited dancing exposed you; dancing had never been a strong point. Perhaps it was your eagerness. You wanted to explain that your exaggerated enthusiasm was affected by drugs and not by nervousness, but you didn't get the chance. You learned that inexperience stands out and shines like cruel fluorescent light in this place and while it may have enhanced the situation if you were a boy, a woman who isn't sure of herself is a woman to avoid. Without asking for your number, your dance partner moved on and found someone else.

The hours went by as the drugs and alcohol wore off, and when you were at your most vulnerable and just about to leave, the floorshow began. You looked around the room, studying the faces in the crowd. Empty faces, eyes fixed on the stage, laughing, cooing, their hands clapping vigorously in the appropriate moments. You smiled to yourself as you observed the scene. You became increasingly aware of how absurd it all was, the show and especially the wonder on so many faces; you put it down to excessive intoxication.

You had almost given up on this evening when from across the room shone an aura full of energy, and your eyes found its source. There she stood looking on impatiently. She laughed occasionally but you could tell she couldn't wait to get back on the dance floor and perform those techno moves that until that very minute you had found utterly ridiculous. You wanted to meet her so badly. You believed she could offer you an escape from the mundane routine of your life. You always knew that you were destined for a more stimulating existence; you felt you should have seen it coming, because it always felt as though it was just around the corner. It arrived on the night you met her.

The floorshow ended as you contemplated the situation. You needed another drink. You resumed your place and watched her dance, mesmerised by the flashing lights and her dexterity. After a while she apparently needed a breather because she got a drink and sat near you, her presence profound. Perhaps she felt you watching her because every now and then she turned and your eyes met momentarily. Fascination and the prospect was enough for you. Your pulse raced. You felt strangely submissive in anticipation of the unknown, but lack of confidence betrayed you. It was late and her friends stood to leave. She slowly moved toward the exit, she looked back at you and you returned her smile. Then this nameless, voiceless person was gone. You left alone that night, not satisfied but knowing you would meet again.

You took comfort in knowing that you had finally found it. Your tag, the handle you needed. You were finally becoming visible and everything was beginning to make sense to you. You would now be the talking point at work and you would definitely stand out at family gatherings. You came out to live your life in this newly discovered identity, the one labelled 'lesbian'. You were twenty-three and this was real.

* * *

You wake with a start from a dream and you have turned thirty-five. You are unable to breathe, your vision is blurred and you are scared. It's not asthma, not that sort of tightness in the chest but the kind of heaviness you suppose suffocation would force on you. Panic attack.

In the dream with no drugs, no alcohol in your blood you are drawn to another face across another room but this time with fresh uninhibited desires. You find it so hard to resist because you feel such a need to blend in with the world. What if you've been mistaken all along, what if all those years were wasted?

His eyes speak a language you've always longed to hear and his gentle body feels almost like hers, and you see him in a whole new light. You obey a new passivity as his magnetism pulls you; it moves you. You sense when he's behind you as your neck hairs stand up and you know that if you dared look too long into his eyes you would be overwhelmed. You were told long ago that love made you melt and go weak at the knees and your scepticism has gone. Your body now contradicts your rational thoughts and you find yourself standing on the edge of that cliff all over again. You are attracted to him and distracted by him and you have moments of madness and weakness. You want him to show you whatever it is you never thought you missed.

What is wrong with this dream?

It's just a fantasy, but you reckon that you spend too much time deconstructing your identity, constantly placing you in jeopardy when a cheap thrill would suffice. You have spent too much time inventing, creating daydreams to try and overcome the tedium.

Your surroundings slowly gain clarity, and sharpness returns. With identity unscathed, you realise that your label doesn't fit and it was never important anyway. You have come out again. You tell yourself to slow down and you take a deep breath. Relief arrives as your mind drifts back to sleep.