By Julian Draven

Goth damn I love to dance! Doesn't everyone? suppose not everyone does. But I guess everybody doesn't really matter right now. I'm not doing everybody's web page. I'm doing mine. And I like to dance, gothdamnit, so let's see if I can get back on track here.

I love to dance. It is the #1 predominant reason that I go out to clubs. There seems to be this pervasive rumor that I go to clubs because I'm some sort of torrid, predatorial ladykiller that delights in the wanton affliction of his sexual energy upon the unsuspecting and innocent female population of Atlanta. Well, I can tell you right now that this is a preposterously ridiculous and naive notion that gives me no end of amusement whenever I hear it come back to me.

I'm not exactly sure how I've earned this reputation as a razor fanged carnal carnivore, but I can assure you that most goths sleep with more people in a week than I do in a decade. After all, I'm faaaaaar too picky for any of that nonsense. Don't get me wrong, I don't lack for dates, I just don't feel the need to go through the energy and effort required to score some skin every single time I go out to a club. I would much rather find one worthwhile bed mate every couple of months and stick with her as opposed to sifting through countless smoke and sweat stained bodies night after night.

Nameless and anonymous sex certainly had its appeal...but then again, so did Disco.

Anyway, how I do love to tangent. I'm the mad, unstoppable, prolific and completely psychotic bomber of the train of thought.

Where was I?!? Oh yeah, dancing.

Goth damn I love to dance! Although I can (and will) dance to just about anything, I much prefer to dance to goth & industrial music. I especially like it when there are just enough people on the dance floor so that if someone goes postal with a handgun, I *might* have time to duck behind a speaker stack before getting shot. But, I don't want so many people on the dance floor that I have to dodge & weave in and out of wriggling and writhing bodies. Hmmm. I better be careful or I'll start talking about sex again. I love music and dancing just helps me really get into the music, zone out, relax and enjoy one of my favorite mediums. I do wish that there were some cool clubs with great DJs, great atmosphere, cool people, swank music and a no-smoking policy, but I'll get back to that in a minute.

Now, I don't think I'm a particularly good dancer. I've never had a single dance lesson in my entire life. But, I can definitely say that I'm better than some of those folks you see flailing around out there. I can, at least, keep a beat. I would describe my dancing style as...ahem...eccentric. I get out there, close my eyes, get into the music and try desperately to forget that there is anyone else in the room.

There was a time where I was so self-conscious about my dancing, that I refused to dance in public. Especially when you consider that goths actively like to stand around the dance floor and criticize everyone else's dancing. Then one day I woke up and realized that dancing was tons of fun, and I that I really couldn't give a shit what other people think. So, as I've told some of the people here in Atlanta, be sure to point and giggle. ;-)

So, you might wonder why there was a time that I was self-conscious about my dancing; was there a reason? Well, yes there was. And I'm going to tell you what that reason is. [SARCASM] Are you on the edge of your seat? [/SARCASM].

The first time I ever went to a dance club I was 17. I went with my cousin, Michael, and a good friend of mine named Kim. The place was some sort of 80s trash dive (it was the 80s then, so it was okay, though). Michael and Kim were much too shy to dance, but I'm much too extroverted and energetic to stand there and watch, so I strolled out to the center of the floor and proceeded to cut it up.

So there I am, like fucking flashdance, when this chick (and I use the term loosely) stops stock still on the dancefloor next to me and just starts staring at me. Now, we're both on a packed dancefloor and she's standing there like an extra from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The chick is blonde and has that whole 80s trashy tele tramp thing going on (it was the 80s then, so it was okay, though). She was fairly attractive, I suppose...for a slack jawed bean pod hatchling.

So, ya know, I'm trying to be all cool and shit, so I smile at her and go back to fucking flashdancing. I spin and turn and weave and I look over and she's still standing there, stock still, staring at me. I smile again and give her a little wave and start going fucking footloose. A moment later I turn back and she's still there, standing and staring. I decide to take a more proactive approach.

I stop dancing, take a step towards her, flash her my best "it's the 80s, wanna fuck?" smile and say "Hi!" She pauses for an instant and then says, in a total deadpan voice, "You can't dance worth shit." She then grabbed the arm of the bonehead preppie next to her (who stopped dancing) and said, "He can teach you to dance, he's awesome."

I was stunned, like a puppy that you trick into licking an electric fence by spreading peanut butter on the wires. Bzzap! For the first time in my life I was totally flabbergasted and left completely speechless. Silently, I turned and solemnly marched off the dancefloor like a fucking pallbearer at a military funeral.

As I slunk back to the platform where my friends waited and watched, Kim perkily asked if I had just scored the chick's phone number (she had been watching the scene). Obviously, the "I just ate a turd" expression on my face was lost on my friend Kim. (sweet girl, but terminally optimistic and perky)

I explained to Kim what had happened and then I did get one moment of satisfaction. Kim, ever loyal, stomped out onto the dancefloor and gave trashy tele tramp a severe and scathing verbal lashing. This was most gratifying to watch. The three of us then stalked out, too cool for school.

For years I secretly hoped that I would run into trashy tele tramp girl at a club and she wouldn't recognize me. She'd come up, being all flirty and I could have the satisfaction of telling her to piss off. But, those days are long gone. I'm sure that somewhere little chiquita is about 50 pounds overweight, has three kids and is married to some fat redneck that has never even heard of a clitoris.

So, if you ever see me out on the dancefloor, losing my rhythm and looking a little panicked, it's probably because I'm having an 80s bean pod hatchling flashback.

*sigh* It sure felt good to let that out.

Okay, let me get back to the smoking thing. Although I do oh so love dancing, there are a few things about it that piss me off:

Number One: Capheads with beer bottles. Take your fucking Budweiser beer gut back to the bar and get back on the dancefloor when and if you ever learn that the dancefloor is for dancing, not wobbling back and forth, drinking beer and goggling the chicks in tight pants.

Number Two: Bump and Grinders. Those yuppie sluts that come to the club and end up on the dancefloor, drunk, sandwiched in between two capheads as the three of them rub their khaki covered crotches together. VOMIT!!!! Please, people, get a fucking room and get the hell off my dancefloor.

Number Three: Cigarettes. If you are absolutely such a pathetic lame-o nicotine addict that you cannot even make it through a 5 minute song without a cigarette, then get the goddamn hell out of my dance space. These people know who they are. Out there, strutting and flailing around with a cigarette held out like the gothdamn torch from the statue of liberty as they get their groove on. Get the fuck off the dancefloor you inconsiderate pricks. Nobody thinks you are cool because you can wiggle your ass *and* hold a cigarette at the same time. Especially in a goth club, you morons. We're fucking wearing lace and velvet in here and they're going to carry a lit cigarette on the dancefloor??? What kinds of idiots are these people??? The next time I get a cigarette hole burned in a $100 velvet shirt, I'm going to throw the offending shit head to the floor, put the cigarette out in their eyesocket and then stomp their guts into the concrete. I'll be screaming "Victory!! Victory!!" as the police drag my black velvet ass to the State Penitentiary…of course, three years of taking the chocolate tube snake from some 300 pound serial killer named Bubba is probably worse than having to buy a new velvet shirt, but it is the fucking principle of the whole thing, for Goth's sake.