The music thrummed through him. He liked to think that the music was his heartbeat, that everyone around him moved in
accord with it. He'd always thought that, even when the pounding sound
came from skins stretched tight over frames of sacred woods, instead of
the results of programming talent and a drum machine.
Okay, no, they didn't really say that, but they probably should have. If he were establishing them today, he would have
them say that. But his worship had never really attracted poets – most
of them served other, gentler faces.
But that was okay. Let them have their sweet-faced poets and lovers. He liked sweat to cover the face, not
perfume. He liked bodies heaving and gasping for breath, not clad in
smooth cloth reclining on couches.
He stripped off his shirt, tucking it into the back of his black jeans. He raised his arms high, and the coiling, leafy
vines tattooed there seemed to climb, reaching for the lights that
strobed in time with the beat. He threw his head back, running his hands
over the short, stubble where once grew wild locks threaded with
grape-leaves and silver beads.
He exulted in the pound-pound-pound of the music, allowed it to carry him away, unaware of the eyes that were drawn
to his perfect olive skin, to the ripple of muscle beneath that flesh.
He smelt of rich earth and sour wine and once-sandaled feet now stomped
combat boots in that same, ages-old rhythm of the dance.
The DJ was his priest tonight, the queer boys around him his acolytes.
And once more, in the dark of the night, he was worshipped by hearts that soared, by flesh that sweated, by breath that came raggedly. And though they didn't know the words, they lived them.
© 2003, Joseph D. Carriker, Jr.