One definition of hapiness
When I was a teenager, I used to go to these dive bar(s) in São Paulo. You had to know what you were looking for and what you were getting into. Nothing fancy- just a door on dark side streets, no signs; just big smoky rooms, really.
Good music blasting. Dancing as I like it- sweaty with a lot of head banging. People smoking (the taste of tobacco reminds me of my first kisses). Getting quite drunk/high: Cuba Livres that would evolve into straight vodka as the night progressed (that was before I discovered vodka coolers). Trying (and learning) to pee standing up.
Adrenaline rush from flirting. Being taken as a guy by gay boys- and being introduced to their dyke friends if the “mistake” needed “correcting”. Making out with a few people. Voyeuristic excursions to the back/dark room. Unissex dirty washrooms.
The subway started running again at 4:40 am. The drag queen make up was melting by then. More lights were on. The floor was so sticky I could barely move my feet. And, the air outside smelled so healthy it made me sick. Those were my clues to pay my bill, which usually involved fishing for money inside my combat boots.
Once I got used to the sickly fresh air and my ears stopped going “tunts!tunts!tuns!”, then I would look to my side…and see her. She: my friend who was a girl, and who I was (surprisingly) fucking. She, who also just had an awesome night. She who was choosing to come with me- despite of my despicable state. She who I was choosing to leave with- despite whatever and whoever happened at the bar. And, looking at her was just like seeing her for the first time again.
The sun would be coming up. The smell of freshly baked bread. And I still think this is one of my definitions of happiness.
Good music blasting. Dancing as I like it- sweaty with a lot of head banging. People smoking (the taste of tobacco reminds me of my first kisses). Getting quite drunk/high: Cuba Livres that would evolve into straight vodka as the night progressed (that was before I discovered vodka coolers). Trying (and learning) to pee standing up.
Adrenaline rush from flirting. Being taken as a guy by gay boys- and being introduced to their dyke friends if the “mistake” needed “correcting”. Making out with a few people. Voyeuristic excursions to the back/dark room. Unissex dirty washrooms.
The subway started running again at 4:40 am. The drag queen make up was melting by then. More lights were on. The floor was so sticky I could barely move my feet. And, the air outside smelled so healthy it made me sick. Those were my clues to pay my bill, which usually involved fishing for money inside my combat boots.
Once I got used to the sickly fresh air and my ears stopped going “tunts!tunts!tuns!”, then I would look to my side…and see her. She: my friend who was a girl, and who I was (surprisingly) fucking. She, who also just had an awesome night. She who was choosing to come with me- despite of my despicable state. She who I was choosing to leave with- despite whatever and whoever happened at the bar. And, looking at her was just like seeing her for the first time again.
The sun would be coming up. The smell of freshly baked bread. And I still think this is one of my definitions of happiness.