Tin Man

by Sarah Winman

Look! The stage was heaving with gyrating bodies. Leather queens in a dance-off with punks, and among them, suburban kids living a long-contested fantasy. I handed Annie a beer. The music was too loud for conversation so we drank fast and a change of record propelled us back onto the floor. “Dance Little Lady Dance.” And oh we did! The light show flared off satin shorts and glistening shoulders and I felt overdressed and I took off my T-shirt, Annie laughing at me. I can’t hear you, I shouted. Her hand on her chest. I. Love. This. And on the large screen behind her, Busby Berkeley dance routines played on a loop. The air was flecked with sweat and stank of poppers, and leather boys danced hard. The light show dared itself, and strobes caught the delight on Annie’s face, her hair plastered to her forehead. A mustachioed man danced next to us, white vest and gloves. He stuck a small bottle under her nose and I watched her gasp. You OK? I mouthed. She nodded, stunned. Fuck, she mouthed. Smiled. Black light drenched the room and her teeth glowed brilliant white. Her bra too, visible at the deep V of her shirt. I pointed. The gloved hands were raised above us, fingers flickering like feathers. Look, Annie! Doves flying! I shouted. I gasp. A hand down the back of my jeans has found my crack. A blast of poppers hits my nose and my heart thumps to the bass notes of desire.