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I remove my cool gaze, step forward and join him. Bound to end? Maybe. I might be settling for something less than love. I’m aware, our dreams are drug induced. I haven’t felt this good in months, for over a year. It’s been so long. I didn’t notice, but one day I forgot how to feel good. Tomorrow, true, I might wake up hung over or brokenhearted. Right now, I crave happiness. Yes. I decide. It’s worth it. I’ll pay the price.

“O
ne more, baby,” J.D. raps under his breath, anxious to leave and return to the dance floor. His thumbs press my lower back, palms over my butt, fingers fanned over my waist. Behind me, he guides us back to the dance floor. Overhead, the lights shift, ceiling filled with upside down synchronized swimmers.

Here, it’s ground zero of the
queer
universe. We’re surrounded by bouncing boys with glistening bare chests. Ethereal hippy chick girls and dark-eyed gypsies. Swirling, they churn the air, skirts blown out, gold jewelry lighting up the air, fingers throwing thunderbolts.

Our universe is filled with happiness and laughter. Mouths part, teeth flash, wet dreads flay. Feathers flutter, slick bodies glitter with gold dust.

“
We are family
,” blares on the speakers. The crowd sings along, raising their arms and a mass of handheld lighters, flames flickering in dark. The song makes me eyeball the club. My temporary family is present and accounted for. Abduction free. Over there, Kidd and Hammer share a go-go box, get down and make out. Maybe Kidd’s moved on. Maybe I’ll be able to stop worrying about watching my back. Anita—she’s on a box, absolute center of the dance floor. She shares the square with The Flaming Minora. Their lips are locked in a passionate kiss. All
that’s left is ménage à trois: Peanuts, Marci and Pony. Three sis-tas, just like the song.

I lean toward J.D. “What’s that song?”

“Disco classic.” J.D. gestures at the crowd. “For a queer monster mash-up. Gotta love a room filled with circuit queens, skin heads and diesel dykes and femme bots. Forget Gay Pride, Halloween’s the shit!”

BAM!

Lights out—

Pitch black—

Overhead, another flash of white light, bright as an atom bomb and—

“Noel!” an announcer’s voice booms.

Spotlight blinks, ON, and hits a towering black woman. Anita’s Auntie? She walk / floats across the stage. White fabric’s draped over her gleaming, mahogany skin. Her Macy’s Day Parade–sized afro’s back lit, a follicular rainbow.

Wind-blown, the material flutters, Noel opens her mouth and she sings. A forest filled with morning bird song. A snap, crackle, pop. Beauty, funk, harmony, edge. Noel’s voice takes me there.

Mesmerized, J.D. stares at her like he’s seen the second coming of the first Madonna. Overhead, giant TVs come to life. Our faces—mine and J.D.’s—appear. On-screen, every single image is …
us.
We’re larger than life. Eros and Apollo.

The screen blinks, wipes us away. Blue eyes blink. I know those eyes. I scan the crowd. There. Him. Pony. He stands on a balcony and points to the crowd. Beside him, the man’s gaze searches for us. Our eyes lock. My blood runs cold. I’m suddenly sober. It’s him. Blue-Eyed Bob.

“C’mon!” I say, pulling on J.D.’s hand.

He ignores me. Oblivious, eyes shut, he dances, lost in the music.

“We need to leave!” I plead. Blissed out, he smiles, ignores my warning. Think. What are the words that will make him leave with me.

“Pigfuckers—”

He dances, stuck in a trance. I grab his shoulders and shake him, hard.

“The bounty hunters, they’re
here
.”

“What?”

“The bounty hunters, the Pigfuckers, they’re here, coming to get us.”

“Where.”

“Up—up there!” I shout, and point to the balcony. J.D. looks with interest equal to a groggy freshman on spring break.

Pony and Blue-Eyed Bob are gone.

“W
here is everybody?”

Frantic, J.D. looks for our crew.

“They—” I say.

Blue-Eyed Bob’s on the dance floor and headed straight toward us.

“Fuck them!” J.D. pulls out his switchblade. It pops open. He’s looking for the Pigfuckers. I try to grab it. He turns on me. “What the fuck?”

“Put it away. Security sees you with that, they’ll kick us out
and
call the cops.”

I move him off the dance floor toward the igloo. He staggers and weaves, mumbling, “Don’t wanna, don’t wanna leave.”

“Hey, mister, me neither.” He stops. I pull. He won’t budge. “Listen, there’s always next year.”

“You love me?” He looks at me with big, puppy dog brown eyes.

“‘Course I do.” I say anything to rescue him, even if it means lying. (Or, telling the truth earlier than I planned.)

“You do?” he slurs, waving the switchblade. “Do you?”

“Sure, I—”

“
Sure?
What the fuck is
sure?!?
” he cries. “
Do you love me?!
”

“Yes,” I say, quiet, backing away, forcing him to step forward. “Love.”

He takes the bait and follows. I’m a bullfighter with red cape, I rattle off silly stuff. Nonsense, it’s mumblecore manipulation.

“What about you?”

We near the exit. I look back. A shadow darkens the igloo wall. Blue-Eyed Bob is close, a homing pigeon, knife in its beak.

“Yeah,” J.D. says. Shy, he looks down.

“Let’s go outside.” We can do the homo-romo later. I take his arm, trying to coax him forward. “Come on.”

“No!”

“But, baby, if we—”

“What, leave Paradise? Go back to that
shithole
. I don’t wanna—”

“Mi’jo!” I pretend I’m talking to a child. Or, a crazy person. “We need to get home before dawn.”

“Says who.” He pouts.

“Say you!” This is what it must feel like for a straight guy. The logistics of getting laid, and leaving.

“And leave
this?
” He tries pulling me back to the dance floor. Two steps forward, one step back, we’re dancing the Tango da Morte. “It’s incredible!”

Blue-Eyed Bob’s closing in, just around the corner. I smell him. Cigarettes breath and booze. His knife tip pokes down and out his left sleeve.

“Over here.” I move us into a corner. J.D. falls onto me, cape draped over us. We’re perfectly hidden.

“Mmm,” he purrs. Two hands have become twenty, and they run over my body. Sex, yes—

Click

Blue-Eyed Bob’s shoes tap on the floor. He stands three feet away from us. J.D. places his palm on my chest.

“Your heart’s racing.”

“Yes.”

“It’s like you’re so scared, you think you’re gonna die.”

“It does. I feel like that a lot.”

“
Everything
,” J.D. slurs, “looks different in the light. When the X wears off, you’ll crash. You think you’re dead.”

“That’s what happens?” I say, bland.

“Yeah.” He leans toward me. His tongue darts out and licks my neck. My back arches. My foot slides. It kicks something. I’m scared to look. The something might be Blue-Eyed Bob’s foot. I force myself, look down and see a mask. I scoop it up and press the white plastic mold to my face.

“It’s cold in here,” I say, faking a shiver. I look over J.D.’s shoulder. Blue-Eyed Bob’s two feet away. “Can I wear your cape?”

He drapes it over my shoulders.

“Where are you taking me,” I say. He’s in charge. “I wanna go.”

J.D. grabs my hand.

“How did I look?”

I pull back and look into J.D.’s eyes, saucer-sized pupils. He smiles, wobbly, and I can tell that he doesn’t care. “Your pupils are—”

“
HUUUUGGGGGEEEE!!!
”

“Okay,” I tell myself, “he’s making a scene. Maybe Blue-Eyed Bob won’t notice. Halloween is a scene. Deep breath. Chance it. We need to leave our hiding place if we’re going to escape.” Blue-Eyed Bob looks at me. I almost faint. Then, I remember, I’m wearing a mask. He can’t see my face. I give him a onceover. He came as himself: businessman slash serial kiddie killer.

I clutch J.D.’s hand.

“Let’s jet.”

Somehow, we make it up the ramp and out the entrance. The crowds spill off the sidewalk onto the street. I want to look back, but I don’t dare. I’m afraid I might conjure him up.

“You know the way back?” Mindful, I substitute “home” with “back.” I don’t want to trigger J.D.’s stubborn side.

“Yeah. It’s the special route.”

“Okay,” I say, docile. Inside, I’m wound up, tight as a spring-loaded bear trap. He takes my hand and squeezes it. I like the
feeling. When he held my hand, before, he felt like a tour guide. Sometime during the night, I got made. We’re together. An item. I have a boyfriend.

That was easy.

Next comes the hard part.

Keeping him.

I
t’s the Magic Hour. The air’s washed with blue.

I look around. I want a pic—

The Pigfuckers stand at the club’s entrance, arguing with the bouncers. Badges are flashes, voices are raised. The bouncers don’t budge. We’re not out of the danger zone. Not yet, far from it. Still, I feel calm. I don’t mention the Pigfuckers. Instead of running, I decide we’ll play it cool and walk away. By the time they get inside, the party will be over and we’ll be long gone.

The morning air’s damp and sweet. Our breath makes fog. Another reminder that this moment and every one that follows slips away.

“What?” J.D.’s “I’m high” voice reminds me why drugs are illegal: They deny what the working (money, money, money) world wants you to buy—that life is nothing but sacrifice and working-till-you-drop. Wandering the streets at dawn is for wastrels and losers and runaways.

“Yeah.” J.D. smiles. “Easy breezy.”

Okay, either I’m hearing things or he can read my mind. Either / or, something’s shifted. I feel great, but I worry I’ve given in to everything I hate and reject. I’ve got to speak, break the silence in my head.

“Maybe it’s not the pill. Maybe we feel good coz we gave ourselves permission?”

“Hell, yeah,” J.D. says. “The pill pulls out the mood. But you make the music and love.”

“I—” The mask garbles my words. I pull it off and set it down, on the curb. “Will you make me a promise?”

“Sure.” He’s on autopilot, with me but not. I don’t care. What I want to say needs to be said.

“Later. Remind me. Everything’s going to be okay. I want to take that feeling into our regular life.”

“Aiiight.”

He takes me in his arms, spinning me around. He pins me against a wall. The brick cuts my skin. It hurts. The feeling is intense. I love it.

“In the club, I felt everything and its opposite. I mean, if we don’t believe in fear, then it doesn’t exist? Right? Only love does because—”

He leans forward, quieting me with a kiss.

T
he morning air spooks my torso. I shiver. Holding hands, we walk, our path zigzagging through empty city streets. The asphalt’s littered with confetti, beer bottles, silk blossom petals and little net wings. An orphaned cigarette sits, perched on a curb. The tips embers wheeze. A swirl of smoke drifts up and away. An engine backfires. Top down, the old Cadillac’s packed with screaming queens.

“Hey!” the boys holla. “Need a ride?”

Then, they’re gone, a flash of baby blue, pink and silver tail fins. I’m learning what it is to be a couple. We hold hands, but we’re alone with our thoughts.

Grrrr,
a gear shift grinds. Another car. I turn, look. I’m paranoid: I need to make sure it’s a car, not a Halloween creature, lost and stumbling around in the blue light. Until dawn, demons and undead still roam free.

“Pigfuckers on the right. Yellow Hummer.”

J.D. looks. The tank car barrels toward us.

“If they can’t catch us, will they just run us over?”

“I bet we’re worth the same—”

“Dead or alive.”

The Hummer closes in, a giant metal bee, Pigfuckers visible through the windshield.

“Should we run?”

“Did they see us?”

The car drives by, a slow blur. Yellow body with black tires, roof and bumper. A bus pulls up. It groans, belches a cloud of black exhaust and stops. The doors swing open.

“Who’d you boys piss off?” the driver asks. “C’mon.”

Dazed, we board, and take opposite seats. We sit, staring out the big picture windows. The yellow Hummer bee makes a U-turn, rolls over a concrete roundabout, crushing a stop sign. Last time they came to get me, they drove a Pontiac. I lean back, resigned. I know they’ll get us, eventually.

The bus turns left, onto a one-way street. Narrow, it’s lined with parked cars. The Hummer can’t cut in front. The bus slowly climbs the hill. Fog, white and thick as glue, erases the outside world. The bus pulls up to a curb. The back doors open.

“Go on now, run into the park! I’ll wait a few.”

“Thanks!”

We jump off the bus.

“Run!”

I’m terrified of getting caught.

I look back.

Lazy, the Pigfuckers stay in the Hummer, laying on the horn.

It’s all good.

T
he park’s path takes us deeper into the dense fog. It’s perfect cover. J.D. sticks out his tongue.

“What does it taste like?”

“Weird. Try it.”

I stick out my tongue. The fog tastes like … nothing. Light explodes in front of us. Closer, the source comes into focus. Fireflies. They must be cold, too, because they lead us out of the fog. We pass through the white veil, back to Earth, and down another path. Here, the trees are washed with light, a brighter periwinkle blue. J.D. walks fast. I struggle to keep up. He grabs my hand and pulls me along. We leave the park and walk down another empty street. The city feels like a stage set.

“You know where we’re at?”

“Uh-huh.”

I don’t buy it. He doesn’t know anything. Unless he memorized a map before we left the safe house or has a photographic memory, I suspect we’re lost. And I worry we’re not heading somewhere, just wandering everywhere. Worse, Blue-Eyed Bob lurks around every corner, bush and car.

Blind or stupid, I trust J.D. to find our way back. My thoughts drift back to the bathroom stall and seeing the kiss. Do I forgive J.D. or put him on probation?