“I’m here to seduce you,” the dancing woman declares.
I’m not sure how to respond, so I giggle nervously.
My friends and I have been admiring her for several minutes. We’re in a disco-inspired section of an art exhibition in Tokyo. The artist I’ve been diligently listening to on the audio guide calls the room’s central art piece a “Houseberg”—a combination of a disco ball and an iceberg; it casts shimmering rays of light on our faces. House music fills the air.
We assume the dancing woman has been employed as a shill to get everyone moving. Personally, I prefer to think of her as a random person who stumbled in by accident and just really loves dancing.
She’s about five feet, is wearing a black tank top and baggy black pants and has a beaming smile that’s impossible not to return. She dances with a fluid, zero-fucks-given confidence that I often try to project to varying degrees of success. She’s trying to lure me into the dancing area with her but I’m feeling unusually shy and self-conscious.
“We have a saying in Japan,” the dancing woman continues, gyrating her hips enthusiastically as she speaks, “We say: the dancing fool and the watching fool are both fools, so why not dance?”
I’m 15 attending my first school disco mixer. I go to an all-girls Catholic school in Australia, so wearing something other than my school uniform and being in a room full of acne-ridden, smelly boys is about as thrilling as it gets. I’m incredibly shy, so I mostly dance with my best friend. She is confident and magnetic, beautiful. We judge the music being played and in awful Liverpool accents remark, “When are they going to play some John, Paul, George and Ringo?”
We’re so fucking cool.
I could dance with her all night, but after an hour or so, some of the boys start lining up to get her attention. She goes off with one and I bob around awkwardly. One of the popular girls (a bully) pairs me up with one of her cool guy friends.
I refuse to wrap my arms around him like the other people in the room. I offer him my hands and, confused, he holds them. We sway awkwardly, about a metre apart. He’s nice about it but the bully and her friends laugh and comment on how “cute” and “awkward” I am. My cheeks burn.
That night I return home and play ‘All You Need is Love’ and dance in my room alone. There’s a tightness in my chest and throat but the music soothes.
I’m at the Bon Odori Festival in Asakusa unsure what to expect; I heard about the event through others on my trip and had rocked up on my own to see if anyone was around.
Nobody I know is here. I purchase a beer for 600 yen and sit in the sun while someone on stage announces something. The crowd occasionally cheers.
Suddenly, people in traditional dress start pounding on large drum skins behind me and music from a crackly speaker blares. The crowd that had been standing still a moment before form a circle and begin moving. It takes me a while to process that they’re copying a group of dancers on stage.
I watch as the assemblage of locals and tourists perform choreographed dances. The gestures look a little like tai chi I’ve observed at a park back home.
When I return to my guesthouse later, I will discover that the dances were originally intended to welcome and release spirits, but the religious aspect has mostly been lost. The choreography is designed to be easy to remember so that anyone can follow along.
I’m alone though, so I don’t participate.
Later, some friends from the trip will ask if I joined in. My inner shy girl, who follows me around everywhere like a lost puppy, will respond, “No, I was too shy,” with a twinge of embarrassment.
I stand on the edge of the crowd, a watching fool.
*
I’m 18 and attending my first “clubbing” experience. I live in the inner southwest suburbs of Sydney, so this means dancing upstairs in a pub filled with middle-aged locals and drinking $5 raspberry vodkas.
The lights are too bright, the music’s too loud (and bad), and I’m overly conscious about what my eyes and mouth are doing, but I’m dancing, and I feel good.
At one point, a friend whispers to me that one of the guys we’re with likes me. She says he wants to kiss me. I glance at him.
His cheeks are pink and he has sweaty armpits. He has no rhythm. I don’t find him attractive.
“Sure, I’ll kiss him,” I shrug. I’m young and fun and cool. I can kiss guys casually. That’s the kind of person I am.
He puts his mouth on mine in the middle of the dancefloor, surrounded by the others. They cheer and chuckle and watch and watch. I can feel their eyes burning into me and when I return home that night my skin is still scorched.
I’m catching the last train to Shinjuku where we’re planning to go clubbing. The next train won’t be until about 5:30am, so we’re fully committing. I’m drunk on an abnormally strong highball I had at a restaurant at 4pm, a tall can of some grapefruit-flavoured concoction that a friend purchased for me, half a tall can of gin and soda from the konbini, and good vibes.
As soon as we enter the club my body takes over. I can’t help it sometimes and the alcohol rushing through my system plays its role beautifully.
The experience is like most other clubbing experiences I’ve had. The people are slightly pushier than I’m used to, occasionally shoving me in a way that I feel is uncalled for, but it’s familiar. My heartbeat pounds in tandem with the bass. I close my eyes and exist.
I get the attention I’m used to. There’s appreciation from my friends, and strangers notice me too. The validation fuels me. Gives me the energy I need to dance and smile and not think about anything but the sensations I get from my immediate surroundings.
My inner shy girl is always in attendance, watching from the outside and cringing into herself. She’s not ashamed to be seen with me, but she wonders how I got here, how I’m able to do something so completely opposite to who I once was.
I may occasionally get in my own head, but the emotions are transformed into electricity in my body that sparks and glows.
I may be dancing to forget, to cope with my fragile sense of self and meekness, but I’m having fun.
I may fall out of step with the music, realising that the motionless people around me are staring, but fuck them. They have all the same insecurities as me; the only difference is they’re not releasing them. They hold onto them, giving them power, giving them control; letting them rule their lives and their feet and their hips.
I may be a fool, but I’m dancing.