We eventually settled on a spot near the outskirts of the dance floor but on the opposite side of the entrance. This was my kind of location. I needed space to move when I danced and disliked being tightly wedged between too many people, hardly able to manage a side step. When I grooved, I commanded the area around me. I was aggressive, I was unstoppable, I was happy. As cliché as it sounds, I felt as free as I had ever felt. I felt connected to all those wild and phenomenal souls around me, all of whom unerringly understood the magic of that musical gathering experience. I stomped; I jumped; I raised my hands in the air; I sweated; I ran to the bathroom and ran back, deathly fearful of missing anything.
The spot we had chosen had plenty of lovely girls grooving the night happily away. We had a name for lovely girls at a rave. We called them “lulas” but perhaps too liberally. A true lula was one you felt you had made a connection with on the dance floor. The connection could be as subtle as catching the lula’s eye and creating that split second of eye contact that would forge your every move as long as she was near. The stories that would pour out of one’s mind because of a lula’s real or imagined attentions were most often than not delusional, but felt insanely real. I must admit that I often fell prey to such delusions myself, maybe it was the drugs but every one of the guys also experienced it at some point during a groove.
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