Dance Church

I attend a weekly dance class that's also an aerobics class, but also a little like a sexy queer cult. I have crushes on a few of the dance teachers: a vivacious high femme who's probably, unfortunately straight and an androgynous bald feminist who guides our bodies into weird, fantasy-like lines. The dancing in the class is raw and guttural, but based in consent. We are safe here to thrust our pelvises, put our hands on the ground and shake our asses above them, and open our legs while writhing on the dance floor. The class is empowering in the way that an orgasm feels so good after masturbating. I'm in my body, safe in my body, sexy in my body. There are times when the class pulsates like one beating organ. We hold bridge pose and push to the tips of our hip bones, opening ourselves up to the sky, to any heavenly body hovering near us.

Sometimes, I wish I could touch one of my classmates, touch my teacher. To be able to rub our pelvises on each other like we're Johnny and Baby dirty dancing. Dance teachers are always sexy because they have athletes' stamina but the kinky creativity of an artist. They teach you how to be embodied, to be aware of your body's edges and to be aware of others' edges. I want to move closer, bring the hot parts of us together. We're all dripping sweat by halfway through the class. My hair is matted under my armpits. I'm wearing the least amount of clothes I can in a public place that's not a pool: A sports bra and booty shorts. The dance teachers always start in more clothes--sweatshirts or baggy tees--but peel off layers once we get to the part where we're squatting and twerking.

What if the dancing led to something else? I don't want to spoil the beauty of it with my horny mind, but I can't stop thinking about the high femme straddling me, the artsy alien winding herself around me like a snake. I keep dancing. The edible I ate before class has kicked in, and I'm rubbing my pussy across the floor with a bunch of other dancers in heat. If I knew that ecstatic dancing could lead to hands-free orgasms, I'd have become a hippie a long time ago.

There's a point in the class, where we close our eyes and spend the length of one song reclined on the ground. It's the comedown. We drift away from our bodies for a moment. The teacher pulls us back, revs us up again, and takes us for another dance. She can always go another round. We dance until our bodies are spent, until we've pushed out as much of our bad days and work stress as we can. I dance my way out of my head and into my body, feeling the length of me from the dirty heals of my feet to the sweat on my brow. When class ends, the lights come on and we see each other's bright faces, lit with afterglow.