went to the Pavilion Saturday night with a couple of housemates, my first visit in years (X has jumpstarted my dancing gene . . . i had forgotten just how sensual it can be, or maybe now i'm just less inhibited) . . . everybody always complains about the physical space which hasn't changed a bit since i first began coming to the Pines in 1988 . . . still, what more do u need than a wooden floor and Susan Morabito spinning some "nasty boy" music (all beats and no melody which drives the guys who remember Studio 54 just crazy) . . . actually a water fountain would be nice . . . what has changed for the better is the body of your typical dancing queen . . . the crowd probably has the highest testosterone levels among adult males on the planet and the competition is fierce . . . i've always managed to pass the chest test and my arms are more defined than they used to be thanks to my Jane Fonda workout routine, but the body culture competition now is so fierce that the blatant appraisals of how u measure up now include your abdominals . . . sigh! . . . i could have done without the lame party favors they tossed from the balcony sometime after 3 a.m. (the red glow worms and white adhesive starfish impeded some of my fancier foot movements) but i gladly accepted invitations to join a couple of clusters . . . D calls them amoebas because they suck u in and spit u out . . . the experience of dancing with strangers reminded me a little bit of Let's Make A Deal, if u can believe that . . . my butt bumps and grinds very aggressively on the dance floor which means any invitations usually came from behind, so to speak . . . everybody must think u are a bottom, R insists . . . who cares what people think when u are getting down? . . . i deliberately don't turn around, basing my decision to join on how well someone can follow or i can follow someone else's movements, rather than what he or they look like . . . as usual the lemons outnumber the prizes but oh when i pick the right door! . . . welcome to circuit worldcommented D2, a housemate who knows the scene much better than i and who could barely conceal his "been there, done that" attitude . . . guess there are advantages to being a late bloomer . . . of course the chemical that keeps me dancing for five hours straight does have a downside: the prize cluster rejected me when one of the guys reached into my pants and found less than a handful, not the first time this has happened . . . how come nobody ever expects u to dance in bed?