would the White Party have been any more exciting if i had found myself, like D, in the ladies room with some big lunk rimming me during Robbie Leslie's late morning set? . . . or is the Saint-At-Large just a tired brand favored by the first generation of AIDS survivors trying to recapture their youth and ignorance? . . . when we arrived at 5:30 a.m. Roseland seemed oddly empty though most of the guys did conform to the dress code, with white Levis and black boots the most common expression of the theme . . . i wore white nylon pants and a t-shirt which had been intended to distinguish me from the crowd with a screen print of Courtney Love and her lyric i want to be the girl with the most cake . . . but when in Rome, do as Romans so i checked it and wandered upstairs to join a 1000 more bare chests . . . D had taken his X in the cab, but i held on to mine, wondering if i might possibly enjoy this experience without chemicals . . . after all, i had a good night's sleep and i do love to dance . . . but two minutes later, the bitter pill of happiness was dissolving under my tongue . . . early morning clarity offers little defense against circuit boy attitude . . . as D led the way to the northwest corner, where he made arrangements to join his buddies, we met our Fire Island Pines housemate DA and began our own little cluster on the outer edges of the dance floor where D had enough room to wave his arms ecstatically and move back and forth as freely as he desired . . . DA and I prefer the middle where we eventually moved, under the descending disco ball (did someone say tired?) when our cluster achieved critical mass . . . u always manage to find the sleazy center which is just fine with me said DA, who is far more aggressive than i am about inserting himself into attractive groups . . . actually i just prefer dancing among as many sweaty bodies as possible . . . greater opportunity for anonymous contact that depends more on physical attraction and rhythm than who u are or what u do, which is nothing for me at the moment . . . who knew that synchronized butt dancing with some cute Puerto Rican kid for an entire song would lift me out of a depression that has been building since i lost my job two weeks ago? . . . no doubt about it, we would have won the gold medal if it were an Olympic sport . . . i still can feel the heat of his body and the sweat pouring off our backs as my butt kept perfect time pressed against his, moving round and round and pumping back and forth . . . we ended our brief tryst with a smile, which suited me just fine and provided far more ego gratification than a hello kiss from somebody i used to work for, a guy New York magazine described as one of the city's most powerful gay men . . . unfortunately, it also meant that i let my guard down and broke the first rule of tribal dancing: always check out your surroundings or you may find yourself in the arms of somebody who in face-to-face circumstances will have u fleeing in the opposite direction . . . i suppose u could argue that if it feels good, what does it matter who's filling your dance card, but i don't think all the X in the world would help me overcome my resistance to guys who don't make my cock tingle . . . i spent the rest of the morning avoiding someone whose embrace felt like heaven until i turned around . . . does this make me a circuit boy? . . . perhaps in attitude only, because quite unexpectedly (i.e. no manuevering on our part) DA and i found ourselves next to the perfect physical specimen: a Brooklyn Adonis who parted the crowd as easily as Moses did the Red Sea . . . do you come by the pound? asked DA, whose irreverence was rewarded with a smile that must have felt like God touching Adam's finger on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel . . . i fell back into my typical observer role as the music receded in time and a steadily older crowd filled the dance floor . . . three guys engaged in faux sex nearby and D hooked up with a massive guy nearly a full head taller than D's six feet . . . imagine my surprise to witness my normally reserved sister looking adoringly upward at the man who held him against his beer belly and submissively nibbling on the his nipple . . . well, i've never done that before he said with a shit-eating grin after disappearing for half an hour . . . u mean have sex at a circuit party, u slut? i asked, jealous of the circumstances if not the man who had a tweaked fuck buddy in tow and a lover at home, of course . . . D didn't give me the full story until we spoke on the phone later . . . it especially amused me to hear that the big lunk was fastidious enough to wipe the toilet seat with paper before sitting down and inserting his tongue into D's ass . . . talk about the telling detail!