Been a clubber for almost a decade now and the dance floor - was for the longest time - my realm. Had I known that I will abdicate my throne for a much quieter corner, far from the glare of strobe lights, loud music bouncing off the man-sized speakers and cigarette particles suspended in mid-air, I should have arranged for my own graduation before I left.
Slipping my gem-studded white stiletto boots in place of my rugged sneakers; Exchanging my tight jeans and muscle shirt for something scantier - two-piece string bikini with gold wires and small flower sequins around the not-so-private places; and a bird-of-paradise inspired headgear with its wingtips arching close to my massive butt cheeks.
I would then mount the ledge at BED and shake my hips excitedly like this:
I would then mount the ledge at BED and shake my hips excitedly like this:
Pardon my silly unbecoming, but I'm having bouts of sleeplessness thinking about the rainhas de baterias (queens of the drums) of the Rio Carnivals lately.