'Minty Fresh'

I walk up to Realm PDX.

My shoulders are tight.

The hair on my back is raised.

I’ve been mocked at too many shows to walk in relaxed.

It’s around 10:10. Fully dark.

One street—broken RV on one side, three tents on the other, trash in between.

I walk down the middle.

You could disappear into those shadows in seconds.

Fishnets.

Fur coat.

Sparkle shoes.

Five-five with the confidence of someone six-five.

I pass through.

No footsteps behind me.

Back on the sidewalk, I run into a guy—tall, dark hair in a bun, big beard.

Our eyes meet.

We both smile instantly.

Good energy.

I don’t remember his name, but he works at my gym.

We chat for a minute—he caught Spacemvn, but had to leave early for work.

We say goodbye.

My coat swishes as I walk away.

Crossing Grand Ave, I spot Seth heading away from the venue.

He’s the one who invited me.

I wanted to catch his set.

I apologize for missing it.

He smiles—thanks me for coming anyway. Says he’s gotta get home to his sick girlfriend.

And then he’s gone.

I head inside.

The bass hits first—deep, physical, shaking the walls.

Comfort for my fractured soul.

The crowd splits in two.

Jeans. Baggy shirts.

Normal.

Then—Leotards. Sparkles. Makeup.

Fishnets. Thongs.

I drop my jacket and purse at coat check and head for the floor.

It’s early.

Easy to move.

Slipping through the crowd, I weave between bodies, until I reach the opposite wall—right by the speakers.

I scan.

Full perimeter.

Looking for eyes.

For tension.

Nothing.

No one’s watching—just a few guys checking me out.

It feels normal.

I find a spot with space—

without people gawking. 

I close my eyes.

I let go.

The rhythm is steady. Constant.

The bass hits slow.

Heavy.

I move with it.

A wave through me—rolling deep, head swaying with the pull of it.

Lost in a trance, my body convulses to the rhythm.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

Only the emotion of the artist.

The emotion of the people around me.

I feel all of it.

The more they feel—

the more I feel.

I’m a succubus for energy.

I feed on other people’s highs.

It’s intoxicating.

And it burns on the way down. 

I feel the joy—

and the malice.

Running away has been my largest tactic.  

Literally.

I never stay in one place.

Because eventually—

someone ends up behind me.

Mocking.

Watching.

Waiting.

They think I’m a joke.

No Signal is playing when I feel it.

That shift.

That weight.

Behind me.

I turn.

A woman—

shit-eating grin stretched across her face, cell phone in hand.

I’ve seen it before.

Usually, I leave.

Find a new spot.

Disappear.

Not tonight.

Something in me snaps. I step in behind her.

I go off.

Hip thrusts.

Ass shaking.

Hands sliding over my half-naked, sweat-slick skin.

Unapologetic.

I take my sexy dancing to the next level.

I go bigger.

Louder.

Filthier.

Let them choke on it. 

What does she do?

She leaves.

I stand there for a second.

She actually left.

A rare occurrence.

Before the headliner, I step outside for air.

She’s there.

We lock eyes.

Sizing each other up.

“I like your necklace,” I say, rough.

She starts heading back inside, but turns and says–

“You’re a badass.”

And just like that—

it’s over.

I head back in.

Deathpact is about to go on.

Now the floor is packed.

No space.

Bodies pressed together—movement tight.

The music hits different now.

Dark.

Melodic.

Heavy.

It settles into me—low and steady.

There’s a metallic edge to it.

Almost violent.

It pulls something out of me.

Then I see something new—

a female mosh pit. 

All of the women moshing wore fishnets.

No control.

No rules.

Just chaos.

And Weird-ass, hobgoblin dancing.

Then I feel it.

Before I even see them.

That shift.

That edge.

A group—two guys and a woman—just behind me.

I can feel it in them.

That same energy.

Cruel.

Watching.

Waiting.

One of the guys hands me a stick of gum.

They know.

My teeth.

The snickering says enough. 

They want me to feel ashamed.

To break.

To cry.

Waiting for it.

“Thanks!” I say before snatching the gum.

I cram it into my mouth, and make a show of chewing it.

The snickering stops.

They stare.

Confused.

I push it further.

I give them two thumbs up with the most sarcastic smile I could muster.

“Thanks again—minty fresh.” I grin wide. 

Then I turn back—

and shake my ass right in their faces.

I’m fucking with them of course.

They weren’t expecting that.

They were expecting me to break.

But I didn’t.

I want to say I shook it off—danced the rest of the night with great joy.

That would be a lie.

I still stayed.

I never leave early.  

But I was sad the rest of the time.

Deathpact filled the room with dark, heavy bass—

and I let it match my mood.

When the night ends, I’m low.

After the show, I go to my regular hangout.

Pete’s Market.

The shadiest convenience store in downtown Portland.

I like it there.

The houseless people out front have the most interesting stories to tell.

I am friendly with the clerk.

He seems like a nice guy and we will sometimes smoke a cigarette and chat together.

It feels… real.

Before I go over to Pete’s though, I visit the food cart block on the next street over.

Some of the carts don’t close until 5 am.

Indian music blasts down the sidewalk.

After ordering Saag Paneer, I dance while I wait.

I’m always dancing.

The gum is still there.

Taste. Texture.

Their cruelty—

stuck to me like the gum. 

But I’m hungry, so I will deal with the weird mint taste on my food.

As I am paying, I tap my card.

He leans over.

“I'll help you.” He says as he begins shoving my hand out of the way.

He taps the screen himself. 

20% gratuity.

Apparently, he thinks I’m drunk, and that I won’t notice.

He’s wrong.

“Woah—what the fuck? You just pushed 20% gratuity.”

His face drains.

He realizes I’m sober.

He apologizes.

Fast.

Offers me the three dollars in cash.

“No,” I say, coldly. “You go ahead and keep that.”

Turning away, I head back toward the street.

The music’s still going.

Shake it off.

Literally.

My hips start moving again.

A group of early-twenties guys walks up beside me.

“Got an extra smoke?” one of them asks, smiling.

No mockery.

Just… interest.

“Yeah, sure.”

I hand them a few.

“What were you up to tonight?”

“Deathpact,” I say. “It was a great night… just a little disappointing.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

I smile. Soft. Sweet.

“Because no one grabbed my butt.”

They laugh.

“I try and be respectful of women,” one of them says.

I laugh. 

The tall one—skinny, hot—grins.

“I’ll grab your butt.”

Smiling, I lift my coat, and let him have a good squeeze.

I’m blushing hard now.

He has a big smile.

Soft eyes.

He pulls me into a hug.

I rest my head against his chest—catch the faint scent of Axe.

“That felt good,” I say as I pull away.

He laughs.

“I could make it feel even better.”

Smiling wide, I say, “No thanks.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Probably not.”

He smiles. A little sheepish.

Then he’s gone like that.

20% man yells out that my saag paneer is ready, but it's too hot to eat.

So I crack the lid, set it down and watch the people as they pass.

Never approaching or initiating conversations.

Just watching.

Chinatown at 4 a.m. in downtown Portland—

best people watching.

Women in tight skirts.

Men in baggy tees and jeans.

And then—

because it’s Portland—

tuxedos.

dogs in brightly decorated bike trailers.

neon orange sweatsuit combos; with chains.

My food is ready, so I take a few bites.

Then I head back toward the convenience store—

thinking of a reason to go in.

My friend is working again tonight.

Middle-aged.

White.

Old tattoos.

Piercings.

Baggy clothes.

Looks like he’s had a hard life.

He usually plays hard rock.

Tonight—light, silly jazz.

It makes me smile.

We greet each other warmly.

But the cruelty from earlier is still in me—draining me like blood loss.

“Got any cannabis alternatives?” I ask.

He grins.

“Got something better.”

He pulls out a joint tube, and hands it to me.

I brighten up.

“Aww—thank you so much.”

He smiles back.

Warm. Easy.

No judgment.

He just wants me to feel better.

And I do.

What would make the joint even better, though, is a milkshake. 

One of the carts sells them.

I walk back over.

Same place.

The 20% guy.

I hesitate.

Then let it go and order anyway.

I go to tap my card.

He stops me.

“Wait until we make it.” I assume he's busy, which he was.

The street is quieter now, the music gone.

People are thinning out. It’s after 4 a.m.

After a few minutes in the quiet, 20% guy hands me the shake. 

As I pull out my card to pay, he waves my hand away saying, “No charge. Sorry about earlier.”

I smile.

“Thank you!”

And I head home.

I can focus on the people who tried to tear me down— or the ones who hand me a joint and a milkshake.

Life happens either way.

Which would you do?