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Tuesday, October 18, 2005


The tree-lined rooftop bar comes with a caveat: no photos, no sex, and clothing is optional. Front and center, one middle-aged man dances enthusiastically in only sandals and a wide-brimmed hat, as the band averts their eyes. Another man lounges with a beer against a railing.

The other guests are white and nervous and fully clothed. The husbands look everywhere but at each other, while trying not to appear that they are looking away. Their eyes skitter wildly and never find a resting place. The wives are overly casual, as if to prove their comfort with nudity.

We are all waiting for something to happen, for a scandalous story to take home, for a threshold to be crossed after which we might also become hedonists. But the band keeps on playing and the man keeps on dancing and we all keep on waiting, and nothing happens to change the fact that we are white, and nervous, and fully clothed.


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