We heard about it through a social group we belong to, it was supposed to be fun, exciting and a chance to do something with a bunch of other people you would normally reserve for a quiet night at home, surrounded by candles and soft music and maybe an enticing book. Wear something you don’t mind getting ruined they said, maybe something you wouldn’t mind getting wet, and bring a change of clothes. We were keyed up, thrilled at the prospect of the unknown. We were going to a Foam party, the idea being that while folks danced to a DJ under club lights and the flow of groovy and upbeat dance mixes as foam is pumped out across the dance floor. The thought left us with intense curiosity and a sudden wonderment.
We arrived at the club, the music was awesome, and the urge to dance was immediate. The bar was full of people trying to swallow the courage to let loose and lose their inhibitions. And the DJ danced in place in front of a giant screen playing a light show in beat with the music she spun. The place seemed to fill steadily with sexy people, a myriad of bold sexy energy and people unconcerned with what others wore or how they conducted themselves on the dance floor. We allowed the music to creep into our bodies, accepting its control over our movements and permitting its suggestive melodies to flow like water over our minds.
There were couples older than us whom shuffled across the floor in the same style they’d learned in gym class as kids and those younger than us that danced fearlessly. Some moved as though they’d been shackled by their own reservations and others who appeared to be so off beat that it actually worked in some weird way. We said hi to some old friends and met some new ones, watched as moral lubrication washed through the crowd. Then the word spread, the foam flowed on the other dance floor and we had to see.
We navigated through dark hallways to the other dance floor and as we rounded the corner we were in awe, never have I seen such a site that seemed to cause the logistical side of my brain to crash, like that screen that flashes across our computer that tells us there has been an internal failure I couldn’t make sense of it and I must have looked stunned. There in front of us was a mountain of foam, billions of tiny little bubbles flowing back and forth across the dance floor, clouds of the same bubbles floating by us as we watched the colored lights filling the little suds with purple, pink and blue hues, the music and heavy bass seemed to fill our bodies as the foam began to envelope us. The machine that hung from the center of the room that pumped out the bubbles filled the dance floor from floor six feet above our heads.
I felt like a child, I wanted to run and jump and dive through the foam, it was so light that you couldn’t grab it and when you tried the little amount of current your movements made sent great amounts of the foam floating away. We were carried into the sudsy mass by inquisitiveness and held there by stronger feelings that we were doing something naughty and allowed ourselves to be enveloped by it completely. We held onto each other, but could not see one another, our skin became slippery and our bodies writhed and danced as our senses were overwhelmed and set free. Before long we were moving against others we could not see, sliding passed foreign arms and legs, people touching each other, blinded by the foam. It didn’t seem to matter what we looked like, what color we were, what race, what our orientation was, we were all kids dancing and splashing through a shower of sex and sensuality that seemed to celebrate all the things we had been taught was wrong, and we soaked it up and enjoyed every bit of it.