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God, I love disco, I think.
Lights, shining, playing, colours.
Loud pumping music, can’t hear myself think, can’t hear words, can’t feel regret.
Flamboyant excessive clothes.
Flamboyant dancing.
Boys – men – elves – sex and hormones in the air.
The little chemical helpers don’t hurt either.
And the backrooms.
I always enjoyed dancing, all through the years, the changing music.
Regimental balls, in uniform, girl on each arm, music that now, now seems worthy and dull, but at the time was a wonderful racy excuse to touch a partner, hold her tight.
For most.
For some of us, it was a sickening realisation that the choice offered held no temptation, however lovely, however witty the girls were.
The twenties, era of nightclubs and flappers, of ditzy young things, and rising hemlines – a treat which I fear was somewhat lost on me – but I enjoyed the Charleston, the dance contests that went on until dawn.
Jazz. I liked jazz, its relaxed tones, the "anything goes" of it – though the things I wanted never seemed to go. At least, only at the occasional private party.
Rock and roll, I liked rock and roll, the contact, the rhythm, the decadence.
But now – finally – I can dance with a partner more to my own taste, in public, wherever and whenever I choose. Almost.
What of it if the partner for whom I long made it clear years ago that he wished never to even see me again?
If I cannot have the one I want for all time, I will have any I like for one night or less.
The seventies – in London, in Paris, in San Francisco – the nineteen-seventies are fun.
Valar, but I love techno-pop, I think.
Lights, strobes, fast.
Loud pumping beat, fast, no words at all, no thinking, no regrets.
Stripped down clothes, kinks are trendy.
Dance to show what you want, how you like to fuck.
Boys – men – elves – sex and hormones in the air.
The little chemical helpers don’t hurt either.
And the backrooms.
Whatever the changes, the talk of safety – there are still backrooms, still anonymous pickups.
Anyway.
I’m an elf. We don’t pick up infections easily.
And what – what the fuck do I have to live for, anyway?
Centuries of this?
Fuck.
Drink, dance, fuck.
The eighties – in London, in Paris, in San Francisco – the nineteen-eighties are fun.
Vishnu, but I love acid, house, rave, I think.
Lights, strobes, fast, colours, shining, playing, more and more.
Loud, fast, no words, no thinking, no regrets.
No eye contact.
No partners.
Stripped down, bare skin, leather, neon lycra, rubber, anything goes.
Outdoors, under the stars, the stars I can’t see with the lights, the rain I can’t feel, the song of all the created world forgotten, not needed.
Boys – men – elves – sex and hormones in the air.
The little chemical helpers don’t hurt either.
And the backrooms, the edges, the not-quite-floorshows.
Just keep on with the game.
On and on and fucking Ariston.
I chose not to choose – what did I not choose, I wonder as the pretentious fucking adverts proliferate?
He chose not to choose love.
I chose – not to spend the rest of bloody eternity whining about it, I remind myself.
So out I go, night after night.
The nineties – in London, in Paris, in San Francisco – the nineteen-nineties are fun.
But wherever I go, whatever I wear, whoever I pick up, whatever the music, the lights, the scene – it makes no difference.
I am hollow inside.
I have little honour left.
Little purpose.
All that I was proud to be is sold, and thrown away, and lost.
The world changes, and I have none to tell of my part in history.
None to tell me that what I did was wise, that the ends justifies the means, that honour was sold for something worth more.
None to whom I can confess, none to absolve me of my crime, my sin.
I travel, as I always have loved to do, faster and more easily than ever before – but what is the use of it, if I am still alone with myself?
Men – and elves – land on the moon, Naugrim ingenuity making such a thing possible – but I have none to hold, no-one in my arms with whom to look up at the stars, and dream.
Around me I see others, braver, luckier, in love, and happy, content; or sometimes fighting, miserable, but – able to speak of it.
Lindir and his Mel circle each other, forever knowing they are the other’s second choice, that he cares not for her, nor she for him, but sniping, always, tied together by a vow made foolishly.
Thranduil – my heart aches for him, clinging to life for the sake of this young son, for the need to raise an heir. Cynically I am relieved he is, at least, not the type to parade the child, that I need not pretend an interest as I must with others’ elflings, that our drinking and storytelling evenings remain undisturbed by childish lispings, by teenage drama, by the city-slicker Legolas apparently grows up to be. Bitterly I envy Thranduil love true, love returned, love sundered only by fate, not by his own foolishness, even as I watch him become colder as the years pass.
Gildor bloody Inglorion and his wife provide a salutary lesson to all that true love is not always so faithful, and almost I wonder if that jealousy is worse than my own loneliness, if the reunions are worth the tears and rages that precede them. But I know the truth, I know that I – I would give anything to have that pain in place of my own.
Celebrian and Elrond change not, they are lucky, so many years together, a life built around each other, around their children, the idiot twins and slightly too-good-to-be-true daughter, a truly devoted and obnoxiously happy couple.
I say something of this, and Elrond smiles, that enigmatic smile.
“It isn’t just luck,” he says, and he looks away, “it takes work, Glorfindel. Celebrian sacrificed a lot to be married, and then to have the children when we did. For that matter, I stepped back, at times when I could have been pushing forward,” he looks back, and meets my eye, “if you ever meet the right girl – you have to compromise, prioritise.”
And for the first time, I don’t hear the patronage in his tone, only the kindliness, and I am able to be honest,
“I’m gay,” I say, using the word I like the most of all the possibilities, the word that – that once described me better than any other, that were things as I wish, had I made better choices, would still be true to my heart, for there was indeed a time when I and my sweet beloved were merrier and more joyous than it seemed possible any could be, “there is no right girl.”
He shrugs,
“Boy then. Same principle,” and puts out a hand to touch my shoulder as I stare, awaiting his shock, his horror, “did you really think we had no idea? All these years, my friend, we wondered. And – well. For a few decades now, we guessed. We look forward to meeting a boyfriend of yours, one day.”
And I must look away, hide my pain, laugh, and drink my whisky as I say,
“Don’t hold your breath. I don’t think I believe in love, not for me.”
He pats my shoulder, and turns the conversation.
And for many years, he produces all the queers he knows, trying to help, to find the one to make my heart sing.
But my heart’s song is lost, is finished; for my Kitten – the love of my life – has no interest in me.
I try, once more, I try to speak to him, to ask him why we cannot now begin again – and he looks through me, speaks veiled words of discretion, of not revisiting a time that is gone, of wants and needs so changed, so different, of careers worth too much to be destroyed by a sniggering tabloid article.
He chooses not to choose love.
And I – I do not beg him to reconsider, to walk away from such concerns.
I did once, years ago I begged him to come with me, to seek out a place we could be together; and he made it clear I was not enough for him to relinquish his touch upon the pulse of power.
I will not make that mistake again, believing that a politician’s words meant as much to him as mine to me in those sunlit days, those days of gold and shining love, when I was a warrior, honourable and true.
In my heart, I know I am no longer what I was in the days of our love, and so perhaps – perhaps he is right to turn away.
So I dance, and I take the pills, and I fuck.
No regrets.
No shame.
At least, none I will admit.