Radiant. Resplendent. Revolving.
Swinging from the rafters, I am the all-knowing glitter sphere—and I see everything.
I saw your first sip of bottom-shelf whiskey.
Saw you slur your words and spill on daddies.
Saw you swipe someone’s half-finished drink then down it in one gulp.
I am dazzling. Lustrous. The ball of the ball.
As I swivel, no smooch is unseen. No hand slipped down the back of skinny jeans, unnoticed.
I will not tell your secrets—but you should know that I know them, and I do not forget.
I was there for your first kiss, first hickey, first consenting grope in public.
I watched you score your first boyfriend. Then hung silently in suspense—as your first boyfriend kissed a lot of other guys’ first boyfriends.
I worried as I watched, but I’ve seen worse. I knew you’d be okay.
And you were! Kind of.
I watched you fall apart, vent to your nonbinary TA, then strike out with the frat bro bartender.
I watched you drown your problems. Wrestle with self-worth.
Then Lady Gaga released “Bad Romance,” and I saw you wipe your tears, borrow your goth roommate’s guy-liner, and binge on a rebound buffet of one-night-only boyfriends.
I saw you stumble—literally fall face-first into your favorite go-go boy, who never spoke to you again.
Saw you bob your head, pretending to lip-sync lyrics you didn’t know.
Saw you huff poppers and puff cigarettes. Debut your new harness—backwards—at a 2007 Leather & Lace party. Whisper “I love you” to a man you just met. Make a fool of yourself, dancing the “Cotton-Eye Joe” to Flo Rida’s “Low.”
Saw you finally glimpse a truth that straight kids had known since middle school: the joy of grinding.
I clocked every triple-vodka-soda you had before turning 21—watching in horror as you combined discarded drinks from around the bar, assuming nobody was watching.
But I was.
I admired you, despite your faults. Loved you, when you hated yourself.
In the bar’s wall-spanning mirror, you saw a scrawny teenager who didn’t know who he was.
I saw a baby gay in bloom. A demon twink. A nocturnal angel, flirting with hedonism, constantly on the verge of alcohol poisoning.
You were resilient. Relentless. Immune to roofies—or at least, immune to worrying about them—because neither you nor I could tell if your weekend blackouts were from pre-gaming with an entire fifth of UV Blue, or from stolen drinks sprinkled with horse tranquilizers.
I saw you make drinking buddies—fall out over a jealous fling—then make actual friends who had your back.
I saw you find your found family. Scream-sing Glee remixes together. Cling to the padded hips of a drag queen in a queer conga line.
I saw you meet fresh meat. Date a varsity cheerleader way out of your league. Dump a dude mid-dance because he made fun of Star Trek.
I even saw you come out to your high school prom date when she visited. The two of you, forming a sacred GBF covenant that would last a lifetime. Or at least until your 30s.
I’ve seen it all.
Like a mirrored mosaic, each of my chrome-plated facets features a different hot mess.
Like a beacon, I beam at the baddest b*****s.
Like a prismatic globe, I kept turning—even after you graduated.
A decade went by, then two.
With figuratively bated breath, I awaited every alumni weekend, crushed when you couldn’t make it. But I understood.
You’d outgrown me. Raged in West Hollywood. Survived the crucible of Hell’s Kitchen. Probably spent your days French-kissing your fiancé in a multi-level nightclub.
But I never stopped twirling.
Since you left, I’ve shepherded generations. Illuminated new waves of wallflowers, divas, and closet cases.
I do not judge. I do not emit light.
I can only reflect what shines around me. Like you, when you were young.
Eventually, my spinning starts to slow. My ungreased joints squeal like a twink at Bear Week—but still I turn, a bittersweet sentinel.
Only I experienced Studio 54 seven nights a week. Only I saw thousands of boys become men, girls become women, men become girls, and women become boys.
I’ve seen a lot.
But when I look back, I’m proud. No regrets. No remorse.
I just miss what we had.
They closed the bar.
Did you hear?
Condemned, then torn down.
Now I’m just a dusty mirror, discarded, dreaming of weekends past.
Promise that next time you dance, you’ll remember me, like I remember you.
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