“Alguien contó que en Nueva York, Disco Sally ha dejado de bailar”
- Fangoria’s Disco Sally
In the height of the disco era, nightclubs popped up on every corner, giving music lovers a place to dance and let loose. Sally had been to all of them in New York. All she wanted was to escape the mundane life that had numbed her spirit.
She danced. She drank.
None of them felt like home.
Each new club looked like the last. Gay men in either drag or leather. Straight men in leisure suits. It wasn’t like she was looking for a fling, though each night she was propositioned. And every time, she rejected the offers of a good time.
Sally danced.
Loved to dance. Loved to get lost in the music and entranced by the lights above and below her feet. Yet over the past year, her attitude about it was lackluster. But still she showed her face every Friday and Saturday night with her faithful and best friend, Stephen.
It was late spring of ’77 on a Saturday night when the proposition for something new presented its self. A man name Joseph Springer entered the club Sally and Stephen frequented. They were on the dance floor, grooving to the popular tracks, in their untraditional peacock—feathered masks, boas, and sequins that caught the light just right.
Both were tapped on the shoulder by a man they had never met, who wiggled his finger and directed them off the floor. He handed them a golden ticket to Discoland.
Lights. Glamour. Glitz. That’s what Discoland promised.
“We’ve done them all before,” Stephen said, almost yelling over the music. “What’s so special about your club?”
“Besides the fact that ninety-eight percent of this crowd wouldn’t get in?” Joseph said, leaning in to talk directly into his ear. He took Stephen’s hand to shake then walked away. “I’ll see you there.”
When Stephen opened his hand, inside his palm was a little baggy filled with white pills. “Shit. We just scored.”
A turned up nose was all Sally could muster, not one to change her mental state by taking drugs. She’d rather just be high on the music, though it was becoming more and more difficult for that to happen in the sea of polyester and floral prints around them.
“Want some?” Stephen asked, holding up the baggy like dangling a carrot in front of a horse.
“Pass,” she said. “But if you want to check out that club, let’s grab a cab and blow this popsicle stand.”
“I’d rather blow that sexy beast of a man walking this way.” Stephen had turned his attention to dance floor where a man wearing a a sky blue leisure suit and white shirt opened at the neck, unbuttoned down to his hairy chest with a gold necklace with pendent in the shape of an Italian twisted horn dangling in the bush.
Sally rolled her eyes as the man joined them.
“Aren’t you a vision of divineness,” he said, staring at Stephen.
“Thank you,” Sally answered in a condescending tone. “And this is my Stephen.” She wasn’t always such a bitch, but this night had already begun to wear on her.
“Georgie.” He held out his hand to Stephen, who was giddier than a school girl with a crush.
“Hi, handsome.” Stephen didn’t even confer before asking, “We’re heading to a new club downtown. Want to come with us, see what’s the vibe?”
“I’ll cum with you anywhere.” He emphasized the wrong connotation of the word, though for him it was correct.
Again, Sally rolled her eyes as she pulled Stephen’s hand and dragged him out of the club and onto the busy streets of Saturday night in New York City. She hailed a cab while Stephen and Georgie gave googly eyes to each other. The three of them piled in the backseat when it arrived, though there wasn’t much room when the two men began pawing each other.
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