This week, the Ryanlight shines on Polyanna, Zé and Aurelius Lyon, two of Venice beach’s most movinest roller skate dancers.
Me: First off let me say this you two: Wow.
Polyanna Zé: "Wow" what? "Wow" this?
Polyanna juts out her groin and raises the roof with her palms
Aurelius Lyon: Maybe he means "wow" this:
Thigh muscles bulge through Aurelius Lyon’s jean shorts, as he slowly lowers himself into an impressive set of splits, toes pointed to the sky.
P: Elegant! But maybe he means something more like "wow" this:
Polyanna humps the space inches in front of AL’s proud, sweeping nose. I imagine the air rushing through his onyx nostrils, like the call of life and light through Serengeti’s dawn. He nods his head in sync with Polyanna’s pelvic thrust, sensual, hypnotic. I imagine the blood of his ancestors, pounding. Alive. In a streak I am the earth. I feel the feet stamping. The flow of the Euphrates. I taste the day. The giggle of the Tigres. I am reborn. Anansi grins. I am Afrika.
AL: Do it to me ma-ma!
AL snaps out of the splits, his legs shifting with the bestial precision of two sleek lions on morning’s first prowl. Silent, his haunches ripple beneath a cloak of yellow and black, acid-wash Bugle Boy denim, poised to prey. Polyanna extends her arms with a slight bend in the elbow. Her body gyrates with the raw sexuality of a hill-gypsy, a gorgeous nomad, shunned from village to dusty village. The seat of her athletic pants says "Nasty." Each thrust smells of rare incense; every quiver, scented of rich oils from far off and exotic lands. I gulp down each voluptuous twitch, and am bewitched. The Black Eyed Peas start to play.
AL: What you gon’ do with all that junk?
Oh Polyanna, how I wish to anoint your wheeled feet, no doubt calloused and ragged from your days of impassioned dance, and endless nights of wanderlust. You are no doubt infested with the head lice native to Aurelious Lyon’s filthy dreadlocks, and swimming with the rudest of ancient and assorted STD. Verily, you are gonorrhea’s fairest diplomat.
P: I’ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
AL: Oooohh, watch yerself girl!
P: Get you love drunk off my hump!
Al: Waahhhhh!!!
The completion of this last verse sends Aurelious Lyon into a frenzy, thrashing about, his eyes a-bug, tongue born, wiggling his thick dreadlocks like wild electric cables. His contortions are the product of raw, unmitigated instinct, and probably a fair amount of bathtub meth. As Polyanna Zé leisurely separates herself from Lyon’s fit, skating backward, swaying loosely, I sense that I am audience to a rare mating ritual. My brain is on fire and every one of my chakras surges like the red genitals of a Bengal tiger orgy. I peer down to just below my waist where I am greeted with an eager erection. It is not sexually driven, it is more than sexually driven. It is my enslaved soul trying to tear away from a less lively self, and join the whirling center of all universal life that is Aurelius Lyon’s magnificent roller skate spin. Beyoncé’s "Crazy in Love" comes on.
P: This my jam, papa!
In a flash, Lyon stops, one knee dropped to the floor, peering with the eyes of a predator through the hairy vines that spill from atop his pronounced, sturdy brow ridge, like the rich, original soil of Olduvai Gorge. Beyoncé’s trumpets call to him. Polyanna Zé idles a mere five feet away, vulnerable. Every muscle fiber is taut, ready, in a twitch, to prey. My eyes dip to my lap. An ample stain now replaces my "boner." Lyon stands upright and pounds his chest. He wears a black, deep cut tank top with the words "Bad Boy," on the front, tucked into his pleated jean shorts. Action is going to happen.
P: Got me lookin’ so crazy right now! Your love’s got me lookin’ so crazy right now!
AL: I’mo do you ri-
And here fair readers, sadly the interview was cut short when a rival dancer-a trashy Samoan looking fellow with a face tattoo, and a mangy pet ferret, threw a full can of grape soda at Aurelious Lyon’s cheek. Apparently, there was a discrepancy concerning whose turf Lyon was roller skating on. The two argued for a minute, until it was eventually agreed upon that they would dance for it. Polyanna Zé then informed me that as part of ritual, the two would douse themselves head to toe in gasoline, and then dance around each other threateningly with lighters. The goal was to set the opponent on fire. This seemed of little concern to Polyanna, who turned her back on the pair, and offered to "go on a date" with me in a nearby porta-potty. I respectfully declined, catching a whiff of her sulfuric crank-breath. Before I knew it, there was a shriek, and I turned around to catch Aurelious Lyon running in flames towards the ocean in his roller skates. The story from some nearby skateboarders that the Samoan convinced Lyon how cool it would be to fire fight while playing Prodigy’s "Firestarter." Lyon checked his CD book to see if he brought it along, found out that he didn’t, but did have "We Didn’t Start the Fire" by Billy Joel, and was about to tell the Samoan when dude snuck up from behind and straight lit poor Lyon up. They said a guy named "Josh" got it all on video, and to check Youtube for it in a couple of days under the user name "potnutz33."
Man, what can I say. You get involved with those fast living Venice rollerskaters, and you’ll probably end up dead in the ocean, or worse, roller-skating (but you’d like that, wouldn’t you, fancy-boy?).