The magic takes the heavy rhythm of mainstream drum'n'bass, and juxtaposes it with the syncopation of acid jazz from the early '90s and the soaring melodies of an electronic female vocalist. I don't think it has a more concise name yet, but it's not hard to find because only the best DJs are doing it. Not that you'd know them, but look out for mention of an Internet Party. These wealthy music-men have been pioneering Web dance-broadcasts for a year now, spending their millions and easing their egos with the release of such beautiful tunes.

Yolanda is my dancing partner, her orange and red and yellow hair extensions pulled back demurely, lying the length of her back like a nun's veil. We like dancing in silence, each in our own space, seriously.

It is almost too late by the time the music gets going, after a long day acting professional to strangers. My feet feel heavy.

There's some guy in front cavorting all over the place but my feet feel heavy and I can't lift my legs very high. So I do the 1980's step from side to side, waiting....

Other people look more cool. They are engrossed, swept high by the music. I take my glasses off to turn the men and women into a blur, and wait, trapped in my silly shuffle.

All the bad thoughts from the day come back as I start to follow the rhythm.
Hurt feelings and words badly put.
Things to do if there is to be any way out. Tomorrow and the next day and the next.
An itemised list of safety measures.
Oh dear. I must stop thinking and listen only to the music, which is becoming more insistent. More interesting than my thoughts, with its complex rhythms that set up spirals within the melody and take it forward, working against it in a double edge and then at one with it, blissfully, for just a moment.

How would that be in real life? A sandstorm that pounds hard against a desert rodent, nearly crushing it before lifting it upwards into the whirl? Or against a person. Shouting hard, his wife impassive, as though it doesn't hurt, before he notices her face and relents and shows his own grief for a second, just long enough for their eyes to meet. And the reconciliation, as each tentatively, silently softens until their way is clear again

But it is sexual.

I look around and feel that every other dancer is someone who I would like. The thought takes me away from the scene and back into my head, meandering and pondering, then back to the music. More intense each time, further from the day's events, but slower, until finally my head is clear and all I have is my body.

Every muscle is in my control - part of the tool kit for self-expression. My feet and calves, thighs, haunches and waist are aching. It has become an exhilarating feat of endurance. Two hours, three hours without stopping; feeling my muscles tone up in response to the DJ. One glass of water, maybe. No drugs.

"Hey, you."

A guy leaning against the wall was beckoning me. "What?" as I slowed down.

"I've been watching your bum shaking. It's great." He grinned stupidly, not meaning much by it.

"Turn round then. You do it. Go on," I gesticulated above the music. He would not shake his ass, but looked foolish enough, apologising and trying to please with his stupid grin. So I let him go and went back to my space.

But now I started noticing how the other blokes were strutting their stuff and all the girls were demurely accepting the meat market. Except me and Yolanda who danced. Most were smoking, like any seedy disco anywhere. Not like my ideal of music being the only stimulant: if it's not enough then go home. I couldn't lift my feet up high again.

Yolanda had lost it too. We went through our ritual: "do you think you will stay long?" "No - what about you?" "No - maybe not more than an hour." "Shall we leave soon?" "Yes." "I'm ready to go quite soon, actually" "Shall we go now?" "Yes, let's go."