We’re here! Let’s dance!
Let’s start off with some clapping. Let the beat pulse through your body and seep out your anus. If clapping isn’t your style, then just sway softly from side to side until you feel like a Sufi swaddled in silk.
Join hands with me now, as “Summer Nights” from the hit musical Grease begins to play! We will stand together in sultry stillness and let our friendship shiver through us like electricity. Allow me to slide my hands inside your winter coat to find the warm belly skin beneath. In this eternal moment, our touch is infinite.
As I glance around, it looks like the turnout for this particular dance is a bit sparse. Let’s not let this discourage us, however. We can yet conquer our loneliness by gyrating our groins toward one another in unison. As that ill-groomed obese man glowers on from the dim margins and licks the mustard-spittle from his lips, let us commingle by the unnatural ambiance of a strobe light!
In spite of the empty dance floor, this evening has been a triumph for you and I. Together we thrust, throb, and throttle to the blow dried beat of the Bee Gees. In so doing, I finally express my long-repressed desire: to take you to a Ruby Tuesday’s and see what happens.
This is what dances are for – fostering heightened emotional states, and sheer, animalistic carnality. This is why we come to this junior high mixer week after week – in hopes that the fates will align for just such a night. Like two sea lions dry-humping in quicksand, our union is fleeting, unnatural, and curiously loud.
At long last, after so many years, I am no longer afraid.
This post is dedicated to Mother Theresa of Calcutta.