Too Sad to Dance

I stumble on some mental and physical obstacles on the dance floor. When I was 15 years old, I was the only one in a class of 20-plus to receive a grade lower than a “B” in the dancing unit of gym. Our teacher, a mustachioed tough-guy-type who cherished Jim Croce and sips of whiskey from his flask between classes, felt strongly that the uncertain rhythm of my steps in clumsy tandem with my partner brought disgrace to “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” My sparkling blue peepers and earnestly formed dimples couldn’t save me as I stomped on the dainty feet of beauties in bloom. Where would I be without shameful memories such as these? More prosperous and happier, probably, but stuck in a different line of work.

My old gym teacher’s disapproval hasn’t stopped me from ever dancing again. In fact, sometimes I dance out of sheer spite for that nimrod. It is unwise to cut a rug with gnashed teeth and a glint of disdain in your eyes. When I’m in that sort of a vindictive mood, I feel like the only brooding street tough from West Side Story dancing among dozens of the cheerful youngsters at the prom from Footloose. Then I laugh at myself, lose the scowl, and pretend that I’m happy. I fake it on the dance floor—but unlike Kevin Bacon, I’m not much of an actor, and the Hollow Man is a better dancer than me, too.

****

I like to peel off ladies’ panties and then make wild thrusts of passion. It has got to be my favorite physical activity, and I really should do it more often. A billion men feel the same way. That’s the only valid reason why dancing matters; women dictate that it is the sincerest form of foreplay. What puzzles me about dancing is that, on the surface, a lot of movement is required to go nowhere. Every expressive journey on the dance floor leads you to where you started. But that line of thought is literal and reductive. Effective dancing can lead to the ultimate destination: The bedroom. Like a blood-lusting shark, a gyrating man encircles an alluring woman, on a mission to lure her back home to his bedroom, a special place to him (and sometimes to her), where all fantasies of anywhere else in the world become obsolete.

A lot of times, the best dancers prove themselves worthy of a nude romp between the sheets.

This truth poses a problem for me because, all things considered, I’m a pretty shitty dancer. Granted, I can offer sincerity and a willingness to please, but I really struggle with wiring my body and mind to a specific rhythm. The logical part of my brain convinces me that the act of dancing is little more than a glorified tantrum, a spastic flailing of limbs set to music. Despite the benefits of smooth dancing (like getting laid), I can’t get over the fact that I’m playing by rules that seem too ludicrous and funny to take seriously.

“Hey, pretty lady, my cock-thrusts really meshed well with the beat of ‘Brown Sugar,’ don’t you think? Therefore, we should totally fuck.”

That unspoken pick-up line has worked thousands of times. How do I feel about this? I am partly jealous but mostly dumbfounded...or maybe those adjectives should be transposed.

Walking ranks second on my list of top physical activities. Walking gives you plenty of time to daydream and observe the scenery and ponder your next destination. I wish that a man’s prowess was more readily determined by his aptitude as a walker, not a dancer, but this is rarely the case. That seems like a shame. We walk with much greater frequency than we dance. Dancing is a novelty. Walking is more of a necessity. Dancing is how we escape from reality. Walking is how we cope with reality. I'd much rather talk to a chick on a walk around the neighborhood than try to impress her with some "Brown Sugar"-inspired cock-thrusts. It's no contest! On the dance floor, people drool over each other’s bodies without having to rely on words for anything, but it’s all a charade, a reprieve from the burden of having nothing meaningful to say.

That last sentence wasn't funny, but I've got range. Read all about the part of my range that includes not being funny even though that's probably what you'd expect and would also be the most satisfying but oh well I guess standards have fallen in my better-than-average eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories.