You won’t go to hell for a little tail-shaking on the dance floor.
Hell, son, it just might send you right to heaven…
“Whew-wee! You sure got some moves for a white boy!”
Yes, those were actual words that were directed at me, believe it or not. Well, not the “white boy” part–I think everyone around here knows that I’m uber-Caucasian by birth–that’s not surprising in the least. So, then, you might ask, why was it that particular phrase stroked my ego like nothing that had ever came before it?
Come, friend, let us dive into that mystery…
Okay, I feel like I need to state a few disclaimers up front here if things are to make sense.
One: I’m not exactly a party boy, so the fact that I was on the dance floor at a bangin’ club in Greensboro was an unexpected turn of events in itself.
Two: I’m not exactly a player/playboy,1The term I really should be using here is “f*ck boy” (pardon the term), but I got to keep things halfway clean if I want to keep my Dear Mother as a Dear Reader i.e. I don’t exactly have an illustrious history of being smooth with the ladies, and in fact–fun fact, even–I was a virgin up until my wedding night.2”…when I engaged in a raging orgy involving all the bridesmaids!” Hah! I so badly wanted to throw that (fictional) twist in there, because, admit it, that would have been a hilarious and unexpected turn of events. Further, I had exactly one girlfriend in high school, and one in college–and one could argue that the latter, the fabled Tiffany Chestnut, was reluctantly so.
Alas, woe was me; for I ’twas not born with the looks of Adonis. Um…for those needing help with the Adonis reference, I’ve included this screenshot of what comes up when you search for that term amongst the images of the interwebs:
Three: To quote the great Phil Collins: I can’t dance. As in “I can’t dance worth a sh*t.” Coordination and a sense of rhythm were just two more things that I wasn’t graced with at birth…
“Whew-wee! You sure got some moves for a white boy!”
Right…right…that’s where we left off. So, anyways, there I was, a lightly inebriated, white-as-funk single grad student, burning up the dance floor with a woman of color that would have been worthy of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s praise. For one brief moment in my life, I got to experience what it was to be like to be a true Ass-Mastar.
Nevermind that she was probably 10 years my senior. And had a huge diamond ring on her finger that cut into my hand so deeply it almost drew blood. Thanks to a bit o’ alcohol, I had finally achieved nirvana.
And by “nirvana”, I of course mean “having a lady sporting a 3:45 ass tell me that I was a great–*gasp!*–dancer.”
Oh, right. For those of you who don’t know what a 3:45 ass is:
“Out of my way, you Hussy! If anyone will be doing the bumping-and-grinding, it will be me!“
Later that same night–and presumably with even a bit more of that liquid courage in my system–I found myself in yet another first-time-in-my-life incredibly ego-boosting situation: 3 girls viciously vying for the coveted real estate of my full-clothed crotch (remember: you’re talking to a bona fide virgin here).
In a different corner of the dance floor I had (literally) stumbled upon 3 young white party girls dancing by themselves, and subsequently had the divine inspiration that they desperately needed a male companion to keep them company.
Now, not be too superficial, but it must be stated that these 3 young ladies were not exactly, er, “created equal.” There was the stereotypical “hot girl,” her stereotypical “average friend,” and last but not least, their friend that no doubt had a great personality going for her.
I centered myself amongst the three-way throng of my adoring fans, and before I knew it, I was dancing a little bit closer to the average girl than the other two. However, my enjoyment of her physical touch was short-lived, as it wasn’t but maybe 15 seconds before the hot girl body-checked her out of the way before promptly spinning 180 degrees and planting her rump flag in my Lapland.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bump! Ass-to-the-crotch! Grind! Derriere-to-the-groin!
Oh, man, I couldn’t believe my good luck! Ladies fighting…over me?!? And not only that, the hot af, out-of-my-league one was winning??? Was this really happening, or was I just really, really drunk?
And–even more importantly–would this moment of momentous hedonism (by my choir-boy standards, anyways) even matter in the bigger picture?
Indeed, we find ourselves with yet another couple of mysteries–mysteries that will have to wait until next time…
Content created on: 8 July 2022 (Friday)
Footnotes & References:
Leave a Reply