Monday, May 10, 2010

ain't nothing like the real thing

I am a big fan of dancing. Always have been, at least according to the cracked photos of me as a tangle-haired tomboy wearing my brother's ripped jeans over a leotard. Those were the days. Of course, I graduated from the braided tomboy, having earned some serious jade in the last decade or so. But the dancing always brings me back to when, even if I did give a f*ck, I was too young and wild to know why.
Just a kid with a dream.
So when I was invited to go dancing I said yes with no reservations, completely overlooking the fact that the dance hall is notorious for unsavory goings on and it has a meat market-y feel. Good thing I knew that going in.
Or, I knew to some extent. When I did walk in the place was dark, seedy and vaguely lonely. The Maker's on ice did nothing to take the edge off of that vacant quality. Women, some I knew, leaned up against the wood walls. They were flipping their hair, stirring their drinks and pretending to be utterly absorbed in the low tones of the men who flocked around them. I noticed something immediately then.
I did not get the memo that it was hot pants night at the dance hall. In fact, I would venture to say that I was the ONLY WOMAN in the entire place whose buttcheeks and cleavage were not on display. The only thing visible on me was my raised eyebrow and high cheekbones.
"Why did you bring me here, again?" I asked my friend between the heavy thump of a Black-Eyed Peas number. Yes, there was actual ass-slapping on the dance floor, cowgirl style.
"Because, I wanted to have a more visceral experience with you." He smiled. I did not.
"Huh, well, you should've just said something." A healthy woman in a black hotsuit and yellow belt squealed with delight. I nearly jumped at the sound of hand hitting a fleshy ass. "We could go to the batting cages and have a visceral experience there."
I know, not charming, not even nice. But, if he was after the real Nichole, he got it, and like a broken toy, wanted to take it back immediately. Thing is, there is a water line between brain and body, at least for me. My brain sees drunk women with blue eyeshadow and thick thighs letting their hopes ride (literally) on the idea that Cinderella ran from a puke-stained bar and prince charming staggered after her with a sopping slipper. My body curls up in fear like a fiddlehead.
Ain't no hip shaking salsa for me in there, although I was looking forward to the abandon and to showing off my skill as a dancer.
Unfortunately, as in many cases, it was the wrong dance.

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