“I see you baby! – Shakin’ that ass! – Shakin’ that ass!”
Saturday night’s groove party has all the key ingredients: a cramped and dark space, hypnotic lights, lots of people and a decent DJ spinning hip hop and house. I’m shaking what my momma gave me and bulldogging the dance floor for my hot, sophomore neighbors. They are 8 girls, each with the energy of an amped mongoose.
They bounce around the party like gravity is a joke – no beer in their flat little bellies, just a bunch of peppermint patty shots to stay warm. Since I’m a tall, lanky fucker, I keep my booty-shakin’ subtle. Tall, lanky people look like morons when they flap their limbs around the dance floor, so I keep the beat, innovate a little, but stay subtle.
Occasionally one of my crew dances over with some freaky guy following her, cock-first. She gives me the look and I intercept with a mad dog stare. The cock-humper drifts away and we grind on. Many guys hug the wall, a few do the head-nod and foot-tap dance and some guys dance like zombies for two seconds then stop and some can only do the cock-hump dance. It’s pitiful.
I look up at the party lights and close my eyes. The colors pulse behind my eyelids as the beat rises from the floor. The hottest of the mongoose pack grinds up against my back. My hips do the same thing somewhere far below me and I smile a big Buddha smile. The hours float away.
I only started dancing again this quarter. Part of it is the vitalizing effect of the girls next door, but part of it is having less than 40 days left in college. I seek out all quality experiences, and balls to what other people think.
Now, most guys say they don’t care what other guys think, but dancing exposes their hypocrisy. Only in the dark, with other bodies crushed near them and peers doing the same, do the majority of men feel free to dance. This is, of course, horribly stupid and lame and most girls hate it too.
Playing bulldog for my pack of hyper mongooses made me sympathize with the female condition. Half the time, cute guys hug the walls like algae, hoping their ennui and bleached tips will do the picking up their hips should do. The rest of the time the girls can’t get funky without some random guy humping up against their arm.
These ladies want to drink and dance and laugh and have fun; they want to use all that energy. But the guys they meet only grin one phrase: “Pussy! Right?!” No. Not pussy. Fun. Just simple fun. What happened to fun? Dancing is a natural narcotic, hangover-killer and good exercise. If people danced three hours every weekend, physical and sexual violence would have to drop. It’s a simple energy equation: Excess ATP is burnt off before use in fisticuffs and antics.
More importantly, it’s self-defeating to avoid a dance while meeting women. Rhythm is essential in these fast times. Since most guys flatly refuse all dancing, even the slightest skill can go a long way, as long as you avoid the nefarious cock-hump.
Our groove party stopped exactly at midnight. We floated home sweaty and exhausted, wearing shiny afterglow smiles. Foreign brutes in badges and beanies wandered the streets and eyed us with contempt. We passed untouched, reflecting perfect buddhistic maxims:
1) The party is always inside you.
2) The desireless are the usually the ones desired.
3) No cock-hump dancing, please.
Daily Friday editor David Downs dances like he has Parkinson’s disease. Feel sorry for him every Wednesday.
