Even though I’m in the Masters division of the nightclub tour, I still find pleasure in the game. Admittedly, the following mornings (when not skipped entirely) do contain a bit more fog these days. Last night I played a few watering holes before the rains swept in and reminded me it was past my bedtime.
Dang, I love watching women dance. The key is to make sure the unobtainable women don’t see me watching. If I am caught, I go from admirer to the creepy, staring-at-me guy. The only other solution was to dance with one of them. I bravely tried this maneuver and did the whitey dance as she bounced around in front of me. Then, she pulled a dangerous move: She backed up to me and did something disturbing.
Jeez, how do I describe this? Gosh. Um. All right, let’s call it the pretend-you’re-pounding-me-doggie-style dance.
“I’m going to have to ask you to quit that.”
“Huh? You don’t like it?”
“Well, it’s a bit erotic, no?”
“It’s supposed to be erotic, silly. You like it. I can tell, tee, hee.”
“Ah, my sweet, sometimes we shouldn’t taste things we’re not allowed to eat.”
“This is how people dance now. Look around. Haven’t you heard the term, ‘face down, ass up’?”
“I don’t think that’s referring to dancing.”
“Is too. Well, that and other things.”
“I think I need a towel.”
“I think I see Simon Cowell.”
“Oh, it’s not him. Be right back.”
I patted her gently upon the fanny (hey, that’s part of the dance) and took my swollen nethers to the bar, where they’d feel less pressure. It’s an odd dance, isn’t it? As I awaited my libation, I imagined what it would be like seeing a daughter dance in such a way with her wool-capped dummy. It would anger me. Is this the dance that newlyweds do? Cover your eyes, Aunt Josie!
Chicks have stamina. I’m impressed. I adore the tiny outfits they adorn themselves with, but it seems they spend the greater part of the evening making adjustments. Skirts hike up and get pulled down. Bra straps are exposed and re-hidden. Hair and makeup are touched up during restroom stops, which are becoming more like locker rooms at half time.
Most men make the bladder emptying process a brief as possible. I head into the restroom, seek a urinal with at least one unoccupied urinal on each side of me, and think of waterfalls while trying not to let pee splash on my shoes. I keep my eyes down, mouth shut, and try not to breathe. I ignore the annoying bathroom attendant with his lifesavers and body spray. I dispense my own soap, wash, and fetch my own paper towel. This process takes one minute, not fifteen, ladies.
On my next trip toward the dance area, I brought my beverage. Surely, this would exonerate me from dirty dancing duties. Nope. It seems the rookies are well trained at doing the fuck-me dance while balancing a beverage in one hand. I’m not qualified. I sat out. I have so much to learn.
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