16 December, 2012

dancing machine

last night, the plans and words of years finally came to fruition and lo, i went out dancing. the evening began at a local watering hole where we met ms. c.'s friends. this motley crew comprised, among others, a bison rancher and a newscaster from the best radio on the planet. i might have given in to a little squeal of delight when the latter fact came to light but i just managed not to ask for an autograph. still, he was rather pleased to not only have his name recognised, but to have me visibly glow when i gushed about ckua.

the bison rancher, a big strapping blond fellow, sat in the chair with his boots (and occasionally his socks) off and at first declined to go dancing because he'd get too hot. turns out he didn't just have fur-lined boots and wool socks, he also had long-johns under his jeans. when i suggested that those be removed to facilitate improved temperature regulation, he pointed vaguely at his crotch area and said, it's a little busy down there. silence followed until we realised that he was, in fact, pointing to the downstairs bathroom and not to the party in his pants.

later at the club itself, ms. c. opined that she'd be more than willing to dance with me on the empty dance floor if there was more base and so i went to ask for more base. when i returned, breathless and giddy, i told the table that i'd slept with the d.j. their looks of incomprehension moved me to explain that this did not, in fact, happen in the 2 minutes that i was gone (admittedly, this would have been quite a feat) but many many years ago. i felt très carrie bradshaw about all this - in all my years living in this city, i have somehow managed to evade old lovers up until now, and the feeling of sophistication was delicious. dude might or might not have recognised me, but from what i gathered at the time he was a man of many women and i was but a one.

the crowd was friendly and we danced with various youths, all glowy from exertion and lack of life-experience. we watched one young woman (let's call her "tits") simulate all manner of sex acts on the dance floor until one of the men she mounted carried her away. we wish "tits" well, wherever she may be. she might have miscalculated her venue somewhat, because this was not a meat market and she oozed all over the floor in a distinctly libidinous manner. my first thought, being me, was that this was not a floor over which i would ooze, but then again, i am older and wiser and know how much dry cleaning costs.

ms. c. and i walked home inordinately proud of ourselves for having managed to stay up so far past our bedtime and promised to do it again, and soon.

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