Gentlemen don't dry hump

I love to dance. I could be called a "dancin' fool," but no one has thus far taken the opportunity.

Last night was my 5 year highschool reunion, and after my only friend left the bar, I took an empty table and decided to relive my highschool days, by sitting alone. This didn't actually last. Two women, whom I'd alwasy thoguht were too cool for me, and who had alwasy thought of themselvesas big dorks, took to the dance floor and beckoned me to follow. It would put me behind in my brooding, but it could be fun. I'll just make sure I brood twice as hard later.

To my great fortune, the next song to play was swing. My style of choice. My only style, if you want to get picky. I took Pigeon by the hands, and we danced. I believe that during a dance, it is the responsibility of the man to make the woman look good. In the case of swing, the male is the lead. I'm afraid to say that Pigeon was hammered, and nothing was going to make her look good. But I could show her a good time.

The first thing is to make her feel like she's dancing well. Her timing was off, she was dancing 4 beats per measure instead of the classic 6 of East Coast Swing. I pulled my timing off too, and we danced together. The next thing is to let her know that you are having a great time. Eye contact, and smiles. If your partner is having a good time, then you must be doing things right. After that is the trivial step of dancing. Consulting your library of swing turns and dips, and patching them all together to the beat of a familar song.
Pigeon had a great time. So good, she completely forgot that she had to pee. As I said, she was hammered. And as unexpectedly as it started, the music stopped, and was replaced with a song about "My Goodies."

I do not dance like "the kids" dance. This imaginary copulation exercise that "the kids" are all crazy about. The grinding, the freaking, it's not my scene. I can not turn off my mind. Everything I do is tightly considered, and for me, physical contact always has meaning. I will not dry hump a stranger. I think it's rude, and a little obscene.

But Pigeon clearly wanted to dance in this fashion, and the dance floor was otherwise unoccupied. I had to be the hero. I buckled my lip, and decided to take one for the team. And we dry humped. Rhythmically.

Even after seven drinks, I was focusing on what this action would mean to the people around me. I knew exactly what it meant. Nothing. It was how people dance. Pigeon's hands running up my sides like she was my lover. Her thigh pressed up against my nethers. Who is she? I don't even know if she has parents, or if she grew her self out of a pod. This was an insignificant act for everyone else, but for me, it was a sacrifice.

I think odds are good I take myself too seriously, but a man is defined by his actions, and a gentleman doesn't dry hump in public.

On the other hand, it was really nice to feel appreciated, even if it was only because I gave off warmth and occupied space.