(Note: this blog was originally hand-scrawled onto a notepad at approximately 6:45 AM, Puerto Vallarta time, on Sunday April 6, 2008. Only minor edits dealing with "tonight"/"Saturday night" and some spelling errors have been corrected.)
I’ve never been much for dancing. Meaning I never danced except under the most dire of circumstances (my wedding, my brother’s wedding, Arbor Day 2003).
As part and parcel of the, uh, new life I’ve built/fallen into in the past 2+ years, I’ve been taking to dancing. Not, though, in what might be considered a conventional sense.
First of all: I’m not good at dancing. I’m good at standardized tests, I’m a reasonably good singer, and I can stomach five star spicy foods without difficulty. But I’m not a good dancer. I don’t have particularly good rhythm, and I don’t know (m)any moves (salsa classes never really stuck, as it turns out). I’m just not good.
But I don’t care too much. I enjoy flailing around.
I’ve heard that dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal emotion. Maybe it’s the dearth of any sexual energy on my part when I dance that is the reason I’m so lousy... I don’t know. It’s this absence, though (of emotion, not of skill), that creates the second bit of fun I get from dancing: I enjoy seeing guys get shot down.
Don’t get me wrong: guys can try to get laid. More power to them. Whether it’s on the dance floor or at a bar or in a grocery store, guys are going to work angles. Seeing the same guys doing the same thing over and over on the dance floor (e.g., standing in place, serring a new girl, bumping into her, grinding on said new girl) gets old, though... at least for me until I embraced dudes getting shot down.
The thing is, while I don’t pursue women on the dance floor, it doesn’t mean that I’m not INTERESTED in women on the dance floor. I had an odd end to Saturday night that both makes me laugh and scratch my noggin.
Let me preface this by saying that I can only approximate times. Mexico is an unstable plane and time flows unevenly there. And I’d had rum and tequila. And no watch. (But still the unstable plane thing is mainly the reason. Along with not having a watch.)
Anyway, I got to the clib around 11:00, paid the cover of $100 pesos (about $10 US). Went to the dance floor which was full and ringed with people. Some of the people were women and some were hot. (Actually, I wonder if I saw more beautiful women in one place than I’d ever seen in one spot in my life. Maybe.) Travelmate 2000 joined me for a few hours and we made fun of bro’s getting shot down. Mostly, though, we just danced in our own little slices of the dance floor.
He left abd at about 3:30 the demographics were shifting. People from the floor were leaving and some of the drinkers/big spenders were getting closer to the floor. One group of people included about eight very, very pretty girls and an equal number of swarthy (and often quite short) dudes. Some of the girls were dancing on the edge of the (still busy) floor, next to their tables and were kinda bumping into me.
Being the nice guy that I am, I’d turn and smile and offer a "lo siento". At one point, a girl stepped a yard onto the floor and put her heel squarely into the middle of my left foot/shoe. She stumbled and I grabbed her waist gently to make sure she didn’t fall. That she was wearing what she was (and trust me, she was not dressed nor shod with balance in mind) made my chivalrous effort easier to execute... and it raised the ire of some of the dudes in the group. They didn’t go aggro, but they kinda pulled the girls back and I knew they weren’t pleased.
One chick looked at me and I smiled and said "Hola", which she returned. I kept dancing, and I could see her still looking at me, so I looked back and she said "Hola" again, to which I scrunched up my face in a "are you kidding me"-kind of look.
And then she did the unthinkable. She took a step towards me and started talking.
On the trip I just concluded, I spent probably 20 or 25 hours of dancing. I think I talked to four girls in that time, including this last one. In other words? This was uncommon.
She spoke in English. I think. Alcohol and being surrounded by Mexicans blended the languages together a bit.
She gave me a high five and claimed that we were amigos. I replied, "Amigos siempre! Claro que si!" That last big seems like it’s a phrase only Spanish students use, but fuck it.
Back to dancing I went, but the chick was approached by what was clearly that alpha male of the group (blue eyes, less indian blood, almost my height) and said something, and then like four of the group started chanting something. Not for long, and not clearly, but I think it was "Gay boy! Gay boy!" in heavy Mexican accents.
Me being mistaken for a homosexual is nothing new or particularly uncommon. I was wearing a white shirt and tight black pants. I was clean-shaven and looking kinda pretty (heh). I’d danced with myself for hours avoiding contact from drunk and ugly people and not once initiating contact.
I guess how I can see how they’d think that.
The funny thing is that the women were attractive but not anything more appealing than some of the girls I’ve dated at home... I just to remember that a tight dress on a dance floor doesn’t need to change how I act. Dancing has come to form an interesting piece of my emotional masochism.
I didn’t have the time or energy to explain this to my new BFF from Sonora. Maybe next time.
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