Fourth story. Four days.
This story is the shortest of the four, weighing in at only 4 pages. This one was written to the sounds of the album London Flat London Sharp by the Dave Brubeck Quartet, which I would love to dance to. Ladies, any takers?
This is probably the most autobiographical of all the stories. I did musical theater once or twice and absolutely hated it. Then I had a girlfriend who dragged me along to a handful of ballroom dancing classes and I kind of fell in love with it. Yes, I do find myself on occasion, when no one is looking, moving my feet to whatever music is going on.
I'm also adding to my list of traits for the perfect woman that she must like to dance. My last girlfriend hated it with a passion, actually she hated a lot of things about me but that's neither here nor there. It's 4 in the morning, I'm prone to rambles.
Also, if you're keeping score, this story and the stepfather story are both first drafts, so be extra critical of them, they will eventually be torn to pieces and put back together again in a much better fashion. Last Call and Walking With Your Eyes Closed are much more polished, but will probably be tweaked a little more before I send them out to any contests or magazines. Ok, I digress.
Here it is, story #4.
Learning to Dance in the Dark
I have always been fearful of dancing. Some of it has to do with me just being male. Culture leading us to believe that men do not dance and should not want to dance. Young men believe that if they go to a club and rub their crotch on another girl they are dancing, as long as loud, obnoxious music with a persistent bass beat plays. This form of dance is a primal act that I can't bring myself to participate in.
Boy walks up to girl, no words are spoken but his hips start to gyrate, not making any attempt to move to the music. It's a caveman courtship, if the girl does not appreciate the random dry humping she will move away and the boy will repeat with another girl. If the girl stays she will grind against the boy as well, a twisted teenage mating ritual. The music is usually so loud that words could never pass between them, only extreme, primal gestures will do.
Secretly I took ballroom dance lessons. I lived in almost fear, waiting to be caught by my friends to be ridiculed and outcast. They would tell me that real men don't dance, not for the sake of dancing. To them dancing is a means to an end. To them dancing leads to alcohol and throwaway women.
I would catch myself in the kitchen, preparing dinner, moving my feet to the one - two - three - four of the simple box waltz. In my living room my feet would move to the faster, more difficult movements of a cha-cha or salsa dance. My arms out, leading an imaginary dance partner. Whispering the steps as I move, one - two - cha cha cha - three - four - cha cha cha.
The classes were attended by couples. Older couples learning to dance just because it was something they had never done before and they were willing to give it a shot. Younger couples where the girl brought along her mostly unwilling boyfriend or husband. Some couples learning to dance for their wedding, the only time they will ever actually dance with each other.
The only time I danced before was my high school prom. The cover band playing some popular slow song of the time, my date and I holding each other close, swaying to the music, our feet barely moving. It's what passed for dancing at the time. We moved like threes, feet firmly planted like roots, gently swaying like a breeze was blowing through the room.
Because of the couples in class I would always have to dance with the instructor, Miss Perez. She was a sweet older woman, always telling me that I should find a girl to bring to class. She would always say, "No use dancing if you're only dancing with yourself," and then I'd twirl her or dip her, whatever the next dance movement called for.
A small jazz club opened up in what used to be just another dive bar. It took convincing but my friends finally agreed to go. They were reluctant to venture outside of their world of pounding bass and scantily clad girls.
We took seats at a table near the back. We weren't even there five minutes and my friends were already halfway out of their seats ready to bolt for the door. A jazz quartet was playing. The piano player was playing like a madman with the sax player backing him up with equal force. The drummer and stand-up bass player kept the beat.
My friends were nervously looking from their watches to the exit. I knew I made a mistake bringing them. This was so far outside their realm of comfort. They were wondering where the plastic cups of beer were. There was no stage for girls to climb up and dance, where boys could walk by and take a peek up the girl's skirts. In here the mood was light and electric. People were tapping their toes to the music, tapping their fingers to the beat. The music was frantic but you could have a conversation with the person next to you and barely have to raise your voice.
The best part was that people were dancing. Couples danced to the frenzied pace of the music, men twirling the girls, holding hands and moving their feet to the music. Everyone was all smiles, their feet airy and playful. The only people not affected were my friends and if something didn't happen soon they'd be racing out the door to the nearest nightclub.
A brunette sat alone at a table near the people dancing. Her leg was bouncing to the beat of the music and she had a gorgeous smile on her face. She had been sitting alone since we got in, no boyfriend coming to her from the bathroom or the bar. It was easy to see that she came for the music, the atmosphere. She wore a simple dark red dress that ended at her knees. Low heels, classy but comfortable enough to dance in without blisters or pain. She came ready to dance, the music affecting her to the point where she was ready to burst and start dancing on her own.
I told my friends I'd be just a moment and I started walking to the brunette. I stood in front of her and she looked up at me with that infectious smile. The kind of smile that makes you want to take the girl, hold her close, and kiss her. Instead I smiled back, extended a hand and asked, "Would you like to dance?" Not the primal body grinding my friends were used to but an actual invitation. I could only imagine what they were thinking, watching me from the table. I dared not look at them, my attention was focused on the girl. She took my hand and let me gently pull her to standing.
Still holding hands I led her a few steps to an open space on the dance floor.
To dance to music like jazz there is no rigid movement like a waltz. There is no timing, no pattern. You improvise your movements just as much as the sax player improvises his solo. There is no place for nervousness, you can not be tense. Find the beat, listen for the bass line and go from there. There is no strict hand placement, just a loose hold on each other's fingers as if one of you could go at any moment. Our feet kept bringing us close and apart. We were smiling and having fun. There's no perfection with this kind of dance.
At first you'll worry about where your feet are going, where you're swinging your arms, moving your hips. Eventually you and your partner will work into a groove and your movements, though vastly different, will begin to synch up.
She's smiling and laughing, letting out all of her energy she built up waiting for someone to come along and dance with her. Sometimes we're close enough to one another that I can feel every hot breath of her laughter. Soon she starts to infect me more than the music. Our eyes rarely break off from one another, making sure to match each other's intensity and excitement.
The song starts to wind down, the sax and piano playing furious notes, the drummer doing rolls. A cymbal crash and all of the instruments come to a stop. Everyone dancing stops, exhausted and excited.
The girl comes at me throwing her arms around my neck, whispering thank you's into my ear. As she pulls away she gives my cheek a slight peck with her lips. A dance like that is an experience shared, more than conversation.
I look back to my friends but they are already gone, leaving me to fend for myself. I'm glad though. Before the band starts up another song I offer to buy the girl a drink. I tell her it's the least I can do. She agrees with the same smile that's been on her face the whole evening. I can't help but smile back, it's contagious.
The band starts up again and we take seats at the bar. She introduces herself, "Mona." Drinks come and we hold them up, clanking them together with a, "cheers." From the look in her eyes I can tell she can't wait to get back on the dance floor, and neither can I.
This story is the shortest of the four, weighing in at only 4 pages. This one was written to the sounds of the album London Flat London Sharp by the Dave Brubeck Quartet, which I would love to dance to. Ladies, any takers?
This is probably the most autobiographical of all the stories. I did musical theater once or twice and absolutely hated it. Then I had a girlfriend who dragged me along to a handful of ballroom dancing classes and I kind of fell in love with it. Yes, I do find myself on occasion, when no one is looking, moving my feet to whatever music is going on.
I'm also adding to my list of traits for the perfect woman that she must like to dance. My last girlfriend hated it with a passion, actually she hated a lot of things about me but that's neither here nor there. It's 4 in the morning, I'm prone to rambles.
Also, if you're keeping score, this story and the stepfather story are both first drafts, so be extra critical of them, they will eventually be torn to pieces and put back together again in a much better fashion. Last Call and Walking With Your Eyes Closed are much more polished, but will probably be tweaked a little more before I send them out to any contests or magazines. Ok, I digress.
Here it is, story #4.
Learning to Dance in the Dark
I have always been fearful of dancing. Some of it has to do with me just being male. Culture leading us to believe that men do not dance and should not want to dance. Young men believe that if they go to a club and rub their crotch on another girl they are dancing, as long as loud, obnoxious music with a persistent bass beat plays. This form of dance is a primal act that I can't bring myself to participate in.
Boy walks up to girl, no words are spoken but his hips start to gyrate, not making any attempt to move to the music. It's a caveman courtship, if the girl does not appreciate the random dry humping she will move away and the boy will repeat with another girl. If the girl stays she will grind against the boy as well, a twisted teenage mating ritual. The music is usually so loud that words could never pass between them, only extreme, primal gestures will do.
Secretly I took ballroom dance lessons. I lived in almost fear, waiting to be caught by my friends to be ridiculed and outcast. They would tell me that real men don't dance, not for the sake of dancing. To them dancing is a means to an end. To them dancing leads to alcohol and throwaway women.
I would catch myself in the kitchen, preparing dinner, moving my feet to the one - two - three - four of the simple box waltz. In my living room my feet would move to the faster, more difficult movements of a cha-cha or salsa dance. My arms out, leading an imaginary dance partner. Whispering the steps as I move, one - two - cha cha cha - three - four - cha cha cha.
The classes were attended by couples. Older couples learning to dance just because it was something they had never done before and they were willing to give it a shot. Younger couples where the girl brought along her mostly unwilling boyfriend or husband. Some couples learning to dance for their wedding, the only time they will ever actually dance with each other.
The only time I danced before was my high school prom. The cover band playing some popular slow song of the time, my date and I holding each other close, swaying to the music, our feet barely moving. It's what passed for dancing at the time. We moved like threes, feet firmly planted like roots, gently swaying like a breeze was blowing through the room.
Because of the couples in class I would always have to dance with the instructor, Miss Perez. She was a sweet older woman, always telling me that I should find a girl to bring to class. She would always say, "No use dancing if you're only dancing with yourself," and then I'd twirl her or dip her, whatever the next dance movement called for.
A small jazz club opened up in what used to be just another dive bar. It took convincing but my friends finally agreed to go. They were reluctant to venture outside of their world of pounding bass and scantily clad girls.
We took seats at a table near the back. We weren't even there five minutes and my friends were already halfway out of their seats ready to bolt for the door. A jazz quartet was playing. The piano player was playing like a madman with the sax player backing him up with equal force. The drummer and stand-up bass player kept the beat.
My friends were nervously looking from their watches to the exit. I knew I made a mistake bringing them. This was so far outside their realm of comfort. They were wondering where the plastic cups of beer were. There was no stage for girls to climb up and dance, where boys could walk by and take a peek up the girl's skirts. In here the mood was light and electric. People were tapping their toes to the music, tapping their fingers to the beat. The music was frantic but you could have a conversation with the person next to you and barely have to raise your voice.
The best part was that people were dancing. Couples danced to the frenzied pace of the music, men twirling the girls, holding hands and moving their feet to the music. Everyone was all smiles, their feet airy and playful. The only people not affected were my friends and if something didn't happen soon they'd be racing out the door to the nearest nightclub.
A brunette sat alone at a table near the people dancing. Her leg was bouncing to the beat of the music and she had a gorgeous smile on her face. She had been sitting alone since we got in, no boyfriend coming to her from the bathroom or the bar. It was easy to see that she came for the music, the atmosphere. She wore a simple dark red dress that ended at her knees. Low heels, classy but comfortable enough to dance in without blisters or pain. She came ready to dance, the music affecting her to the point where she was ready to burst and start dancing on her own.
I told my friends I'd be just a moment and I started walking to the brunette. I stood in front of her and she looked up at me with that infectious smile. The kind of smile that makes you want to take the girl, hold her close, and kiss her. Instead I smiled back, extended a hand and asked, "Would you like to dance?" Not the primal body grinding my friends were used to but an actual invitation. I could only imagine what they were thinking, watching me from the table. I dared not look at them, my attention was focused on the girl. She took my hand and let me gently pull her to standing.
Still holding hands I led her a few steps to an open space on the dance floor.
To dance to music like jazz there is no rigid movement like a waltz. There is no timing, no pattern. You improvise your movements just as much as the sax player improvises his solo. There is no place for nervousness, you can not be tense. Find the beat, listen for the bass line and go from there. There is no strict hand placement, just a loose hold on each other's fingers as if one of you could go at any moment. Our feet kept bringing us close and apart. We were smiling and having fun. There's no perfection with this kind of dance.
At first you'll worry about where your feet are going, where you're swinging your arms, moving your hips. Eventually you and your partner will work into a groove and your movements, though vastly different, will begin to synch up.
She's smiling and laughing, letting out all of her energy she built up waiting for someone to come along and dance with her. Sometimes we're close enough to one another that I can feel every hot breath of her laughter. Soon she starts to infect me more than the music. Our eyes rarely break off from one another, making sure to match each other's intensity and excitement.
The song starts to wind down, the sax and piano playing furious notes, the drummer doing rolls. A cymbal crash and all of the instruments come to a stop. Everyone dancing stops, exhausted and excited.
The girl comes at me throwing her arms around my neck, whispering thank you's into my ear. As she pulls away she gives my cheek a slight peck with her lips. A dance like that is an experience shared, more than conversation.
I look back to my friends but they are already gone, leaving me to fend for myself. I'm glad though. Before the band starts up another song I offer to buy the girl a drink. I tell her it's the least I can do. She agrees with the same smile that's been on her face the whole evening. I can't help but smile back, it's contagious.
The band starts up again and we take seats at the bar. She introduces herself, "Mona." Drinks come and we hold them up, clanking them together with a, "cheers." From the look in her eyes I can tell she can't wait to get back on the dance floor, and neither can I.