It was a day not unlike any other, Classes were intriguing though of course I felt myself slipping into the realm of tedium by the end. In the early evening I went outside as I sometimes do, to smoke, a habit I'm not proud of. Because lets face it, ladies love to snuggle up to a warm fire, but not breath that smells like charred ass. Health and hygiene issues aside, it is an unofficial rule of mine not to smoke alone. Somehow it seems a little less detestable if you can share your imperfections with someone else. On this day however I was smoking alone, And apparently I had drawn negative attention to myself because a female acquaintance of mine stopped to ask if something was wrong.
Seizing the opportunity I proceeded to schmooze with this person (have to keep my options open). I wined her and dined her with the lightest utterance from my smooth baritone voice, because somehow I know just talking to me is analogous to a nice seafood dinner. Ok so that was a blatant lie, but every tale needs a little embellishment. She was interesting and I was at least interested on a platonic level, which made small talk easy (perhaps the our initial meeting will be the subject of another post). Soon though another gentleman would come along, the catalyst of my downward spiral.
He was a bearded fellow, about average height with glasses. He was also sporting a gray-green faux-military jacket and matching bandana. Perhaps most interesting about his appearance was his beret. In combination with the rest of his attire the beret made him look like a gay guerilla fighter from Ireland, strictly based on looks he could have been a member of the Village People. More importantly though he was listening to his iPod through small speakers so that the world, including myself, could hear "The Bad Touch." Attention sufficiently drawn he began to dance for the two girls he was traveling with.
It's an old trick every white man should be accustomed to. Since it is common knowledge that we while males possess no skill in this area, the white-man-dance is reserved only for comedic purposes. And I'm not going to lie this guy was bad. Yet there was almost something graceful to his lack of rhythm and the hodgepodge choreography of dances that were either never in, or hadn't been for twenty years. In that moment something came over me, I tried to ignore it but for some inexplicable reason I too felt compelled to dance. Something about the thumping bass and lyrics rife with double entendre made me want to boogie down or get low or whatever the kids are calling it these days.
The urge was just too strong, the music was calling me and finally I joined my brother in what can only be described as a mixture of a chicken running around with its head cut off and a wacky-flailing-inflatable-arm-tube-man, you know, the kind outside car dealerships. I pulled out all the right (or wrong) moves, the Q-tip, the shopping cart and yes even the lawnmower. It was just when I was getting around to the 'peanut butter jelly time' dance that three gorgeous girls walked out of my building. It was an out of body experience I tell you, I saw myself dancing and I saw them walk out at the same time. PLEASE STOP! I found myself willing my body to cease the convulsions.
But it was too late, from them I received simultaneously the most disgusted, most puzzled look I had ever seen on the face of another human being. They were in perfect unison with their emasculating stares; it was like being hit over the head with two-by-fours one after another. And I knew it was over, I knew the moment they walked out and saw me in such a natural and vulnerable state that I would never, ever. . . have a chance at having sex with any of them.
