I quit the swing scene several months ago because it had gotten too Scene-y. Young men wanted to dance with girls their own age and men my age-ish wanted to dance with the young girls. If you stood us all in a line, it doesn’t matter who is the better dancer. It matters who is young and thin and cute. I’m pretty. But I’m also in my late thirties and covered in tattoos which can be a little intimidating I realize. I’m more of a pussy cat than a kat von D. Maybe that’s not entirely true either but I AM very nice.
But tonight was a big dance and I decided to go. I was having an “okay” time until a guy…lemme preface to say this guy hit me up on Match.com 18mos ago. He is a swing dancer, recognized me, a high school teacher, a crossfit stud and looks damned fine in a kilt. He asked ME out. But for whatever reason, he changed his mind. Backed out. Made an excuse. But I still saw him at dances, sometimes alone, sometimes with an age- inappropriate female. I asked him once if he brought one of his students to dance. Har dee Har har. Yes he’s part of the Scene. Still, we would dance, joke, chat casually. Tonight he shows up, gives me a hug and introduces me to his fiance.
What. The. Fuck.
Again, it’s not like he’s the love of my life. It’s just what it represents. What was wrong with me? I’m looking at his fiance and wondering this. Like When Harry Met Sally: it’s not that he’s getting married, it’s that he didn’t want me.
I left early. The place was stupid crowded and smelled like a high school gym full of unwashed jock straps.
I’ve replaced Swing with Salsa and bachata anyway which I’m doing fairly well at and so far, the other dancers are more accepting and personable. If there is a Scene, I’ve been invited to be part of it.
On another note, have you ever heard that the grocery store is a great place to meet someone? With this in the back of my mind, I’ll drive out of my hood to what I refer to as the Fancy Publix. I’ll stop after work when I’m in heels and a pencil skirt. Likewise, I see men in slacks and collars recently unbuttoned. None pay me or my salad and hagen daaz any mind.
As I’m unloading my groceries into the trunk, a blacked out sedan rolls up and the window rolls down. Dred locks and a grill like Lil Wayne, he asks me if I could use a friend. I have a lot of friends already, I say. How about a Loving friend? I have one of those too, I lied. But I smile and say thank you anyway and have a nice evening.
I need a distraction. Desperately. Dear G-d and a wish on the waxing moon, please please please… I don’t want to be a sexual camel anymore!