seem to have a serious problem. Guys want to dance with me. Not sure if it's my volumptuous booty they are seeking, but I am constantly battling with men on my lack of interest in dancing with them.
Take for instance this past weekend. I'm sitting in a club, in a booth, with six friends. A guy sits down at our table and begins to ask me questions about how I'm doing. Behind him stands a young man in his "dad's" blazer, a pair of horrible jeans, and a beaded necklace. I soon figure out that the horrible blazer wearing dude is waiting to dance with me and has sent in his minion to do the dirty work by convincing me to dance.
Suddenly I find myself being asked to dance, over and over and over, even though my answer remains NO. I start out polite and become increasingly insistant that this would not be a good idea. I know the evil woman that I can become if forced to do something I don't want to do.
"But he picked you out of the whole bar," his friend says as my six friends stand around me batting their lashes and shaking their head slowly at my answer. "You have to go," one girl says. So once again, I am guilted into dancing with a man/boy I have no interest on earth dancing with. Oh, but it gets better.
He wants to two-step, something i do not understand, to a Sublime song. Did you hear me? A Sublime song!! So now I am two stepping, (which involves him taking tiny steps across the dance floor with me following him) when I didn't want to, with a guy I have no interest in. Then he begins to spin me. Take into consideration that I have be drinking all night, am exhausted, DIDN"T WANT TO DANCE, and then picture in your head him spinning me as I come within inches of busting my ass. "Don't do that again," I yell at him.
Then comes the good stuff, he wants to pull me close so I can smell his cheap cologne, and he tries to rub on my leg. He grabs my butt, and I grab his hand and place it on my side. "What?" he asks, and puts it back on my butt. "NO!" I yell at him. And the song ends all too soon as I have begun contemplating smashing his grin into his mouth.
But this isn't the only complaint I have with guys wanting to dance with me that night. Oh there are the weirdos that stand beside you in a crowd and stare at you (oh, and they aren't dancing, just staring, ALECIA, you know exactly who I'm talking about). Just waiting for you to turn around and face them so they can take a step through your legs and grind on you.
I do not understand how the most insecure, shy, inappropriate men can become so gutsy when it comes to asking a girl to dance. And for some reason, they NEVER take no for an answer. Don't they realize they are dancing with someone who obviously didn't want to dance in the first place? Do they think we will change our mind because, damn, he can two-step so well?!!
In conclusion, if you see me sittting alone at a bar, PLEASE, don't ask me to dance.
On Not Flying to Hawaii
I could be the waitress
in the airport restaurant
full of tired cigarette smoke and unseeing tourists.
I could turn into the never-noticed landscape
hanging identically in all the booths
or the customer behind the Chronicle
who has been giving advice
about stock portfolios for forty years. I could be his mortal weariness,
his discarded sports section, his smoldering ashtray.
I could be the 70-year-old woman who has never seen Hawaii,
touching her red lipstick and sprayed hair.
I could enter the linen dress
that poofs around her body like a bridesmaid,
or become her gay son
sitting opposite her, stirring another sugar
into his coffee for lack of something true to say.
I could be the reincarnated soul of the composer
of the Muzak that plays relentlessly overhead,
or the factory worker who wove this fake Oriental carpet,
or the hushed shoes of the busboy.
But I don't want to be the life of anything in this pitstop.
I want to go to Hawaii, the wet, hot
impossible place in my heart that knows just what it desires.
I want money, I want candy.
I want sweet ukelele music and birds who drop from the sky.
I want to be the volcano who lavishes
her boiling rock soup love on everyone,
and I want to be the lover
of volcanos, who loves best what burns her as it flows.
Alison Luterman
in the airport restaurant
full of tired cigarette smoke and unseeing tourists.
I could turn into the never-noticed landscape
hanging identically in all the booths
or the customer behind the Chronicle
who has been giving advice
about stock portfolios for forty years. I could be his mortal weariness,
his discarded sports section, his smoldering ashtray.
I could be the 70-year-old woman who has never seen Hawaii,
touching her red lipstick and sprayed hair.
I could enter the linen dress
that poofs around her body like a bridesmaid,
or become her gay son
sitting opposite her, stirring another sugar
into his coffee for lack of something true to say.
I could be the reincarnated soul of the composer
of the Muzak that plays relentlessly overhead,
or the factory worker who wove this fake Oriental carpet,
or the hushed shoes of the busboy.
But I don't want to be the life of anything in this pitstop.
I want to go to Hawaii, the wet, hot
impossible place in my heart that knows just what it desires.
I want money, I want candy.
I want sweet ukelele music and birds who drop from the sky.
I want to be the volcano who lavishes
her boiling rock soup love on everyone,
and I want to be the lover
of volcanos, who loves best what burns her as it flows.
Alison Luterman
No comments:
Post a Comment