In the midst of all this rage, last Friday I decided to go out and dance. Sami’s dad finally found it convenient to take him for the night, the Disco Biscuits were playing, and who could resist such a thing?
It was time for my inner Party Girl to come out. Yet I couldn’t find anyone to accompany me for raucous and unwholesome behavior. For various reasons, friends were unavailable or uninterested in attending a Biscuits show with me. In an act of quiet desperation, I reached out to Mr. Booty Call (MBC) but by the time I thought of doing so, the rest of the tickets had sold out.
So, sure enough, I was going to the show by myself.
Why did I feel so scared as I drove to the show? Stupid. Everyone standing outside was so…young. I thought about scalping the tickets outside, and then leaving and just going home. But I was propelled by the spectacular electro-funk jam emanating from inside the club. I ignored the creeping sense of feeling old and alone and uncool. I worked my way into the crowd, and soon had lost myself in the music. I was feeling no pain whatsoever.
Towards the end of the night, a total - and I mean total - hottie in a jean jacket and dark rimmed glasses (I’m a sucker for guys in hipster glasses) started dancing with me. He was vaguely Mediterranean looking, just gorgeous, and I don’t think it was that last kamikaze shot telling me so. We were dancing very close, and it was tremendously sexy in a non-skeezy way. Together we moved up to the front of the crowd, right up to the stages, and it was wonderful to be so close to the band. I probably wouldn’t have been so bold as to push my way up to the front by myself.
“It’s all your fault,” he said in my ear. I could detect the accent and knew he was Arab. I have always had a weakness for his type, and I was completely transported dancing with him. Our hands clasped together several times as we were moved against one another, in a very intimate way, and I ached with it. It has been so long since I’ve had any kind of human contact other than a girlfriend’s hug or, of course, the Samster. I don’t even realize how much I miss it, until I do. I forget about my sexual self for weeks on end.
We danced together in this very hot, very subtly erotic way for quite a while, and then the band had the audacity to stop playing at 2 am. What the hell was that all about? By then I had been dancing for nearly 4 hours straight, with the hottie for the last hour. We parted ways as the crowd surged towards the exit for cigarettes and drunken conversation, and I never saw him again. I now regret not attempting to stick closer to him as the mob poured out of the club, maybe talking to him after the show, learning his name, getting the digits perhaps.
I guess I’ll never see him again. But that’s OK. It was one lovely dance with a stranger that I’ll remember for a while to come. It’s been so long since I’ve felt sexy, desirable, and that was a sweet validation that “I still got it.”
Welcome to this blog - my chronicle of the illuminating, character-building path of single parenthood. I'm making this up as I go along. My life is my practice, and my five year-old son is my greatest teacher.