Cuz Everybody's Dancing and I Don't Feel the Same

Last weekend Julie and I decided, at the behest of our privacy lacking roommates, that we would go out for a night on the neighboring town. Since moving here, and thanks to our good pal "the recession" we have undertaken a miser lifestyle. It is because of this that we have been very limited in our adventurous excursions. Unlike the city, leaving the house and wandering aimlessly is much more frightful than it is fruitful. Aside from the occasional geo-trek through the woods, life away from the house is always costly (namely in the usage of the precious gasoline gold).

We felt that after months of being couch potatoes we'd splurge and go out for drinks and dancing with Julie's dear cousin Christine Bale and her friend Kim Possible. While we are no strangers to the Manhattan club scene, this was our first taste of some good-old, small town bump & grind.

I had heard once that pheromones had no odor, but discovered last Saturday that they indeed do. Likening itself to a combo of stale beer and the latest discount cologne at Walmart, the pheromones were out in full force and dancing the night away in Keene with us. Luckily I had Zane de-singled shortly after we became a couple. That involves removing any odor to attract females and injects a “where’s my girlfriend?” desperation gel.

Drinking with my cuz was a new experience, albeit no different than just hanging with a gal pal. I followed her and her friend throughout the evening to witness their “game” and boy am I impressed! I feel as I get sucked, I mean committed, deeper and deeper into this relationship I have lost any ability to keep up on the singles scene. Good for Zane, bad for me if Zane ever finds that wad of hair Zane replica I’ve been constructing. Eww. What we witnessed Saturday was a fine tuned dance of the sexes involving exchanges of talk, drinks and sometimes saliva.

I must say, the place was impressive. Half black light infused dance hall, half sports bar, the place certainly had the charm of an underground dance club but with actual elbow room. Like magnets, singles met, mingled, then retracted back into the mix to find yet another connection. Everyone seemed okay with this, and some even swapped people they had connected to in exchange for the hotter guy talking to their friend.While Julie was put off by all the meat heads and grey hairs in attendance, I found the ratio to be pretty right. With 90% of the dance floor being composed of college-aged girls, and a cast of colorful characters worthy of roles in a Homestar Runner cartoon, it was the best people watching we've had in a long, long time.

First there was Rubber Man. He enchanted the ladies with his crazy leg style of dance that, in combination with his patented "shirt dance" was a sure-fire hit with every young lass he chose to dance on. I’d like to explain the shirt dance. It was sexy, it was odd, it was creepy, but somehow it got you… and it pulled you in like no other dance could. Imagine the nursery rhyme about baking bread. The “roll it” “pat it” “mark it” blah blah blah one. Okay, now take the “roll it” motion… but tuck it under your shirt. Then work it up and down your stomach. No no, still keep it under your shirt. There you go. Now add your rubber leg movements and a “yeah, you know you like it” smirk. Perfect! If you feel you’ve exasperated all the shirt dance can offer, just send it on a little trip. Have it roll up high, like to your neck line, or down low, just toying the hem of your Hanes wifebeater. Now just let the ladies roll in. If you want to up your game, as Rubber Man taught me well, perform the shirt dance with camouflage pants on. This way, drunk college girls are mesmerized that your pulsating shirt creature can keep you so sexy even without legs!

Next we had Pity Sex Guy, whose entire game was to sit on a stool sulking the entire night. I thought perhaps his plan was to wait for his song to come on, or a drunk girl to try and pull him our of his shell, however this turtle had no intention of ever giving up his seat. Despite many men claiming to be a "babe magnet" he seemed to truly possess the gift for drawing females to him since by the end of the night he had a girl in his lap being made out with. Either that, or he was using the old "venus fly trap" technique. Little good that tact did ME in college. I should have known I was missing the key element "a stool".

I did enjoy one man’s pickup line. Never has the line “Yeah, I have a son who’s 18” ever worked on so many ladies before! It may have something to do with the fact that he was the most willing to open his wallet for a mere moment of your time. When questioning my cousin of the safeness of these drinks (me in the mindset of a 1950s housewife being concerned her dear little girl would be slipped a mickey) she replied confidently, “it’s ok, I only have them bring me bottled drinks.” I just nodded but… don’t those have openings too? I kept my eye on Mickey Man, but he never did any slight of hand, only slight of hips. Those shimmying dance moves would have wooed the pants off a Men’s Warehouse shipment.

Rounding out the creepy musketeers was the obligatory Random Old Guy. While he spent most of the night peering from one of the side tables and floating in Rubber Man's wake he did come away with a "late evening companion". While she may have been older and stockier than the median of the populace she was waaaay in his league. By the end of the night everyone had sufficiently rubbed against enough strangers to feel satiated. That is, except the last couple who were willing to give out their numbers in hopes of future pheromone sniffing. I have no concern that Zane will ever give out his phone number to anyone, seeing as how he hasn’t even memorized it yet. It was embarrassing enough when we first met he had to check his shirt tag for where his mom had sewn in his information.

With all the good sights our night could have been complete there; this however was not the case. Julie was determined to try out the shirt dance for herself. After dancing near, next to and around Rubber Man for hours, I came up empty shirted. My mojo was depleted and Rubber Man did not pick up what I was droppin'. Zane was pleased and I trudged on.

We all had a blast and picked up cute guys. Woah woah, I meant Zane I meant Zane. In the end I was the only one who brought someone home, but that’s only because I had to. The ladies had taught me well the intricacies of their seasoned mating calls. Next time we go out, I’ll be sure to wear more mascara and have my plumage fluffed ahead of time. Maybe then Zane can drive separately and we can just “happen” to end up dancing together. Maybe next time he’ll pay for my drinks, but not with the money he offered to hold onto for me so I didn’t have to carry a purse. (Yeah, I noticed…)

Unfortunately for Julie the town's motto isn't so much "what happens in Keene stays in Keene" but rather "thanks for coming, now continue about your usual business".

Maybe next time I’ll be ready to present my very own shirt dance. One can only hope.