My good friend, Puff Girl, invited me to a Latin dance party in the Lower East Side one Friday evening – and like any white person who’s incapable of dancing and dislikes it, I cordially accepted the invitation. The venue was interesting in and of itself. It had a large movie screen playing Jaws (among other classics), plenty of couches and stools, a pool table, multiple bars on the ground floor, and a Rolling Rock Gibson Guitar suspended above an assortment of liquor. However, the dance party took place in the basement of the venue.
Loud music, DJ lighting, sweaty bodies, and a transvestite eyeing me the entire night. It wasn’t exactly my scene. Being the only white person, I stood out like a black guy at a NRA convention. After consuming my 3rd drink, I was prepared to throw caution to the wind and test my sense of rhythm. One thing I noticed right away was that every person there knew how to move, shake, grind, twist, hop, spin, wiggle, etc. Granted, this white man can’t jump nor dance but I’ll try. In the sagacious words of Lady Gaga, “just dance, Da-doo-doo-doo.” Spotting two women dancing alone, I approached one, played a 5 second game of charades in order to invite her to the dance floor, and gave it my all – which was nothing. I went to spin her but must have gestured the wrong way because she got caught off guard and our motions opposed one another till they nullified. She laughed at me and walked away.
After consuming some liquid courage for a half hour, I tried my luck again. I approached the same two girls and gestured to my previous dance partner’s friend to follow me to the dance floor. Openly admitting this was not my forte, I relaxed a bit more and had fun. We occasionally spoke while dancing and grabbed a drink together upstairs. She was friendly yet mysterious in her manner, and fairly cute. Before I could ask her for her info, she pulled out her phone and said, “Okay, I might as well take your number. What is it?” How interesting is this? I thought. This time I’m being asked for my digits; must have made an impression. It was a great close to the night, or so I thought, until I was walking to the metro with Puff Girl (who spent the entire night grinding on gay Dominicans). “You didn’t get her number?” “No, I didn’t think to since she asked for mine. Mistake?” “Definitely.” “Ah, dammit.”
And so it was; she never contacted me. Now it’s possible she met someone else or woke up the next morning and realized she really wasn’t that interested but part of me thinks she chose to ask me for my number as a preemptive measure to avoid giving out hers. It was obvious that I was going to ask and by asking first, it gave me this false sense of, for lack of a better word, accomplishment. It’s a cynical point of view but one would also assume attractive single women in their 30s have some tricks up their sleeves. If so, touche.
-Single Guy in NYC