Couple’s Dance Classes: the gateway drug to swinging
This post is dedicated to the psychiatrist who asked me if I swing on our second day of our creative writing class (hey, where are you?).
NYC is ripe with dance studios. Dance studios are strange places. You learn how to sway your hips, hold hands and look into the eyes of strangers. It’s all cool when it’s done fast and you’re in the groove. It’s weird when you do it in slow motion. This is what happens every Thursday night, where I compensate for my Spanglish and strive to be a salsera. One-two-three, hey-it’s the ambiguous ethnic guy with the waxed chest and fresh cologne. Five-six-seven, who’s next?-why, the guy who likes to hold my hand with his middle finger like I’m a germ dangling from his nail. Couple’s dancing is a strange world. You have your two minutes of fun with a partner (or two minutes of embarrassing entanglement that you wish to be over fast), then rotate on to the next person. If you live in the city, there’s no excuse not to join the debauchery. Any salseras out there?
Next time I promise music.
