The Kinky Green

For Naught

Posted in The Social by Joy on June 5, 2009

I hold the blushing bride’s veil, tiara, feather boa, and I watch as a hulking security guard, all-important earpiece in place, lifts her up onto the bar. It’s KT’s last night out with the girls. Her last real chance for public and sanctioned debauchery with her given last name.

My two feet are planted firmly on the ground, and I’m focused entirely on her. This outing is my doing, and if something bad should happen, it will all be my fault. So I concentrate on sending all my good thoughts her way…

Those platform wedges are perfectly safe for bar-top dancing. Even if they weren’t, those beefy bartenders or security dudes would stop her fall if she teetered. And the crowd? Their hands are up, they’d just pass her along to safety if she made it down any further. She’s good. Nothing’s going to go wrong.. As long as I don’t take my eyes off of her for so much as a second.

The place is packed with a crowd that must supersede any and all fire marshal sanctions, and I’m touching and being touched by no less than five strangers in potentially intimate ways just by standing there. The music is infectious, so I’m dancing by myself, eyes still glued to the Soon-to-be-Former-Ms.-M— groovin’ and shakin’ her thang in the spotlight of the makeshift stage.

I’m not entirely surprised when I feel a presence step into place behind me and take up my rhythm. We manage to exchange general info over my shoulder, but I’m put off at the start by the approach from behind. Burned by several too many wannabe-hotties with halfsies on the dance floor, I’m wary of the potential for the salsa rhythms to disintegrate into your run-of-the-mill, Rumors-flavored grinding. And, really? I’m getting too old for that grope-the-stranger-on-the-dance-floor game.

So when I see Ms. M— being helped down from her dance altar, I turn to face my partner for the first time and am pleasantly surprised; he’s not so hard on the eyes. I try to tell him over the pulsing beats that my friend needs me. I have to go. Before I make it away, he’s got my name. My number.

He texts the next day. Coffee? Why not? We arrange to meet later in the week. As the day approaches, I try to remember what my unexpected dance partner looked like and can only muster the vaguest recollection. I’m uncertain of even that and resolve to arrive at our destination early and engross myself in some handy reading material as I wait. Take the identification pressure off of myself. I’ll know he’s him when he addresses me. See? Easy.

But I’m sitting there, engrossed in my reading, when I notice, in my periphery, a guy sit down expectantly on the unoccupied bench next to mine. Certainly that can’t be him. Certainly he didn’t forget what I looked like, too, did he?

When I brave a sideways glance, I catch him looking my way and immediately drop my eyes to the magazine on my lap. Kink? he asks, tentatively.

I nod assent, gather my things, and smile as we set out for our destination.

All that worry about not recognizing my date and looking foolish? For naught, it seems.


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