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I’ve never been a big fan of dance clubs. I’m not much of a dancer and there’s something about loud music and crowds of people having fun that I just find off putting. But a few months ago I was dragged along to a club by a couple of my friends.
Being the awesome, fun person I am, I’m off to the side, avoiding the dance floor at all costs. This plan is working perfectly until I accidentally make eye contact with this girl who is standing near a wall not too far from me. She starts walking toward me.
The first thing I notice about this girl is that she has a Caesar haircut. It’s like she entered a time portal in 1997 and warped into this club.
Eventually she makes her way over to me and she says, “Are you gay?” This of course is an excellent way to start any conversation with a stranger.
“No…” I respond, too disarmed by the question to think of a follow up.
“Then why aren’t we dancing?” she asks. There are about a million different reasons I can think of, but before I can even comprehend the absurdity of her question, she grabs my hand and drags me to the dance floor.
At this point, I wasn’t sure how to react. I’m not used to somebody being so straightforward with me. She wraps her arms around me tightly so there’s no escape. With no other choice, I start to dance, and by dance I mean I awkwardly moved back and forth out of rhythm. It’s a move I like to call the “Andrew Shuffle.”
“You look uncomfortable,” she says to me. It was an accurate statement. “Don’t worry, I’m married.” She shows me her ring.
This surprisingly doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable. I’m not sure what was supposed to be reassuring about her statement. I was even more uncomfortable now. When we made eye contact, she was standing alone in the corner. It didn’t seem like she was with anyone else. What kind of person comes to a dance club alone, I thought, especially if she’s married?
At this point, there are two thoughts running through my head simultaneously. One is that she’s a crazy married woman who came to a dance club alone to dance with awkward-looking strangers. My other thought is that her husband’s here and he’s not going to be happy to see me dancing with his wife. Now, I’m fairly certain I could get beat up by a moderately tough 13-year-old, let alone someone’s angry husband.
It is crowded and we somehow managed to drift toward the center of the dance floor. Her grip was still tight and even if I did manage to wriggle away there was a sea of bodies blocking my exit.
“You’re a terrible dancer,” she correctly notes after a few minutes that seemed much longer than they were.
“I guess I never really learned how,” I confess.
“I can teach you,” she says. I don’t really have a choice. “Have you ever had sex? Move like we’re having sex.”
That was about as far as I could let this go. A voice in my head was telling me to stick with it, at least for the story, but I just wasn’t going to simulate sex with a married woman with a Caesar haircut who I had just met.
I mutter something about checking to make sure my friend is OK, break free of her grasp and knock over the couples dancing around me like bowling pins.
I didn’t see her again the rest of the night, but I like to think that she approached another guy, flashed her wedding ring and told him not to worry as she dragged him onto the dance floor.