Robert Britt

            Author, Columnist

Junior High Dance

      I went to the dance hoping to find a girlfriend or at least talk to a girl. Truthfully, I don’t know why exactly I went. I went because there was a dance, and if I didn’t go maybe I would miss an opportunity. This really turns into the story of my life. Do something and an opportunity might arise. But it better come to me, because I’m not the pursuer, I am the pursued. Why do I think that?

      Getting back to that original dance; I paid my two dollars, or whatever the cover was, to get into the middle school gym. The gym wasn’t a place that was mine to shine in, under any circumstances. I found my way to the snack table and got a drink. That was a safe thing to do. Then I spotted someone I knew standing near the wall with a bunch of the guys. Another safe avenue presented to me. I strolled over there, all cool like. “What’s happening guys?” I’m still in the zone.

        Now we can make fun of the way some of the girls are dancing. Make no mistake, we are not about to show them how it should be done. We are cooler than that. I don’t dance. Well, take that back, I’ll slow dance. That’s the chance to really talk to a girl and let her know what I am about. Of course, all that is just happening in my head. It’s not like I’m going to ask a girl to dance anyway. That would carry a chance of rejection and I am not getting rejected. Sooner or later some lucky lady will notice me and ask me to slow dance with her. She’ll probably rub her tits on me, just to let me know she has them.

        It’s junior high, and it’s not like they all even have tits. Not yet. So I’ll stand here by the wall with the other guys who are too cool to dance and make fun of the way the girls dance, or make fun of the guys who are dancing. They are obviously gay. Why they are dancing with a girl is something beyond my ability to comprehend. Maybe they’re not gay. Nah! They’re gay. Back then “gay” was something almost beyond comprehension. Kind of like girls in a way.

        Flash forward in time three years and it’s pretty much the same scene. Only now it’s the high school gym, all the girls have tits (maybe not big tits, but tits all the same) and I am standing around with the same guys making the same comments. In all this time has a girl asked me to dance even once? No. Are the guys dancing gay? Maybe some of them, but not all. The guys who have girlfriends are all dancing and the losers are all standing against the wall making fun of them and wondering silently to themselves; why don’t I have a girlfriend? I don’t know about everyone else against the wall, but I only look at the grade A girls, the ones who like me just fine, as a friend maybe, but that’s all. The girls who are actually in my league don’t capture my eye.

        This is a self-fulfilling prophecy. I am scared of rejection because the only girls I would ask out are ones who probably don’t even know I have a pulse.

        Flash forward another three years. I am away from home. Now it’s not a gym, but a club of some sort. Now I dance, but I’m not gay. I am willing to occasionally approach a woman (they all still have tits) and ask her to dance. It’s scarey as hell. Sometimes I get rejected, sometimes not. We dance and maybe talk a little bit on the dance floor. I am an idiot. I don’t have a clue what to do with them. I dance, say thanks, walk away. Sometimes I ask them a second and third time to dance, they’ll say yes once more; maybe a second time, never a third. By the third time, they realize I am an idiot and I don’t have a clue what to do with them, so they move on.

        I never thought to go back to their table and just talk. So after the third time, the rejection, I’ll say to my buddy (I never go to clubs without someone to commiserate with) “what a bitch. Who does she think she is.” Or maybe I’ll say nothing. My friends talk to the girls after the dance, maybe leave the club. I don’t have a car. I am stuck. I will stay until the club closes and then I’ll ride home with my friends and probably jerk off when I hit my bed. I wish my hand had tits.

        Do all guys live like this? I know they don’t, but I bet a lot of them do. Guys don’t know what to do with girls. Of course, all girls are different, so what works for one probably won’t work for another. I hold the door for women and sometimes I get bashed for it. “What do you think, I can’t open a door. I’m stuck outside until some man comes along to get the door for me?” Geesh, I’m just doing what my Mom told me to do. Should I lose my head? Please don’t chew it off, I’ll slam the door behind me, so you can open it yourself.

        Or I’ll get a dirty look for not holding the door. Can I win here? If I cook dinner for my wife, someone’s going to tell me that she has me well trained. If I don’t do it, maybe I don’t eat that night. Are you kidding me? I didn’t cook for my first wife. She was not a great wife. I wasn’t happy. Did it have something to do with cooking? No. I’m happy now. Does it have something to do with cooking? No.

        This isn’t exactly autobiographical. On the other hand it is. Good thing I only have two hands, otherwise it could get messy. I think all writing is autobiographical to some extent. What can you write that isn’t part of you? I guess if you write news, it is less autobiographical, but it is still your take on what happened, so your life still impacts the writing. I’m not sure if I used the word tits enough yet. Ok, now that’s probably enough times.

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