Save the Last Dance for Someone Else
Happy November Folks! While I continue to work on new material this is a post I wrote last May. True story! Enjoy!
Okay, so here it is. Last night after work, I decided to venture out to the local gay bar to test drive one of my outfits for Paris while also enjoying a gin night-cap.
Taking a seat near the dance floor, I rested my tired serving feet and thought to myself, "why is Ariana Grande's “7 Rings" such a big hit?"
After several delicious sips, I was approached by a gentleman caller whose opening line to me was, “I am straight.”
Replying, “that is nice,” I returned to my beverage and state of obliviousness as to what was going to happen next.
Taking a seat right next to me, it was clear this man's actions stood in direct opposition to his words. In the seconds that followed, he reasserted his heterosexuality seven more times before standing up and dramatically gesturing his hand out in front of me.
Confused, I looked down at his palm before my eyes lifted back up to his face. My left eyebrow furled in response.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“No,” I replied.
“DANCE WITH ME,” he said once again, but this time in caps lock.
Well, I can tell you one thing for sure, this man was no Leonardo DiCaprio and this was not the Kate Winslet fantasy I had envisioned for myself.
As he moved in to grab my right hand, I pulled back in my seat. Protecting my gin and sunshine knit sweater, I looked him straight in the eyes, chien à chien, and snarled, “no.”
What followed next I can’t really tell you in detail on this platform. He leaned in close to the side of my face and lectured in my ear how impolite it was of me to turn down such a progressive and tolerant straight man who was simply trying to reach out a helping hand.
Then, showing his true colours, in a quiet voice he proceeded to call me a smorgasbord of unfortunate names which curiously climaxed with the word “c*nt.”
More intrigued than repulsed by the entire affair, my mind drifted back to an appointment I had last month with an energy healer. Part of his prescription for my writer’s block was to tell three people to “F off.”
“Well isn’t this rich?’ I thought, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or a repressed gay man.”
Had this moment played itself out in another lifetime, I would have taken this man’s hand and in one dance provided him with the emotional support he needed in that moment. In this life, however, I took one long sip of my gin and told him to f*(k off.
Fortunately, he did.
One night-cap later, I walked home down Davie Street and could not help but smile.
“This outfit is definitely Paris ready,” I said.
“Je suis bulletproof.”
