I spent a good two hours on the dance floor tonight. God damn did I miss it. Since I was driving, I let my lass lap me boozewise, and by about nine whatever European shyness she had wore off and we hit the floor. Aili started very body conscious, and honestly it bugged me. It's the worst thing white people can do while on the dance floor, the sort of ironic movements that bespeak a body unwilling to give in to the carnal pleasures of shaking a tail feather. But she wore down. And so did the DJ, who started with such aight cuts as Devo's "Satisfaction" and Gary Numan's "Cars," which made me almsot forgive my wife's sluggishness, but she was saved when "Brick House" hit, and both she and I started to get into the groove.
Now, when I dance I sweat, and tend to sweat hard after a good thirty or forty minutes on the dance floor. But I can't leave the floor for much more than a pee break if the cuts keep coming, and I will run out of the bathroom parts-a-hanging if I hear me some Prince. I took a song break to get a beer, and then heard Erotic City, which forced me to chug it as quick as I could (thankfully it was a Pabst, the watery beer) and hit the floor as I tried to tastefully belch as a result of the quick consumption.
By eleven, I was soaked, and Aili was looking at me like I was crazy to still be there. I think we were both damp at that point. Ahem. But The Rolling Stone's "Miss You" hit and I had to keep going, which is a better dance song than I thought - there's such a great predatory sexuality to it. Thankfully some Madonna made our exit palatable, and in the car we couldn't keep our hands off each other. I'm just glad we made it to her place safe. I'm just out of the shower, and my body is pleasently sore. Time to get some sleep, but thank god for dancing.