I was out the back congratulating myself on a huge life decision I had just made when they entered the house. 12 CIB squad members with 2 police dogs broke through the front door and had scrambled through all 4 lounges, 2 stories, 4 bedrooms and even our secret escape chute within minutes. Nothing was found, 1 person was arrested.
We called it the fun house. It was an era that would last 2 years. It was all about dancing, lots of stupid empty beautiful people, lots of trivial conversations, lots of escape. It was where I learned about my ego and how much control I could have if I strutted my stuff and had everything I thought I wanted. I re-found my love for music and became addicted to dancing. I was fit, toned, motivated, and met hundreds of people who all wanted to have fun. My private quarter of the house was called the transit lounge. It was all about me. I was a 6 foot tattooed sexy warrior with a six pack and legs that could kick any door down. Surely I was due.
I wrote for a local magazine at the time…here is my first article:
I have been on the single scene for nearly a year now, and I can say one thing, I don’t like the scene, I don’t like the play, and I refuse to read the lines that apparently have been handed to me by default of my gender.
At what point did the dance floor become an arena for humans to preen, squawk, parade and present themselves to the opposite sex as done in the animal kingdom (don’t answer that). I admit that you won’t find a conversation in progress on the state of free trade amongst the stilettos, hotpants and sparkly shoulders you find on the dance floor, nor should you. What you will find however, is a group of giggle ridden girls and drunkenly confident boys who all hung up the one brain cell they have on loan before they hopped into cabs and entered into their usual weekend of gyrating and dirty dancing, requesting songs ‘that we know’…..omg omg I love this song…..
As far as I am concerned the dance floor is for dancing, and all you girls out there, pulling your tops up and adjusting your skirts, please stop occupying valuable dance floor space. You stand in circles, hand bags in the middle, lashing out every now and then with a shake of the shoulders and boobs because ‘that hottie’ is staring your way, breaking up into giggles, and then heading towards the toilets to apply yet another layer of lip gloss and chat about who looked at you, and who just msged…hold on..I need another selfie….
I have nothing against getting ‘dolled’ up for the night, but what I don’t appreciate is the mating ritual, that you call dancing, becoming a standard behaviour men associate with the possibility of a ‘score.’ Yes you can showcase not only your new outfit and how your body can protrude and rub up against your girlfriend’s body, in doing that you also perpetuate a norm that the rest of the female species is inflicted with.
I won’t blame the booby adjusting girls alone for his infliction. I also blame those men who stand back and wait for that blessed group of females, out on their girls night, to walk in and parade themselves. Do one thing, discriminate. If a girl is enjoying the music, dancing away, regardless of how hot you think she looks, do not approach. Another word of advice, if she tells you in very clear words, body language and facial expression to remove yourself from her space, do it.
I find that in order to enjoy my night out I choose clubs where I know the owners, security staff, DJs, or bar staff. Its unfortunate, but these cowardly men are good at doing one thing, checking who has your back. If someone has your back, they won’t approach, for fear of finding themselves in a situation where another male will remove their spines from their bodies. (What they don’t know is that I am capable of causing a lot more damage.) But again, it is all about the norm that is transmitted by these mating rituals.
Do I expect a man to walk up to me and ask “excuse me, but am I right to interpret your dancing as your effort to showcase the various parts of your body that you would like to expose on a more intimate level at my place later”?. No. Do I expect a man to interpret my dancing as an enjoyment of the music and simply that, YES!
Angry wasn’t I? Although quite accurate I will add. Being angry is being in control. Aggression is like bullets you can spray out to make your point. You feel powerful, you get your point across, but everyone ducks or runs. You can orchestrate people and situations one on one, but there is no beating mass society. Passive aggression is similar. You become a victim instead of a tyrant, but the end goal is the same, control. Was I in a position to do this anyway? It was my movie and I was the protagonist. Narcissism is healthy to an extent. You build up your self-esteem and confidence. And then you wake up one day and realise you have built it up so much you have alienated people. You are always in control when you are alone.
Here’s something else I wrote 5 years later. Its my farewell email to a man I lost, just before Metamorphosis:
When I was young I used to wait for everybody to go to bed before putting in the headphones and dancing to my heart’s content. Dancing to me was so much joy & freedom.
Dad used to pull me up to dance with him. He needed a partner for the traditional dances like the waltz. But that was it.
When I first started to dance in public it was only with the band playing. I was allowed to be myself because my partner was occupied. He used to push for me to go but laughed at the way I danced.
Then I was single, and danced alone for 2 years. I carved out my spot on the dance floor. I watched all the girls and boys dance with each other and was disgusted at how they used dancing purely to lead to sex. Or I watched a group of girls who had to dance in a group like sheep. It made me want to scream “Get the F%$# off my Dance floor”
Then I realised that I was out numbered. It was their dance floor. So I danced alone at home but it wasn’t as much fun. I stopped dancing for a couple of years.
The next time I danced was at the Christmas show after I met you. It was a social dance. I made sure I looked after the single men, so they wouldn’t feel left out, the dance floor caretaker. But I left you out. I didn’t need to take care of you, I thought.
At the work night out I danced with you for the first time. It was the only time I danced with someone and could feel like we were both equal and in the same space. It felt like no one else on that dance floor mattered.
I think dancing is like life. You can enjoy it alone or enjoy it with someone else, for the right reasons.
You showed me the right reasons.
Thank you for the best dance of my life.
Martin Solveig – Everybody
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