Dancing with Giants
The other day a bunch of co-workers and I were talking about the first song we slow-danced to and who it was with. Mine popped in my head immediately. The year: 1987. I was in 7th grade and it was my very first dance. My jeans were appropriately cuffed, my jean jacket ironed and good to go, and Old Spice hung around me in a pungent cloud. I had absolutely NO intentions of dancing with anyone that night. Not that I didn’t want to mind you, it’s just that my courage hadn’t caught up with my raging nocturnal-emission-inducing hormones yet.
So instead I hung out with a bunch of other terrified boys, popping balloons, throwing trail mix at eachother, and causing other mischief in an attempt to let off some of our nervous energy and impress the giggling girls with their huge hair-helmets and neon dresses. I was just guzzling down my 12th cup of punch when it happened. The strobe lights dimmed, and the most important power ballad of the last century, hell maybe any century, came blasting through the cheap, tinny speakers. It was “Carrie,” by the band Europe.
Europe, Right Before Embarking on their “Fear the Mullet” Tour
As the sappy opening piano chords played, out of the fog machine mist prowled a figure, clad in fishnet stockings, a leather mini skirt with leather jacket, and some sort of green bustier; Madonna would have been proud. I gulped down the punch in my mouth with an audible glug. Her name was Tara, and like about 10% of middle school girls, she was 13 going on 21. She acted mature beyond her years, and was approximately 8 feet tall standing there in her heels. We’d been flirting lately (i.e. I had once put gum in her hair and she had kicked me in the ass so hard that my tailbone nearly broke in twain), but I hadn’t really thought she was interested in me. After all, I must have looked like an oompa loompa from way up there. And yet here she was, standing in front of me.
I was terrified; sweat and gallons of hair gel ran down my forehead in rivulets. I wanted to bolt, but before I could she spoke:
“Do you wanna dance?”
I think I said something like “Fluh,” but I must have nodded my head or something, because before I knew it she was escorting me out onto the dance floor. We put our arms around eachother and began the lame-assed twirl that passes for middle school dancing (to this day that’s my signature dance move. Well, that and the robot). As Joey Tempest’s massive Norwegian pipes crooned on, I clung to Tara’s waist for dear life, not daring to look up for fear that I might actually have to say something or, worse yet, KISS her. The only good news for me was that due to our vast height difference, my sweaty head was nestled firmly against her budding teats.
“Wanna Dance?”
Finally, the song wound down. My hands flew from her back like I’d just touched the inside of a pizza oven. I knew I should say something romantic, but I just stood there melting in my jean jacket.
“Well, um, thanks,” said Tara.
“Schlaw flum,” I mumbled as I turned and quickly walked away on jelloey legs.
Needless to say, the future wasn’t bright between The Donk and Tara. Having been spooked by her bold molestations, I did my best to avoid her the rest of the school year. But she does hold a special place in my heart for having broken my “Dance Cherry” if you will. Well, her and all the guys in Europe. Um, that sounded really bad, didn’t it?
OK, so cough it up: what was the first song you slow-danced to?
