The Wonderous Dating Game

by J. M. Mason

  My heart was beginning to beat like an insane drummer, my respirations were coming in short puffs, and sweat beading my forehead and my upper lip, the bodies were too tightly packed around me, increasing my feelings of anxiety. I was looking for a way to get off the crowded dance floor.

  The relief I felt when we made it to a table on the raised floor was so intense, I had to restrain myself from dropping to the floor to kiss it. I knew the floor was a filthy mess because I saw many cowboys with manure sticking out from under their boots. Cowboy boots aren’t called shit-kickers for giggles and laughs.

  Yet my joy at reaching our goal of being behind the chained in floor was like when Lewis and Clark found Yellowstone and other areas. The relief was so great I nearly cheered, ’Let’s get this party started.’

  When I looked around me, I recognized a doctor I had to call frequently with reports about his patients. He was sitting alone at a table where five other places had drinks sitting, waiting for the owners to return to them.

  By that time Jenny and Jodie caught up with me, they had been behind me. I patted Jenny on the shoulder to get her attention, so I could tell her to go toward Dr. Jameson.

  Dr. Jameson was sitting with his legs crossed, eyes fixed on the dancers and tapping his foot to the beat of the country song as he watched the dancers spinning around the floor, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t aware we were standing looking down at him.

  “Hi, Dr. Jameson,” I said. “I see you’re at the night before the open house, too.”

  He jumped to his feet to greet us. His smile widened as he recognized me.

  “Hello, Stella, it’s nice to see you,” Dr. Jameson said. “The rest of my group is out on the dance floor. There are others here that may come and sit with us. If you don’t mind, we can put two tables together, and you can join us.”

  “That sounds great,” Jenny hollered before I could get a word out. “It’s better than us using only three of the chairs at a table for six.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Dr. Jameson,” I said. “I’d like you to meet Jenny, Dr. Johnson’s office manager, and Jodie does her billing.”

  “Call me Mike, I prefer it outside of work. It’s nice to meet you, Jenny and Jodie. I hope you know how much a doctor relies on the staff. It makes it easier to concentrate on our patients. Thank you.”

  The song ended, and the rest of Mike’s party returned to the table before Jenny and Jodie could respond to his compliment. They were excitedly talking among themselves when they looked up and noticed us.

  “I like you to meet Dr. Johnson’s office staff. Stella is the receptionist, Jenny is the office manager, and Jodie does her billing,” Mike said. “This is Jerry, my business manager and partner, Liz, my office nurse, Julie, our record keeper, Bob who does billing and is Liz’s husband, and last but not least is Jill, my receptionist.”

  “Hi, everyone,” Jerry said. “How many of you ladies like to dance?”

  He had his arms positioned like he was waltzing with a woman in his arms and danced around in front of us. I giggled at his antics. He’d just returned to the table, and he was anxious to go out again.

  “I love to dance,” I said.

  “Let’s go and cut a rug to this old Rock-n-Roll song,” Jerry said, his eyes twinkling the lights reflecting from the Disco Ball. “I bet you know how to Jitterbug. If you don’t, I’ll teach you.”

  “I’m not as good as I was once,” I said. “I don’t think I can do this safely without taking off my heels. It’s been years since I’ve been tossed into the air and swung all over the dance floor.”

  Before I knew it, I was rapidly twirled around the dance floor. Jerry did everything but toss me over his head and between his legs. I don’t think either one of us would’ve survived those maneuvers at our age.

  When the song ended, we received a round of applause. We didn’t know we had cleared the dance floor at the beginning of the song, while the other dancers watched us from the edge of the floor. They must have thought that they would’ve been injured by two middle-aged people flying around the dance floor like a spinning top out of control. We must’ve scared the pants off them.

  When the song ended, when we returned to the group, I replace my shoes, excused myself to splash cold water on my face. When I was walking back to the table from the bathroom, the band began playing Pretty Woman, a Roy Orbison hit, which is one of my favorite songs to dance to. A man I didn’t know was walking by, minding his own business when I grabbed him by the hand and walked him to the dance floor.

  This song has always made me feel sexy, and the urge to dance was great; however, I never felt confident enough to dance without a partner in public. The only way to make dancing look great was to recruit a stranger, the fact he didn’t argue with me about dancing, delighted me to the core.

  He put his arm around my waist as he began to do the two-step. The tempo was too fast, so I pulled away from him and danced like no one was watching as he followed behind me around the dance floor with his arms reaching out for me.

  I wiggled my hips, twirled and skip danced around the dance floor, my mind filled with visions of a sexy, muscular body holding me firmly in his arms as he smiled down into my eyes with lust. Don’t ask me what is meant by looking at me with lust; the romance novels are marching with my drummers and me at this time, so help me go with the flow here.

  “Slow down, miss. I can’t dance this fast,” my stolen dance partner said.

  This man wasn’t the man dancing through my mind. I didn’t have to stay near him to dance, and he was cramping my style by trying to catch me as I was dancing out my fantasy.

  As I moved in front of the singer, I looked up and winked at him, then glanced over my shoulder with my eyes narrowed so I could look at him through my lashes and continued to whirl around the floor with a wiggle in my hips. My partner caught up with me in front of the bandstand the second time around, and he was easy to ignore.

  “You need to slow down, you’re going to wear yourself out before the song is over,” said the stranger I pulled out of the crowd to dance with me.

  He meant I was wearing him out because I was on a roll and loving every minute of the dance. The disco lights and the band made it perfect. If my pilfered partner were to succeed in stopping me, I would’ve had to kill him. Well, maybe that is too harsh a punishment for him. How about I would have had to find a big dog to lick his face until it was completely wet with doggy slobber? That’s worse than death for those who hate dogs.

  I threw back my head and laughed at what he said to me. I was in my grove, and no one was going to slow me down tonight. When I returned to the bandstand, I remained in front of the singer to finish the dance and continued to flirt with him, not caring if his wife was his backup singer, which I discovered later from asking someone who knew the band, she wasn’t his wife nor was she a friend. He flirted back and laughed which made me happy. It was good for me.

  The singer sang so much like Roy that I began to feel aroused, he succeeded where the flashlight persons failed as I was making my way to the raised area. This time my nipples hardened and stood proudly erect, I didn’t have on a modesty bra under my T-shirt, so everyone knew I was tickled pink.

  The experience was climatic and most satisfying time for me. It was the most fun I had had since my ex-husband kicked me out to bring on the young one to fulfill his wants and needs.

  Somewhere along the dance route, I kicked off my heels because they were impeding my wiggle as I danced in front of the bandstand. The singer sang the last verse and chorus again so I could continue to dance and dance I did.

  Suddenly the song ended, the singer winked, saluted me by tipping his hat as he pulled it down across his chest and bowed toward me from his waist. I turned delighted. Someone handed me my shoes, and I walked back to the table where Jenny and Jodie were standing to greet me.

  My purloined dance partner was loudly sucking in his segment of oxygen as he walked me to the table and
assisted me in my seat. It took him a couple of minutes before he could speak.

  “I would like to dance a slow dance with you when one comes on, if I may?”

  “I would love it. See you later.”

  “Wow, you can dance, Stella. You dance like you are part bushman,” Jenny said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You like the African beat more than the European beat of the waltz, don’t you?” Jenny asked.

  “I’ve always felt the beat inside my inner being, and my feet move. I love the fast beat of the drums. They are very arousing for me,” I said.

  Jenny and Jodie were asked to dance, leaving me alone at the table as the rest of the group were already dancing. I looked around the room and saw many people I knew. The bar was more like a family gathering, and it made me comfortable as I sipped my Fuzzy Navel and watched what was going on around me.

  The band began to play a slow dance, and my Pretty Woman partner returned, the others still hadn’t returned, so I got up and followed him to the dance floor. He smelled strongly of beer and too much aftershave lotion. The beer clashed with the shave lotion and made me gag.

  When we got to where he wanted to dance, he pulled me close and began to talk in my ear. His speech slurred; it felt like he was slobbering all over my ear as it felt like dribble dripped onto my neck.

  As I recall, I didn’t sick a big dog on him to saturate his face with slobber, so the dribble I was feeling was his beer-soaked drool. I did my best to pull away from him.

  “I have to come here alone, you know. I’m married, you know. My wife doesn’t understand me, you know,” he said.

  I pulled away from him, surprised that I was feeling intense anger. I put my hands on my hips.

  “Oh, she understands you perfectly, you know. She knows you’re a cheating jerk, you know. You stink like a whore house, you know. You drink too much, you go home and try to screw her, you know. She hates the smell of you, so she doesn’t feel like spreading her legs for you, you know. She knows you care only for your own needs, you know.

  “I need to use the bathroom. I’ll return, you know. Go ahead and finish the dance without me, you know.”

  I know I was making fun of his speech pattern by saying “you know” at the end of each sentence as he did. However, I had had it with men who believe we women are the cause of all that gouges them in their gonads. The fact that some men and women feel they are entitled to more than one person to have a relationship with pisses me off.

  My excuse to go to the bathroom because I had a need was a lie. It was my escape route because the bathrooms were located near the side door. I didn’t want to deal with a man who would follow me around the dance floor like a puppy dog as he told me his wife was at home alone. I didn’t want to hear that she didn’t understand him, and it was her fault he was cheating on her. He would’ve been injured, so I left the dance to protect him from me.

  When I filled out the papers for the profile book at the dating service, I didn’t have a pet peeve to list on my page. I now have two, men who believe they have the right to cheat because they believe their wives don’t understand them

  I don’t know what pissed me off more about the man, him telling another woman that his wife doesn’t understand him or his using “you know” at the end of each sentence like it was part of his punctuation. Both gouge me in my non-gonads and insults me.

  Wanting to yell at him, “Hell, no, I don’t know. I do know you’re an illiterate imbecile, that needs a dictionary to find what it means to add punctuation at the end of a sentence.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  As I came out of the bathroom, five or six men blocked my exit, standing single file nearly a foot away from the wall and about two feet from the fenced area where I was sitting, which didn’t give me much room to maneuver around them.

  “Excuse me, please,” I said.

  No one moved or acted like they had heard me as they were so engrossed in the dancers and the music.

  “Excuse me!” I said louder. “I want to get out of here.” Still, no one moved or acknowledged my presence, so I tried to walk behind them.

  They didn’t yield. In fact, they leaned into me. I had no choice but to crab-walk in front of them with my back to their front. This wasn’t my first choice of how I would exit despite the men who stood in my way. At first, I considered facing the men as I walked in front of them to leave the premises.

  I quickly vetoed this method when I remembered how men could be jerks. It was a wet dream moment for a strange woman to rub her titties all over his chest, or if he were short, joy of joy, the boobies would rub his face. Thus, the decision to crab-walk my way along the line with my backside to their crotches.

  Thinking about their dicks was the last thing on my mind. It turned out to be the one thing I should’ve thought long and hard about before I went by them one by one. It may have prevented me from feeling them getting hard against my fanny.

  My thinking should’ve been in tune of the little boy in the man, remembering that little boys like to do lots of different things with the hanging down appendage that God gave them to keep them occupied when they believed no one was watching.

  Example: Little boys love to practice their penmanship by writing their names in the snow when peeing in the front yard or alongside roads. The little shits have a great time seeing which one can shoot their pee the furthest without touching their pee-pee.

  There are only two examples of the little boy games concerning their wastewater. Most of all, they use it like a toy against anyone within touching distance. That member is the only thing they don’t need encouragement from their mothers to share with all who want to play with it. Hell, they share it when no one wants to play with it, then get to register everywhere they live.

  So, it mattered not if I chose to walk with my boobs to their front or my ass to their front. Either way, I was screwed, so to speak. I was destined to be the loser of this little boy adventure. These men had rigged the game in their favor no matter what female walked by them.

  As I moved along the line, each man pressed into me slightly. Again, I felt the various sized flashlights pressing ever so gently into my backside. At least they were gentle for this dance hall virgin.

  When I made it to the end of the line, I turned to them and smiled, then looked each one in his eyes and gave each a look my sons hated and called my evil eye. They backed up closer to the wall and drew together as a mass. I guess my eye is still evil, even though my sons are now men and are immune to it.

  “Honey,” I said with a coy smile. “It was good for me, was it good for you? If you smoke, smoke ‘em if you have ‘em.”

  With that I turned and pushed the door outward, I left the building and was glad that Jenny, Jodie, and I had made a pact to go when we wanted so that we didn’t need to explain what we were doing. Before the door closed, I heard male voices laughing, and I wondered if they did this to women all the time. If they did, it was good for them, though they were assaulting women as a habit.

  I was surprised at the anger that bubbled inside me. I don’t like being used. Filled with rage, I stomped toward the valet, I presented my ticket, and waited a few moments, fuming about what those men had done. When the valet finally returned, I gave him a dirty look as though it were his fault, and then drove home alone. It was either that or someone would’ve been left with a bloody nose or aching balls.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  First, it was the man whose wife was such a bitch she didn’t understand him and the men who took every opportunity to have an erection, making me glad to be a coward when it comes to confronting someone for their bad behavior toward me. I’m more a lover than a fighter.

  As I drove home, my ire increased. I began to wish I’d stayed and ripped the men a new orifice in their Netherlands or physically removed their dangling parts to hand to them after beating their noodle against the wall until it puked. Good thing my mom taught me not to touch that area on my own body
in public, let alone another’s personal playground.

  The visual of beating the soft dangling thing against the wall made me feel more at ease as I drove the last blocks to my home. How dare the men take advantage of a woman who wants to find a companion to spend the rest of her life with? Would they like it if their sister or mother were treated like they treated me?

  As I parked in front of my place, I was fuming again. I sat in my car, not wanting to take the bitterness inside of my dwelling to taint the atmosphere. A positive thought had to come before the guard made rounds of the apartment complex grounds and had me arrested for loitering.

  Suddenly, I found something to be thankful. At least tonight, I didn’t go home with my tail between my legs; therefore, there was no need for comfort food tonight. I knew I was better than what those men wanted me to believe about myself for what they did to me and more than likely have done to other women.

  Do men think we’re flattered because they are fondling us without permission? Do they think we’re impressed they can have an erection without the benefit of the love of someone, and then they so proudly shove it anywhere to get their jollies? Maybe, they would get a more climatic result by sticking their dicks in a light socket.

  Or is the bottom line, they can’t find anyone to date them because they are scum from the bottom of the toilet bowl. Again, my thoughts became bitter. This had nothing to do with me; it was their problem that they did their best to give to me. The obnoxious boys should be turned in to the police.

  With this thought I remembered a scene in a racy movie about a teacher who wanted the boys in the PE class line up with their penises exposed so she could find the offending member. I began to laugh. My whole body was shaking from the laughter because of the look on the man whose wife didn’t understand him when I gave my speech. No one had called him on his line of crap before. How many years had he sung that same old song? How long did he cheat his wife out of the love he must have felt for her when they married?