Tuesday, October 5, 2010

On the Dance Floor

I already knew what you were after the moment you said my name.

When you've been around as long as I have, you learn to notice the cues and hints that a gay guy actually drops without thinking.  Sure, some guys know a few tricks to seem discreet.  These are no longer the years of colored bandannas hanging from the rear jean's pocket to declare one's preferences.  These aren't those eager nights when the mere fact of where your keys are hanging from determines whose house you are sleeping at anymore.  With Skype making video conferencing far too easy, and graphic-friendly social networks like Planet Romeo, the thrust, parry and riposte of cruising is no longer the adventure it used to be.

"I haven't seen you for so long!"

You offer your arms out for a hug and I decide to give in.  You always did give a good tight squeeze when you hugged me.  It was never enough to just wrap your meaty arms around my frame.  You always had to add an extra tighter clench before letting me go.  There was I time I misunderstood it to mean you liked me more than you did your usual tricks.  Now I know it was simply something you did out of reflex.  Something that happened without a second thought.

I flash a smile but leave you the duties of carrying the one-sided conversation going.  Had I been more forward, I would have told you I was enjoying the DJ's new mix of the Killer's "Somebody Told Me" with Kylie Minogue's "Get Outta My Way", but your insistence to try and hold an actual conversation while on the dance floor deserved at least a moment of recognition.  Again, I can see things so clearly.  Had you really been interested in me beyond how satisfying a fuck I can deliver, you would have noticed I wanted to dance more than talk.

"You're looking good.  You lost a lot of weight!"

I cock an eyebrow.  You reach a hand towards me and cups it around my chest, close to my left elbow.  You squeeze and I feel your fingers each land in the spaces between my ribs.    I realize you are not going to stop until I say something or rudely simply turn away and dance.  I  decide to be nice.

"Lost that much weight?" I ask, giving you an opening to compliment me.

"It looks good on you!"

Your reply is too eager.  And far too generic.  No mention of how I had allowed myself to gain a bit more paunch ever since I learned to cook.  No mention of how my arms were less defined compared to late last year when I was doing my own rendition of a gym-bunny that had brains.  Clearly your brain was not in complimenting me.  I'm not surprised.

"Nice to see you too," I finally answer and you quickly pull me closer as you wrap an arm around my shoulder.  I ignore the fact that you lean close enough to take a quick sniff of my neck.  You always loved to do that when you had the opportunity to do so.  I still hear Kylie singing in the background.  I decide to shift my weight around, moving to the music.  You match my pace and there we are swaying on the dance floor.

"Where's your partner?" you asks and I am impressed that you know I'm no longer single.  I never bothered to keep you informed about my life.  You were, after all, the one who just vanished on me after I turned you down that fated night.  You was randy enough to give me what you bragged was to be "a blowjob to remember" in the bathroom.  I  shook my dick of the last drops of urine, tucked it back into my underwear, zipped my pants closed and said, "No thanks."  You grabbed my waist as I stepped past you to stop me from leaving the bathroom.  You asked a second time.  I shook my head, not granting you a verbal reply.  I stepped out.

I never saw you again until this very moment.
It has been a full eight months.

"He's great," I answer, then decide to add just to preempt any probing questions on how willing I would be to cheat on him, "We're great actually.  The best it has ever been."

"Oh," the pout follows.  Most men fall for it.  You know how cute you can look when you pout.  You maintain and trim that soul patch on your chin specifically because it makes your pout look even cuter.  Most don't realize how easy it is to counter this move.   But I do.

I reach up and cup your chin between my forefinger and thumb. I shake your face side to side and smile.  "Stop that," I feign weakness, as if I wanted to fool around but can't, but then dive in for the killing blow, "And sadly, the answer is still no."


"You heard me," I grin.  You blinks a few times, shocked that I read through you so easily.  Or maybe that was just the strobe lights making you look as if you weren't moving.  Probably was the strobe.

"Oh," you now frown.  As I anticipated.  I pat you on the back.

"Don't worry," I tell you, "If it is meant to be, you will find him."

You shrug.  I throw my attentions to the DJ and realize Kylie isn't done with her song.  The chorus was winding up one more time.  I sway to the song and you follow my lead.  Sure, you can't convince me to give you a good fuck.  And I won't be giving in to discover if you really can give me a blowjob that I will forever remember.  Frankly, I don't care.

I'm here to dance.  And only dance.
And if you're smart, maybe you will realize you are lucky enough to be the one I chose to dance with.
Or maybe not.

See you again in eight months?

On the Dance Floor
a quickie fiction by tobie



I love it! I love the way you match those words to make a perfect scene. Please write more.

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