I’ll take a hard pass on Magic Mike, Australia’s Thunder from Down Under and the Chippendales, whose performances are self-described as an ‘explosive mix of entertainment and sensuality’. Because for whatever reason, nature or nurture, the sight of men flaunting their bodies while performing hip thrusts initiates my instinct to flee.
The first time this happened was at university, when my older, more worldly friend Darla suggested we go dancing. As you can guess, it didn’t take much to convince me, so we hopped in a cab and headed off campus to Plan B.
Admittedly, the name sounds sketchy as heck, if you’re thinking about promiscuity and pregnancy. But that certainly wasn’t the meaning because it was a beloved gay bar.
‘[Gay bars] are the best because you never have to worry about creepy guys hitting on you,’ raved Darla.
Which proved to be half-true because some wolves in sheep’s clothing still came to the club and two asked for my number. (Thanks for allowing my self-indulgent reminiscing about the days when guys wanted to date me, haha.)
After checking our coats, I was happy to be led around by Darla’s friends, who frequented the club. We held hands to avoid getting split as we visited the various dance floors, and at one point, we paused to get through a tight gap. That’s when I glimpsed movement to my right.
… What on earth was a thick-soled black leather boot doing at my shoulder height?
Apparently , it was stomping to the beat, albeit completely drowned out by the music, on the counter. Curious.
My befuddled eyes automatically clamored up the owner’s legs – so quickly, I didn’t register the significance of their bareness once they climbed mid-thigh.
And then, (I just shivered, I kid you not, from my warm bathtub where I’m penning this), I saw him shaking his thang. Which in turn shook his other jiggly thing in a banana hammock!
:a!£”%(08*£%(&£%(*&£%(*£(*£”(&%”$%$$”&”&”*&(*£$*^4! (<– That was a keyboard smash, just so you know.)
I’m not sure if he saw my complete deer-in-the-headlights look – or the one after that more closely resembled PANIC, since I never met his gaze.
There was still nowhere to move, but I whipped my head back left and attempted to catch my friends’ convo to ease me out of my shock.
It’s not like the dancer was trying to attract me, anyways, so I never felt guilty or embarrassed about my less-than-impressed reaction.
But, for the sake of armchair philosophising, even if it was me that the counter dancer intended to seduce with his moves, it’s still okay that I didn’t find them attractive. Because, while we must strive to understand and respect others, we won’t always personally like what others do or create, thanks to the inherent subjectivity of art.
While I fully support* this dancer’s physical expressions of sexuality and freedom in an environment that made him feel safe, it just didn’t appeal to me. (* I believe this gentleman was a paid go-go dancer, so the venue allowed for his footwear to grace the counter.)
And, I know this type of dancing still doesn’t do it for me.
Because when my husband went away for a ‘stag do’ (what Brits call a bachelor party) weekend, I flipped on Magic Mike. Which lasted all of 5 minutes before it surpassed my discomfort threshold. (Sorry, Channing, but I still love you in Step Up.)
So, do I find any dude dance sexy? Yep. It’s not an entire style, but for whatever reason, I’ve always fancied gliding. I can’t explain it; it’s just a preference – and I’m sure it’s different for everyone. Others may get weak from breakdance power moves or smooth rumba walks or rhythmic Afrobeats.
Go figure, sexy dancing is in the eye of the beholder.
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