Start the night at the beginning.
When the speed dating was over we wrote little notes to the people we wanted to follow-up with. I wrote notes out to my first two dates and a few other women who I wanted as friends.
After some awkward “mingle bingo” a game where you wander around asking total strangers questions that you’re not quite sure that you want to know the answer to–such as the color of their underwear and if they’ve ever kissed a boy–our envelopes were ready for us. I got two notes: one from my first date with Cami, the Native stud, and one from the older bull dyke. None from my second date, the soft South African Stud, Noma! I spotted her across the room.
“Hey!” She favored me with a smile as I approached.
“Hey!” Damn she was hot! I favored her with what I hoped was a flirtatious smile. “You didn’t write me a note.” I hoped that came out friendly and not bitchy.
“I didn’t write anyone a note–my friends came over just as–wait, they’re ready?” She dashed over to the envelope laden table.
While she was gone the short butch woman, Casey, came up to me with her energetic smile. I smiled bashfully back, aware that I had not written her a note.
“Would you like to dance?”
Somewhat to my consternation, she led me by the hand to the dance floor. The floor was loosely populated, and by some stroke of luck latin music was playing. She was a really talented dancer! She led me through a song or too, but when the music changed to more poppy stuff I begged off to return to my sexy soft stud. (Okay, not mine, I only hoped she’d be mine.)
I returned to the Noma, where she was surrounded by a group of short thick white women–apparently teammates on her flag football team.
“Where’d you go?” She asked me.
“Oh, she asked me to dance,” I said, pointing vaguely at Casey.
“Would you like to dance with me?” She asked me.
We went out on the floor, but had barely begun dancing when she noticed the pole dancers doing their thing. All pretense of dancing stopped. as she stared. (I would come to–not hate, hate’s a strong word for beautiful talented women doing sexy gymnastics–but, um–let’s see, I would come to feel peeved at the dancers over the course of the night, as each woman I tried to talk to seemed more interested in those unattainable pole goddesses, than me, standing right in front of them. Okay, so I was wearing more clothes, and not undulating quite so dramatically, but still!)
“I need to go talk to my friends who just got engaged.” She told me, heading off into the crowd.
The floor was packed by now, and I wandered over to Jada, the lanky Tomboi/Femme I had met earlier. She was standing right under the Jewish-looking pole dancer who reminds me of my “first love” from high school. I tried to hold a conversation with her, but I was poor competition for that ass, I guess.
I started dancing off of a couple of studs who were dancing a few feet apart. Dancing off of someone is a term I coined for when you dance near someone, kinda vibing off of their rhythm, but you’re not actually dancing with them. Every once in a while the hard-looking dark stud acknowledged me with an admiring glance, but after a little bit her light stud partner moved in closer. Watching the two studs dancing intimately together turned me on tremendously, sparking this post, but I thought it prudent to move on.
I danced in Casey’s direction, but saw that she was energetically dancing with the 21 year old who didn’t know what my tattoo meant. Wow, I thought, if one of them’s too old for me, and one’s too young, what does that make them to each other? But it was none of my business, and besides, they were only dancing.
As I danced around the floor a random white woman gave me a cheeky smile before playfully feeling up and down my chest. It was so unexpected, brief, and without malice that it was over before I could decide if I wanted to protest or not. I guess it was okay. I mean, it didn’t hurt or feel as invasive as being felt up by a total stranger should have felt, but I can’t say I enjoyed the experience. What made her think that was an appropriate thing to do?
After a while I spotted the 21 year old dancing by herself on the floor. She gave me a wave and a huge smile as I approached. We started dancing. She had good rhythm and a colt-like grace. Somehow dancing quickly turned into grinding. (If you guessed this was coming, you’re more prescient than I)
I have a spot midway up my thigh which I now think of as my “cooch spot” that’s where the lady’s (and stud’s) hot crotch presses up against me while we grind. I know I’ll complain to my friend about my bad knees the next day, and she’ll say “I don’t know why you need to get low for these women,” but that’s why. I would go through a lot more pain than hurting knees to feel a woman bouncing up and down on top of me. For some reason I usually end up serving in this kind of dance-grinding–being on the receiving end just doesn’t do much for me.
Whip Your Hair came on, and my dance partner gave me an impish smile before loosening her waist-length dreadlocks, which she proceeded to whip in a vigorous circle–her glasses flying off and landing a few feet away. She hastened to pick them up, but on the second whip they were flying off again. I stooped and picked them up, placing them in my purse-turned belt pouch.
When the song was over we were back to grinding. I could feel my aggressive side coming out, as my hands roamed her thighs and ass, even as my leg pressed against her spot. I grabbed her ass, surprised despite myself at how narrow it was. Afraid I had gone too far, I backed my leg off a bit, only to have her pelvis jerk forward, non-verbally demanding I return to pleasing her.
Bouncing in time to the music, with matching ear-to-ear smiles, it occurred to me that, at least sexually, we might be at the same place despite our age difference. I’ve been feeling like I’m going through a second adolescence, being reborn as a lesbian, with tons of associated horniness and uncertainty.
Then it was time for her to go. I gave her a big hug. I almost swooned as I pressed my face into her dreadlocks, overpowered by that most sexy of aromas: the natural smell of black hair. (If I didn’t already think African features were dead sexy, I would be a chocolate chaser just to get as many chances as possible to be around that smell.)
We hugged and I gave her glasses back, dancing by myself till the music ended.