Dancing With The Lesbians

Tags

bar, bars, boriqua, club, clubs, dance, dancing, golden girls, hetero, in da club, ladies night, Latina, lesbian, LGBT, lgq, nightlife, nuts, Queer, rhythm

They look like they want to get the party started up in this b*tch! And you know what? I'm down.

I love dancing. After I strolled in early Saturday morning, my wife turned to me and asked “When are you going to be too old for this?” I’m pretty sure the answer is never. When my friends and I are Golden Girls, I hope that we are still dancing on tables at Senior’s Bingo Night.

I don’t think I’m too old. But there is another problem. I’ve completely forgotten how to dance with men. I don’t understand their rhythm or their bodies. It wasn’t always like this. When I was younger, I loved dancing with guys. That was high on my list of regular activities, go to frat parties, dance with guys and wake up the next morning to study.

When I was 20, I started making the transition from dancing with guys, to dancing with girls. Not like, straight girl on straight girl “ladies night” type of dancing, like real “maybe I’ll get lucky later” kind of dancing.

It was hard.

The first girl I danced with was another Latina, taller than me with long curly black hair perfectly styled to look wet and large hoop earrings with her name spelled out inside the hoop. A group of us met up before the party. Our conversation went like this:

Boriqua NYC style: totes my type

Girl: Look! We’re both wearing sneakers!

Me: Yep! Guess we’re the gay ones.

Girl: Hahaha!

And then she kissed me. She thought I was funny and a kiss? I was pretty sure I had this in the bag. We got to the party and hit the dance floor. I was too confident. Both from the kiss and the numerous compliments I was used to getting on my dancing skills. Usually I danced around the guy, daring him to try and keep up and then eventually giving in with some closer dancing. Which is exactly what this girl did to me. And I couldn’t keep up. Every time I matched her rhythm with my hips she would switch it up and leave me in the dust again.

I felt like a big clumsy man. It totally blew.

Let's play spot the lesbian!

Luckily, I now have plenty of experience dancing with women and it’s a pleasurable experience for everyone. Especially for women who enjoy being picked up ‘Thunder Down Under’ style. But that’s a story for another time.

While my lady dancing skills have improved, my hetero dancing skills have totally disappeared. Usually when I go out to straight clubs I try to dance by myself and deflect the grenades that come my way by ducking behind my friends. Once in awhile, I will dance with a straight man, if I notice he has moves I’ll let him dance with me. This happened the other night and um. It didn’t end well for him. In addition to being completely confused about the way this guy was moving, I also forgot that he had anything between his legs. Basically, I kneed a perfectly nice guy in the nuts by accident.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Yup. So, is it easier for you to dance with men or women? Ever almost give someone a significant groin injury? Erm…I can’t be the only one right? …Right? Anyone?

I’m Addicted to Getting Lucky

Tags

Bath & Body Works, britney spears, Brooklyn, Candies, Curses, Dominican Republic, Latina, luck, Lucky, Lucky Pennies, Manhattan, Mark Jacobs, New York City, NYC, Puerto Rico, Shrimp, Twilight, Victoria's Secret

Fuck yea Abe Lincoln!

I believe in good luck charms, with all my heart. I swoop down on heads-up pennies in the grimy streets of New York City for my shot at a good day. Good luck pennies found in the morning, on my way to work are filled with the most unlocked potential.

Does that mean work is going to be extra special today? I ask the Cosmos.

Squeeee! Yea, duh! Cosmos replies back.

Srsly Ronald McDonald House is awesome

A lucky penny means walking a little higher in my heels, breath bated as I negotiate through the throng of cubicle dwellers, migrant workers and homeless people on my way to the office.  I even take my lucky pennies into McDonalds and put them in the donation bin for the Ronald McDonald House, cuz dreams.

What are you, some kind of moron? You are probably thinking to yourself. What kind of grown ass woman needs a lucky penny in the morning to put her in a good mood?

A stupid one. BUT, in my defense, the rumor in my old ‘hood in Brooklyn is that I was cursed.  I grew up…cursed. La Maldita. La fucking Maldita.

Being cursed is tough.

So, in the interest of full disclosure, a good luck penny in the morning isn’t where my lucky charm addiction starts.  I need to start with my lucky body lotion, Twilight Woods from Bath & Body Works. No, Twilight Woods is not associated with the Twilight books/movies, it’s just an incredibly smart marketing ploy by the Bath & Body Works marketing team. (A tip of the vadge to you, B&BW marketing team!) Why is this lotion lucky? Fuck if I know! I got a feeling from it when I passed it in the store and it makes me smell nice. Therefore, any day that starts without it will probably end with my demise.

SO IT IS WRITTEN.

Anywho, after my lucky rip-off vampire themed body lotion, I need to either put on Victoria’s Secret Love Spell body spray or Daisy by Mark Jacobs. Why are these scents lucky? Fuck if I know! I woke up one morning and decided they were. Love Spell is everyday lucky, Daisy is for days I need an extra pick me up.

I round out my luck routine with a beaded blue and purple anklet that a man gave me during a Spring Break trip to the Dominican Republic. I’m Puerto Rican, for those of you who don’t know PRs and DRs fight like cats and dogs. For some reason, I believe Cosmos has endowed my anklet with luck.

Even style news can hurt.

But bitches, despite my lucky routine lately my luck has sucked.  First, I walked into the middle of a fight between the vendors that (live?) work outside my subway stop. The lady that hands out AM New York (cuz she is a lady) lunged at the coupon guy right as I walked in between them. Awkward. Plus ouch.

The next morning, whilst running to the subway, I came upon a plump older woman (60s? 70s?) wearing a bathing suit and selling herself to a slightly out-of-it middle aged man. Sad and vomit is my favorite flavor in the morning.

Another morning my dress strap popped (NO I AM NOT GETTING FAT SHUT UP!) on a morning when I was running late for work. The next day, my heel broke. Not just any heel, my Candies Heel. The ones Britney Spears wore in her first Candies ads. That heel. It was the end of an era. I ran out at lunch and got replacement heels, that felt great in the store. But then they made me bleed. Like, ‘my shoe is filling with blood’ bleed.

Stop looking at her abs-look at her feet-those are the shoes

So I switched to flip flops. The next morning, be-flipped and heading to the subway, I stepped into a huge pile of shrimp shells that were mixed with some kind of crap and discarded on the sidewalk.

Even the cute ones can hurt me

I’m allergic to shrimp.

Long story short, I’m alive. Alive and scared. I haven’t lost faith in the power of inanimate objects to bestow protections upon me and my house, cuz stubborn optimism. I know my lucky charms are broken. I haven’t found a heads-up penny in at least a month. I need some new charms, otherwise I don’t know if I’m going to make it out of Manhattan alive.