Social Dancing

By Kevin Varner


The first time I ever saw men dance together was when, at 25, I went to a Boston leather bar on two-step night. It was a Wednesday, and lessons started at eight-thirty. I knew the basic steps and thought I could pick up the rest pretty quickly.

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My first dance lessons involved my mother as my teacher and partner. This might now conjure up all sorts of Greek myths--Jocasta, Clytemnestra, Medea but at the time I was too young to understand that. I do remember feeling particular discomfort when Mom would lead. The imbalance of power was great. I felt awkward walking backward and being pushed, taking the woman's part. When I would try to lead, she would get impatient with me and then start back leading, looking over her shoulder, not trusting me. I then stepped on her feet…sometimes on purpose. I finally learned to dance when my sister Kim, a child of the seventies also trapped in our good Christian, Southern household, taught me . She knew how to hustle, cha-cha, and to sway her hips with the abandon of a young woman longing for Manhattan and Studio 54.

Kim and I created our own Studio 54 in the family garage when I was in second grade. We installed black lights in the overhead sockets and attached a mirror-ball to the garage door opener. A strobe light was an essential item, and Kim borrowed one from her best girl friend Lydia. Kim put these visual distractions in my path either to test me for epilepsy or to increase my concentration. She said it gave the garage ambiance. Mesmerized by the swirling patterns from the mirror-ball and the pulse of the strobe light, I would lose count when we'd dance together. Then slipping on a spot of anti-freeze cured me of watching anything other than my sister's feet. I began to concentrate on the rhythm and the math of music, fascinated by the multitasking of dance.

We practiced together every Saturday after American Bandstand. I didn't want anyone else to see me at first; it was my secret life with Kim and she was lots less scary than Mom. She taught me how to lip sync with a hairbrush microphone and waltz to "The Rainbow Connection", sung with bittersweet wistfulness by Kermit the frog. We worked on the bump and the hustle to ("Heart of Glass" by Blondie, and soon, I could cha-cha to "The Tide is High". Something was being awakened in me, specifically in the area around my hips: I had begun to grasp the sensuality of dance. This was big.

Kim went dancing with her boyfriend Ronny. I'm sure she practiced with me to get better. I wished I could go watch and see how she moved on a real dance floor. I wanted to see how Ronny danced, too. I remember he had a hairy chest and a handlebar mustache. He was 18. He seemed so old.

My dance lessons with Kim came to an abrupt halt when she had a fight with Dad and moved in with Lydia. She came home twenty minutes late one night from a date with Ronny and Dad had locked her out of the house. The way Kim told it, she stood out in the cold for another twenty minutes, too scared to ring the doorbell. By the time she got up the nerve, she was close to an hour late by Daddy's watch. She couldn't convince him she'd been on the front porch most of that time.

Their screaming woke me up. I came padding downstairs from my room just in time to see Dad smack her hard across the face. Her beautiful, long brown hair splayed across her face, hiding it. Daddy always loved her hair and forbid her to cut it. When she looked up I saw she was bleeding. She'd cut her lip on her braces where he hit her. She ran up the stairs past me to her room and locked the door. Dad ordered me to get back to bed. The next day when I got up she was already gone. She didn't leave a note for me. She just called Mom from Lydia's to say she was living there now. "Oh, by the way," she added to our mother, "Tell Daddy I just had Lydia's Mom cut all my hair off." She finally came over to take me to lunch, weeks later, and she looked like Dorothy Hamill, the Olympic figure skater. It was the first time I had ever seen her ears. We were driving into town and I asked her, "What'd you do with all your hair?" She produced a zip-loc bag from under her seat and shook it.

"Here it is!" She smiled, teeth all wires and rubber bands. "Do me a favor. Take this home and give it to Daddy."

She was Samson and Delilah rolled into one, full of defiance. I wondered to myself if she and Ronny had sex. Kim lived with Lydia and her mom for the rest of her senior high school year, then got a job and a place of her own after graduation. Mom said when Dad found the bag of hair he cried. I guess she proved her point.

A year later, in fourth grade, my school had a Valentine's Dance. No girl would go with me, and it was just as well. Fourth grade boys weren't supposed to know how to dance. It was queer. Kim's visits home had been infrequent since she started working. She and Ronny had broken up once again and she wasn't interested in dancing at all. I was hoping they'd get back together before Valentine's Day--I needed more practice. I needed the confidence to stand up and dance away from the family garage.

"What if I mess up? What if they laugh at me?" I thought.

When I called Kim about the dance two days before, I asked her these questions. She came over for lunch on a Saturday while Dad was away. We watched American Bandstand to catch the latest moves, and afterward we went to the garage along with a handful of 45's. She flipped the switches that transformed the space into a discotheque.

"Dance for me,” she said, "Let me watch you." She lit a cigarette.

"No. I'll look stupid." I was nervous. I was rusty.

"If you look stupid, then I look stupid since I'm the one who taught you. Go ahead, let's see what you can do."

I walked over to the record player. I knew better than to try and stall--when she grew impatient with me she'd just leave. That was the last thing I wanted. I picked out "You Should Be Dancing" by the Bee Gees from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. It was the one that has the fast line in the middle of the song that no one can figure out. I remembered that once Kim and I had laughed till we hurt because we thought they were singing, "Scooby-Doo put tape on your butt Yeah Scooby-Doo put tape on your butt"...

"Kevin, I haven't got all day," she said.

I put the needle on the record. The music started. "Okay, first I'll do the hustle." My foot was tapping. Kim was grinning, her chin resting in her palm. She took a drag off her cigarette and tapped the ashes in a Cheerwine can. I started dancing, but first I closed my eyes. I imagined I was John Travolta. I imagined the garage to be ten times bigger than it was, and lost myself in the "boom-chick, boom chick" of the disco music.

Kim was in stitches. I opened my eyes when I heard her clapping for me and whistling with the cigarette wedged between her lips. When I got off step a couple of times, she'd stand up and mirror my movement to get me back on track. Pretty soon, Mom appeared in the door with a dishtowel in her hands.

"What are y'all down here doin'? You sound like a bunch of Baptists at a tent revival!”

"Mom, watch me and Kim do the cha-cha-cha."

Kim said, “No Kevin, I'm expecting a call. I gotta go back in the house.”

“Dance with him, Kim,” Mom said, “I'll listen for the phone. I want to see." We did the cha-cha to "The Tide is High". It's one of my favorite songs to this day. Mom clapped and wiped her hands on her apron and clapped some more. "John Travolta!" She kept saying, "John Travolta!" When Mom disappeared I asked Kim again,

"Are you sure I'm okay? What if people laugh at me?"

"No one's going to laugh at you. You'll be fine." She started to leave.

"But what if they do ?"

She sat down with her arms around her knees. She exhaled smoke and it bounced off her kneecaps. "Then they're probably just jealous that you can dance and they can't. You tell them they're all just jealous."

"But what if no one asks me to dance?"

"Then you ask them . You're the man--the leader. You're the one who does the asking."

"But what if no one wants to dance with me?"

"Then you just close your eyes and dance by yourself. Pretend you're dancing with me. You'll be dancing so good they won't be able to keep their hands off you."

For a minute, I thought about being a movie star and having all the kids in my school scream my name, want to touch me and want my autograph. I imagined all the girls fighting over my centerfold from the pages of Tiger Beat! “Oh my GAWD! He used to sit next to me on the buuuuss!”

"Am I really good?"

"Yes, Kevin," she kissed my cheek, "You're the best." The phone rang. Mom said it was for Kim. Who else could it possibly be for? Nobody ever called me...

"That's Ronny calling to say he's sorry. I told him I'd be here," she said and smiled, grabbing my shoulders tightly. She jumped up from the stoop and ran inside. Seconds later I heard her cooing into the living-room phone.

The big night came and I spent a long time getting ready. I combed my hair and used my father's Vitalis, getting a fair amount in my ears. I wore a red IZOD v-neck sweater and a white turtleneck with a ghastly pair of red plaid polyester pants from Sears and Roebuck, picked out especially for the big night by Mom. Bless her heart.

The gymnasium was nothing like I imagined Studio 54 to be. It was as if someone had gone to the trouble to pretty-up a trailer park. There was a wash of red, white and pink streamers and balloons, arching up to a huge cardboard heart on the ceiling and…a large disco ball . My heart skipped a beat. Surely there were also strobe lights. I bought my Pepsi at the refreshment stand and waited for my best friend Cookie to show up at our designated spot. She arrived with Dodi Spoon, looking like two peas in a pod. Both wore ruffle-collared shirts, knee socks and prairie skirts. Their friendship bracelets glistened. I have to laugh now at how Cookie was then. Five years later would see Cookie in high school with a shaved head, thick, black eyeliner, "The Cure" t-shirts, Doc Martins and an attitude. Dodi--well, Dodi pretty much never grew out of friendship bracelets.

The three of us fell into the safety and comfort of pooh-poohing the event before us. The gym looked like it had been coated in Pepto-Bismol; pink, twisted rivulets of crepe paper dripped and sagged everywhere. There were red silhouette cutouts of fat babies with wings, bows and arrows taped all over the gymnasium walls. Cookie positioned one of the cherubs so that it looked like it was shooting another cherub in the ass.

"Did you know they actually hired a D.J. for this festive barf-a-rama?" she asked me.

"Yeah--I hope the music doesn't stink," I said.

"Yeah," echoed Dodi.

Some of the older boys had started gathering by the water fountain. Cookie gave me a sly look. "You're going to dance aren't you?" she asked, challenging me.

"No.”

The look again…the “Oh Please Give Me a Break You're Such a Liar” look.

“I don't know. I thought about it. Why?"

We looked at the other boys, the young pack of wolves hugging the wall by the fountain. "You'll prob'ly be the only boy out there," she said, again challenging me.


"Wanna dance with me?" I volunteered.

"Uh…we should all just dance in a group," she said.

"Yeah," echoed Dodi.

Some song with a beat came on. I led Cookie and Dodi to the sidelines and out of direct sight of the wolf pack. "I'll show y'all how to hustle. My sister showed me." And so we did. It turned out they also watched American Bandstand, so, soon the three of us had our own show going on in the corner. We were in our own little world doing our line dance. I didn't even notice when Carmen Christopher came over.

Carmen Christopher was already tall for her age, and destined to be a homecoming queen. Her older sister had already won teen beauty pageants, and Carmen had just won her first trophy the year before. She had the poise of a flamingo, and looked like one this evening in her pink Valentine's dress. She never said a word to me; I just opened my eyes and there she was, dancing. She was doing the hustle. Her steps fell right in with mine. Of course she knew how to dance! She was Carmen Christopher, the most popular, most beautiful, smartest girl in fourth grade. And for just a moment, I was John Travolta.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" I asked, consciously trying to lower my voice.

"My sister taught me," she said. The light from the mirror ball bounced off her teeth when she smiled at me.

"Cool. My sister taught me, too!" I winced at having just given myself away. Stupid! I missed a step and almost bumped into Cookie on my left.

"Do you want to enter the dance contest with me?" Carmen asked, and my heart almost stopped. From the corner of my eye I could see the wolf pack looking at me, whispering and laughing. "They're just jealous," I reminded myself. I looked at Carmen.

"Uh, sure. I'd be honored."

I'd be honored ? What a dumb thing to say. The song ended and Carmen skipped back to her friends. The dance contest grand prize--the only prize--was a pair of free passes to Putt-Putt Golf and Games; coveted legal tender for ten-year olds in 1981. A few of the boys had asked girls to dance with every intention of winning the grand prize and ditching the girl, but I was dancing with Carmen Christopher. She asked me , and Putt-Putt was a million miles away. My palms were sweaty. Then wonder of wonders--the D.J. chose to play "The Tide is High". It was serendipity. Carmen came over and taped a number on my chest. She raised her arms in the position; she looked like a mannequin. I realized I had never touched her before. I moved into place and I felt like I could disappear in her. Her hands were soft. Her lips were shiny and smelled like bubble-gum.

"Can you cha-cha?" I asked.

"Of course," she said.

We never missed a step. At times, though I was leading the dance, I followed her moves as if she was suggesting something to me. There was an unspoken conversation going on, the weight of which kept me from ever looking into her eyes. And yet, the grace that passed between us made me never look at the floor. My eyes rested on her bubble-gum lips as they silently counted the rhythm. "Three-four-cha-cha-cha." We broke into the hustle, and it was only after I let go of her long fingers and looked away from her lips that I became aware of the crowd of students and teachers surrounding us. I saw Eric Staley, Tim Caviness, and Mark Ingle--jocks in training--stare back in awe. I was dancing with Carmen Christopher, and they were just jealous, that's all.

The dance ended, and just as we smiled and bowed to each other, one of the teachers announced that we'd won. Carmen gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"We won!" She said, "You're the best dancer!"

"So are you! I guess we have our sisters to thank!" She laughed and was soon swept away by her girlfriends, eager to bask in Carmen's latest triumph. We both got the free passes, plus Carmen got two red roses and I got a Whitman's Sampler. I never went to Putt-Putt with Carmen; I took Cookie instead. Carmen and I did become friends, though her friendship still didn't help me fit in any better with boys my age. Several years later, I asked her to the junior prom. Neither of us were dating, and there was something comforting about taking an old dance partner to this uncomfortable event. Carmen still remembered how to cha-cha, and this time-- I was the taller one.

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That Boston night I first saw men dancing together brought back childhood memories in a flood of confused feelings. I was conflicted watching one man leading another around the floor. It was funny and erotic, beautiful and sad. In coming to terms with my homosexuality, I never expected to struggle with feelings of awkwardness and the desire to fit in again . Those didn't seem like grown-up emotions. But, standing at the edge of the dance floor, I realized how much I wanted another man to ask me to dance. Apart from the gay disco bumps and grinds, I had not done any social dancing since high school. Now, 25 and in a gay bar, I began to feel like I felt when I was ten. My palms were sweaty. But, when they all lined up in their boots and cowboy hats for a line-dance, I joined in. I just closed my eyes and pretended I was John Travolta in Urban Cowboy . Only, instead of jealous grade school boys staring back at me, there were predatory stares from a very different type of wolf pack. Suddenly self-conscious, I scooted off the floor and bought a beer. The bar was awash with black paint and Tom of Finland pictures.

"But what if no one asks me to dance?" I heard my timid ten-year old voice ask. Where was Kim now? Married, back in North Carolina, her garage-dancing days long gone. Where was Cookie? Studying cello in graduate school, married, not close by to fall into step beside me. "What if people laugh at me?" I thought. There were plenty of other men in this bar who had been laughed at, ridiculed, bashed, and never asked to dance. Surely...

"Howdy. What's your name?"

He came up to me at the bar. I recognized him--he was the one in tight-assed jeans and a black cowboy hat who had danced beside me in the line. And he'd just said "Howdy". In Boston.

"My name's Kevin," I shook his hand. Hairy knuckles and a pinky ring.

"Jay." He was cute…very cute. Big brown eyes, and a mustache and goatee groomed to perfection like a topiary. He was drinking bottled water. "You're a good dancer. Is this your first time here on a Wednesday?"

"Yes. My sister taught me how to dance when I was a kid."

"A-ha. Can you two-step?"

"I think so, if you'll refresh my memory."

"I'd be honored." Honored . Hadn't I once said that? It didn't seem like such a stupid thing to say coming from Jay's mouth. He opened his arms and I was confused. Something, and I wasn't sure what, was wrong. Jay laughed at me. "You look like a deer in headlights!"

"Yeah, well--I've never danced with a guy before."

"I see," he leaned in closer. "So you're confused as to who's the top and who's the bottom."

"Beg your pardon?" My cheeks were burning.

He laughed at me again. "I mean who leads and who follows."

"Oh, yeah!" I said, catching on, "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Well, I usually lead. Can you follow?" There was something sly and challenging about him that reminded me of Cookie. Maybe it was his smile, or his eyes, or both.

"I can try," I said.

"Good man! Let's go for a spin." I stepped into position. We were the same height. Jay had white teeth, but his lips didn't smell like bubblegum. He was a big man, and I disappeared into him when he wrapped his arm around my waist. His big hand covered the small of my back. He smelled like leather. I couldn't look into his eyes; I was too self-conscious. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I just let him steer me like the prow of a ship, supported by his strong hands and sense of direction. It was almost overwhelming, but I trusted him enough not to look at my feet. We never missed a step, and the lovely mirror ball threw sparkles of light on the other couples around us. Each of them swayed together to the "quick-quick, slow-slow" like elegant princes at a ball. They were beautiful to me, and what we were doing was beautiful and natural as well. The awkwardness and desperate fear of never fitting in had vanished. In this man's arms, Carmen Christopher and fourth grade seemed a million miles away.