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On Dancing with the Wrong Woman

October 2, 2017

Aight boom, winter of junior year. My best friend and I link up to hit the function. It’s at the Howard ΩΨϕ house so it’s gotta be jumping. I can tell it’s gonna be a good night because we find the absolute clutchest parking spot - something impossible to do in DC when the city senses you’re just trying to have a good time. We walk in and it’s packed, to be expected. Trap music hittin’, walls coated in a thin layer of sweat, gives you that warm feeling on the inside.

 

Now if you’re unfamiliar, here’s the average structure of a black frat party. There will be a focal point, a space of critical mass if you will, usually in the center of the function. Here reside the most skilled dancers in the building. Women with the strongest legs, fastest hips, and most coordinated moves and the men with maybe the strength to match, often risking their own pride by overestimating either their own skill or their own attractiveness. But those who have their challenges accepted enter the focal point and do their best, often with a friend to provide moral and physical support in holding positions their flexibility otherwise would not allow.

 

I am no such man, I know my limits. In fact I prefer to stay in the periphery, where the dancing is less competitive and generally low risk. On the very outskirts are those who are too cool, too nervous, or too apathetic to join in the action. It also serves as a gathering place for guys who like to lean up against walls and hope, boldly, that the twerk will just find them somehow. It is also a literal space of rest, often for those who’ve lost their bodyweight in sweat gettin’ it.

 

So my bro and I have a great time and after a while we end up cooling on the outskirts of the party. We start to chop it up with this group of women from Howard, talking about whatever. Conversation is going well and then it happens: Make it Rain by Travis Porter starts to play.

 

"You wanna see some ass, I wanna see some cash, keep them dollars comin', and that's gon make me dance". As the intro to the song started playing, the  brothers of ΩΨϕ were still strolling, making their way to the outskirts of the party. The woman I was talking to looks at me, her face lights up. She lightly pushes me against the bar and starts to twerk on me. This is okay at first, as I have the bar for support and my energy was spent, and I thought she was pretty tired too but then her energy just starting hiking bro, she was doing more and more and then it dawned on me...this woman is from the focal point. I need to get out of this situation.

 

The following events took place in around 60 seconds.

 

She turns around and tells me:

 

“Get on the floor”

 

Hold on now, wait a minute now. My friend, seeing me in panic, does what any real friend would do; Nothing. He was still getting his easy going, predictably on beat dance right next to me at the bar deliberately not making eye contact with me.

 

One of the brothers sensed my hesitation, and notices that this woman, who is naturally his friend, has made a request of me AND HE DOUBLED DOWN.

 

“GET ON THE FLOOR DAWG”

 

The other brothers immediately take notice and circle around us. It’s. About. To. Go. Down. I am surrounded by calls to get on the floor before I even know what was going on, so I did what any self respecting man would do and quietly got on the floor.

 

Unsure of how exactly to lay I kind of lay like I’m on a therapists bench. I started with my hands folded on my on stomach but understood that’s probably not right and put my hands by my side, but that didn’t seem right either so I put them up behind my head. Perfect. She steps over me, does some independent twerking and then shifts her legs to the side and drops into a split, rocketing down on my mf crotch. AND THEN with nothing but sheer willpower slid her legs back OUT OF THE SPLIT and dropped down AGAIN. She repeated this 5 or 6 times and I just laid there like a fucking fish bro.

 

A whole circle is around us, hyping her up, I might as well have not even been there. The song switches and she stands up. She wipes some sweat off her forehead and turns around to look at me, still on the floor, shook. She extends her hand as if to help me up. In the only show of dignity that night, I chose to stand up without her help and kind of say “uh thanks”. Giving me a tacit nod of acknowledgement, she disappears back into crowd. Dusting myself off I find my friend exactly where I left him and all he had for me was tears of laughter, yknow, like a true friend.

 

Long story short, it be ya own homies who let you down in the end.

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