If you want a good belly laugh check out one of the episodes of
'The Girl's Next Door' when Hugh Hefner is out at a nightclub
dancing with some of his girlfriends, bunnies, playmates et al.
Good God, this guy puts out less effort at his dancing then most
men. Granted, old Hugh walks with a bent over shuffle now so
just standing upright is pretty good for him, but I saw film
clips of his dancing from decades earlier and he wasn't much
better. Even back then he did the Junior High side to side foot
drag with truncated arm swing.
Well, Why should he put any effort into it? He knows for a fact
that he's going to get lucky that night, so why work at it? He
needs to save his energy. Not so for the rest of us guys. We
only have crossed fingers that our work will pay off and that's
not much to go on. Let me you into a secret here: No straight
man really likes dancing so much. It's all for the ladies and
almost always the last thing in the world we'd ever want to do.
The last time I was ever on a dance floor it was because I was
dragged out there. The times have been few indeed where I
actually asked somebody to dance with me.
It seems to be different for women. They dance because it's an
activity they want to engage in for it's own sake, much like
taking a hot bath. Can someone explain that to me? I've asked
women what on Earth is so great about laying in hot water and
all I ever get is vague evasions as if it weren't the bath
itself but something else, something else they were doing in
that hot bath all alone by themselves without their clothes on
... hey, wait a minute!
Okay, now I get it.
After many years, I've finally figured out a way not to disgrace
myself so thoroughly on the dance floor. I call it faux dancing.
Here's how it works: When I must dance I try to equip myself
with some distractors, these are distractors to distract my
partner from how crappy I'm dancing. My two favorite distractors
used to be to have a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the
other. Thus, every time I would miss a step I would take a sip
off my cocktail, another misstep - a puff on my cigarette, a
really bad one: Sip and a puff both. Then to further distract my
partner I would lean in and make some sort of conversation.
Of course, I would have to make some sorts of motions with my
body so my ploy was to sort of kind of mirror my partner -
figuring she probably knows how to dance - and sort of kind of
mirroring her makes it look like I do, too. When she would twirl
under my outstretched arm, I knew I was home free.
Back to Hugh. The guy's got a pretty good life now. I wonder to
myself whether I would change places with him and take over his
life, if I suddenly had to be an eighty year old man but with
free hot sex with pretty much as many beautiful women as me and
my viagra could handle. That's a hard hypothetical question, for
sure. But you know what? If I live long enough I will be an
eighty year old man and I probably won't be having hot blondes
sharing my bed then. So all things considered if I could
suddenly assume Hugh Hefner's life right now I'd do it, even if
I didn't dance so hot.
For some reason my letters, phone calls and E-mails requesting
an invitation to the Playboy Mansion go unheeded. Unheeded if
you don't count restraining orders - and I don't. By the way,
even though I hold the patent on faux dancing any other man who
wants to can use it. It's worked pretty good for me and it
probably will for you, too.