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Just because he looks good on the dance floor doesn’t mean you should tell him, writes Ryan Perdio.
I’m a dance floor habitué.
Not a permanent fixture, but seasoned enough to be familiar with the milieu.
At its packed out best the place is akin to the Colosseum for sheer aggressiveness and ferocity. Much like a mid-week Bingo Bonanza session, unpredictability is an anticipated certainty. Anything goes, basically.
I’m also a short arse. And in spite of what my Gaydar profile might proclaim, I barely reach above 5’5” tall. Usually I have no problems with my height, but on the dance floor, my vertical impairment becomes acutely obvious.
Everyone just seems to tower above me and often I get jostled, shoved and overlooked. But it’s not all bad, as I’ve learnt a thing or two about surviving on the dance floor. Which is how I met ‘Ear Boy’.
Relegated towards the back of the room once again by the tall pushy crowd, I noticed a guy in the shadows of the club lights, standing all by his lonesome. In the dark, I could just make him out. He stood there while everyone else continued to bop along to the music. Just looking out, scanning the punters.
Once in a while I snuck a glimpse at him, pretending that he wasn’t being given the once over. Black hair, fair skin, chiselled jaw line. He wasn’t that tall either, just the right height. When he hadn’t moved from his spot, I decided to approach. Slowly I closed the gap and with some timely co-ordinated dance steps, we were soon facing each other.
I smiled at him and he smiled back. I started to move closer. He grinned even more. Damn! He was more gorgeous up close – a thick brow, green eyes, dimples.
Then the light illuminated the rest of his face and I saw them. Wind sails. Dumbo flaps. His ears stuck right out of the sides of his head like stiff paddles. Prince Charles would have felt emasculated by their size. I loved them.
All there was left to do was pick out the perfect opening line. Something witty and smart – a line that would talk up his somewhat uncomely feature into something fascinating. Something that would say I appreciated and understood. He’d be mine, for sure. Or so I thought.
Me: Hi!
Ear Boy: Hey.
Me: I hope you won’t get offended but I think your ears are adorable.
Ear Boy: My what?
Me: Your ears. They’re adorable.
Ear Boy: ...
Me: Erm, you’re cute ... ?
No amount of backtracking could have saved it. His smile faltered and he looked at me like I’d slapped him in the face. I made for a hasty retreat.
What was I thinking? Shouldn’t he have found that charming? He should have been flattered; should have found it adorable. What he shouldn’t have been was offended. Didn’t he realise I knew what he felt like? I’m short, damn it!
I guess some people are a tad sensitive.
I headed for the bar to get another drink. After all, nothing washes down a petite foot like a cold beer.
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