By Nancy Swan
The lights go down. A thrum of anticipation sweeps the audience, then silence as surround sound takes over. The Ronnettes cry out, “So won’t you please be my be my little baby, my one and only baby, say you’ll be my darling, be my baby noooowww, oh, oh, oh, oh. The night we met I knew I needed you so. . . .”. Undulating bodies, pouting lips, sultry eyes with lids at half-mast fill the screen as the music crescendos. Girls ride their partners’ thighs to the rapturous rhythm, partners’ eyes only inches from lips and breasts as the wild ride continues. Skirts inch up, boys inch down, hands gliding sliding everywhere, open mouths hovering at bare bellies then traveling up to necks arched back in open invitation. “Watch me now. Push push, work it out baby. Push, push, you’re driving me crazy. Push, push, just a little bit of soul now. . . .” . Enter girl clutching watermelon wallflower-style, mouth open at the pushing and working and crazy.
Now enter Patrick Swayze, not swaying but thrusting, pelvis a work of anatomical art throbbing with a life of its own, sizzling, crackling heat, and the audience begins to smolder, the ambient temperature to rise, flames not far behind. Otis Redding strikes the match. “I’m the Love Man, that’s what they call me, I’m the Loooovve Man,” he belts out, and Patrick goes to work, eyes nailing melon girl, drawing her onto the dance floor where he begins to drill. . . .
When the theatre doors open, steam explodes into the lobby. An angel-haired old woman fans her face as she exits. “What a lovely, lovely boy,” she murmurs to herself.
Thank you, Patrick, for a lovely, lovely time.
Those Who Loved to Dance. . . Dirty.
Nancy Swan is a graduate of the Stonecoast MFA in Creative Writing program at the University of Southern Maine. She lives in Camp Verde, Arizona.