Trigger Warning.

Oops.

I was on track to keep going through September.  Really.  I was.  Up until my birthday, when I missed an entire weekend +.  Well, hey - no problem.  I'll just back-date some posts to make up for it. My blog, my rules, right?  Right.  Except, that never happened, and I got too disheartened to make the attempt, and it kept slipping away from me.

That's life.  Stuff slips away.

I'm disappointed in myself for a couple of reasons, first and foremost that I didn't meet my record for even Year 2.  Second, there were a few entries that I had every intention of posting for artistic and personal reasons.

As punishment, here's one that I lost sleep over while wavering about making it public, and yet still strongly wanted to post.

Confession:  I am not a great dancer.

Confession:  I am a glutton for misery.

***N.S.F.W. -- You have been warned.***

Those two are related, I promise.  I'm getting to it.  But lemme rewind about 2 years.

As a good deal many of you know, I started signing up for ballroom dance lessons while I was in Jersey, partly because it was something I had flirted with in college and enjoyed, partly because I was lonely and wanted to make new friends, and partly because dance is an exquisite art.  The human body in motion is a living canvas.

When I told a friend that I had started with salsa, they gave me an approving nod.  After all, they had done some swing and salsa back when they were my age, and they had had quite a lot of fun with it. Oh - and, it was probably a great way to meet guys.

"Good dancers are probably awesome at sex," they speculated.  "They know how to move a person the right ways [on the dance floor].  I bet it probably translates to the bed."

Confession:  I know this to be false.

I'm getting to it.  Promise.  Bear with.

I started going to social dances within the first few months of taking lessons.  No better way to learn than to actually try to apply the lessons.  Dear readers - I was shite my first few times on the floor.  I was nervous and clumsy, and all my repertoire really consisted of was the basic set of moves for each dance.  Few of the more experienced people were all that interested in dancing with me, except instructors and some of the older folks who saw me struggling and gladly taught me a few moves, as someone had once done with them.

But, I stuck it out.  And you know what?  Believe it or not, I got better.  I learned to follow with more confidence, I picked up more moves in class, and while I was still a pretty basic dancer at socials, I wasn't totally inept.  More people wanted to dance with me.  More good dancers wanted to dance with me.

It was a casual Friday night at the studio, and I was doing alright for the evening.  I hadn't stood up every song, but the ones that I did, I made count.  One guy took notice of me and offered me a hand.  I had seen him at plenty socials before, always dancing with the most talented girls, gliding along the floor like a pro.  Actually - truth be told, I'd met him at my very first social and remembered him to a small degree.  I wasn't slighted at him not remembering me - I have a good memory for names and faces, almost to a creepy extent.  I'm used to being forgotten.

So, I stood up with him, and we danced.  I wasn't a remarkable dancer.  I never have been.  But I followed his cues and matched pace with him as best I could.  And when the song ended, to my surprise, he didn't lead me back to my seat.  He asked me for another dance.  And another.  And another.

By the fourth, I was pretty winded and had to excuse myself for some water and a chair.  Still, I was giddy.  I was dancing well, and I was dancing with someone who knew exactly what they were doing. How can I explain the feeling?  It wasn't a physical attraction (hang on.) but it felt like... floating.  I liked the way it felt.  It made me feel like a good dancer.  And, yes, frankly, I didn't find him unattractive either.

Two songs and a glass of water later, he asked me for another dance to a much saucier song.  I accepted.  His movements were different.  No less talented, but far more ... intimate.  By the time he dipped me and let his nose brush against mine, I knew exactly what he wanted.

"What are you doing tonight?"

I wish I had said no.  I wish I had come up with some witty excuse as to why I couldn't.  If I had, I wouldn't be writing this, now.

Good dancers must know how to move in bed, my friend had conjectured, having never experimented themselves. I tested this hypothesis, and this is what the evidence has shown me.  A good dancer knows how to move a capable partner the right way so that the dancer makes themselves look good.  A good dancer knows how to make themselves feel good.

He doesn't have any idea how to make you feel good.  He thinks he does, of course, because he's so talented, and he must be doing the right things.  And he's on top of you, naked, and something is pressed against your thigh, and you shout, "Condom!" because you don't know him and he hasn't even bothered asking if you're on oral contraception or if you're clean.  And he grudgingly listens before he slaps your flesh without asking if that's what you're into but it doesn't matter because he knows what he's doing.  And then he's inside and grunting but only half-heartedly because it doesn't feel good so he asks if he can take it off but you shout, "No," because he still hasn't bothered asking if you're on the pill or if you've even had your period recently and if he was actually a fucking scientist like the PhD from Princeton that he's studying for would suggest he would know that coitus interruptus is bullshit but he doesn't care.  He pulls out, takes it off, then shoves it back inside, this time without asking, and grunting because it finally feels good, but not for you because you're terrified and you're drying up faster than a puddle in the Sahara.  And your voice is caught in your throat and you don't know what to do.  All you know is that it hurts but you don't want it to hurt more so you don't say anything and you're screaming, not because it feels good, but because it's starting to burn, and finally you shout, "Stop!"

And he does.

And then you wonder why you didn't say stop in the first place until his hand is on your head pushing you down until your mouth is somewhere you don't want it to be and you never asked it to be and there are things that you should be doing but you can't concentrate and logic is gone and you just want it to be over.

Just like that, it's over.  What felt like eons was only minutes, and you lie on your back as he cuddles with you, like it's the right thing to do, and you let him because your body isn't moving right yet. He's asking for your number and making pillow talk and asking if you want to stay the night, and you politely say no, gather your clothes, and leave.  Somehow you drive home on autopilot, stopping at all the red lights, making all the right exits, until you're home.

For a moment, you think you're safe.

And then it all comes crashing down on you what you did and what you didn't stop and you boil the water in the shower until it turns your skin to lobster-red but you don't care because you deserve this you idiot why didn't you stop him why did you go over why didn't you just say No louder and harder. If you had just used your words, he would have stopped.  He would have stopped and you wouldn't have had to wake up hating yourself.

I've gone through some deprogramming since that day.  An intervention and a lot of talking.  "It's not your fault," those whom I was close enough to tell have said.  Some days I believe them.  Some days, I don't.

Half a year later, I went to another social at the same studio and ran into him again.  To add insult to injury, he had forgotten my name.  Thinking I was over it, I agreed to a dance with him.  He was still great at dancing; I was still sort of shoddy.  After we were done, I sat down, got my things, left for home, and cried.

I still dance.  Contrary to what I might have led you do believe, I don't blame any of this on dancing. I still take lessons, hoping to become better.  My instructor says I am.  I couldn't tell you.  But these things are not related.

There's not a good way to end this.  I'm not sure why I felt such a strong need to write it in the first place.  Maybe it's because I'm a masochist.  Maybe it's because I'm looking to be vindicated.  But there you have it.  Two years is too long to keep holding onto this, and it's time to move on.

Until the next.