City of Angels

Divine Dance Resurrected

“Whoever invented the toilet paper that turns red when you’re done wiping is a genius,” said Wesley the wise guy, rejoining five other Ineligible Bachelors on their Santa Monica AirBnB’s ocean view balcony. Our Ineligibles were nursing hangovers with Liquid IVs, savoring cheap bear, and reenergizing with jokes.

Some chuckled and some cringed at Wesley’s wit. All smiled though. Wesley continued, “At the [golf] course, I took a shit, and the first wipe had NO friction.” This got a louder, more animated round of laughter, ridicule, and accusation.

Sergei the seer accused Wesley of lying about this bathroom break on the course. He said it was Wesley’s ploy to ice Sergei’s important put on the 6th hole. Marty the magician somehow weaved the conversation into remembering his own sixty-yard chip in. Emilio the empath described Marty’s chip in poetically. Ivan the interrogator kept berating himself for playing the worst golf he ever had. He blamed the course’s conditions and rental clubs but was called out for bullshit.

Louis the linguist, now seventh brother (no one was related though), moped out to the balcony, eyes struggling to stay open at the Pacific Ocean’s reflection of the afternoon sun. His hair was disheveled. The sliding glass door’s slam seemed to cause him pain.

“Yup,” was Louis’s only reaction his brothers’ teasing glares and glaring teases.

Someone offered him a beer, but he made a fatal mistake: he rejected. “Beer bong!” came out of everyone incessantly. The volume upset his ears more than the smell of alcohol nauseated his stomach. The bong must not be dishonored. One need not perform quickly, prettily, optimally. Only intentions matter.

After ten shaky breaths, Louis the linguist opened his throat and let nature work. He struggled, but guzzled in seven seconds, spilling not a lot but enough to warrant jibes. The teases relented, and Louis dragged a chair to join the Ineligibles’ banter.

“Where are Bryce and Cory?” asked someone rhetorically. They were napping, like Louis had just finished. The speaker continued to Louis, “They kick you out? Too small or big for the threesome?”

Louis cracked open another beer, “I got tired of their pillow talk. I never thought butt stuff would have to be so gay?”

Rounds of laughter rewarded the rejoinder. Regardless of someone’s presence or absence, all nine brothers would always talk, tease, and ridicule any and every one of themselves. None would want any different. None would offend and insult another by holding back immediate thoughts or jokes. If one had reservations or hesitations, then something was wrong. What is important for these men is not the substance, validity, nor funniness of the joke, wit, or story; but rather the energy, intention, and commitment. Intend to treat everyone equally fair game. Don’t insult by assuming insecurity or fragility. All are equally worthy of your humor. Honor each other.

“Anyone else hungover?” asked Louis.

“It’s probably the Mexican from last night,” said Ivan. “Wesley’s shitting blood. What shit app told you that dogfood was five-star?”

“Sorry you hicks can’t handle a little culture,” answered Louis. “You want to come to LA and eat same old Kraft mac ’n’ cheese like you do at home?”

“I do the Kirkland brand actually,” joked one. Another said, “Excuse me, I’m a Velveeta man. We’re exclusive. It’s FB official.”

“I liked the dinner,” said Wesley causing confused laughter.

“The blood’s probably from getting fucked by the pillow biters,” smirked Sergei. “You like such weird things, Wez.”

“Eyes were bigger than my stomach. . . or ass, I guess,” smiled Wesley back.

“Wake up the circle jerkers already. We gotta’ talk shop for tonight.”

- - -

Louis had won golf this morning, therefore, he got to choose the “ceremony” of the night. The Ineligible Bachelors’ final night was always dedicated to some ploy, challenge, experience, experiment, test, or even fantasy.

One time, the men thought it’d be fun or funny to nonstop hit on one bartender. It was aggressive in that it was obvious, but they took care not to be creepy. They were obnoxious, sure, but the flirts weren’t that inappropriate.

That full story is for another time. The point is that these men made a plan, loosely or strictly, and committed to it.

Sometimes the ethics were much more dubious. There was once a competition to seduce a bachelorette on her bachelorette party. There was a night of fake homosexual relationships where each “couple” happened to serendipitously run into a woman so alluring as to make the Ineligibles “maybe bi, actually.” Our Ineligibles have posed as gigolos. They have dominated restaurants and domineered their employees. They have ridiculed strippers by pole dancing on the stage.

The bill is always paid though.

Tonight though, Louis chose dancing, true dancing.

The nine men would dance, not on drugs, but as if on drugs, meaning a carefree, let loose, undistracted dancing no matter the music. Their dance was not to suss out a woman’s carnal desire. They would not insult the dance by using it to further court a woman. The dance would not be the result of drinking too much. It would not be delayed until “a good song.”

Wesley the wise guy said, “Dude, women will think we’re gay.”

Noah the know-it-all said, “It wouldn’t even work. The clubs are already packed with people dancing. We won’t stand out or start anything. We’ll be as common as Emilio at Home Depot.” Emilio the empath was Hispanic.

Emilio fired back that he’s exclusively working the Lowes parking lot now. Emilio was a tax attorney.

Sergei the seer spoke, “No, it could work. I can see it. We need to go to a bar that has a dancefloor and DJ but isn’t known for dancing. We’ve all seen DJs and dancefloors with everyone standing around waiting for. . . whatever. I see it now, Louis. They’re waiting for us.”

“Yes!” jumped in Bryce the believer. “A man dancing solo is weird AF.” He actually abbreviated ‘as fuck.’ “A woman dancing solo is sexy. Women dancing together sends mixed signals. But, men—when it’s us nine!—we can tear it up. It’ll be electric!”

Marty the magician had been scouring social media. He listed a few bars.

Wesley the wise guy spoke about one Marty showed. “That’s West Hollywood. We’d definitely be seen as gay.”

Bryce the believer said, “Dude, who cares. We won’t confirm or deny. We can just go with the flow. We’ll dance, and dude, the women will love it. Chicks love gay dudes B T Dubs.” (BTW for ‘by the way’)

Wesley responded, “Easy for you, Bryce. You could bag a chick even if you were a serial killer. She’d probably strip down and hop in your murder bag herself!” Bryce was a six-foot-five half Black, half Asian with a muscular body, gentle eyes, and strong jawline the kids mew for. A pussy magnet.

Emilio the empath said, “I mean, a gay bar would probably be even better. A lot’a straight chicks—”

“No,” interrupted Louis. “I don’t wanna’ add variables to this one. I want to turn up a dancefloor and see if we can start the party. We’ll dance our dance and see what happens.”

- - -

Our nine Ineligibles entered one by one into a two-story bar in Venice Beach. There was no line, but three bouncers took time to verify IDs of our men who look late 20s.

Inside, half of the bars’ walls were floor-to-ceiling window-doors, fully opened for fresh air to a balcony. The majority of upstairs was an outside balcony, uncovered from the shy stars. The dancefloor was on the second floor.

The venue was crowded to the extent one had to search for an open slot at the bar to order, but it wasn’t so crowded whereas a mob formed to make drinking into a contact sport.

Everything looked black from the bar’s (lack of) light. No light directly illuminated walls, tables, nor people’s outfits. The DJ had a lightshow going of neon green, red, purple, orange, and other dance party disco colors. It must’ve bothered eyes because most people looked at the ground.

Women stood with a friend or two, pretending not to see men. Men stood haughtily with their friends-now-competitors, pretending not to look at women. The only thing people looked was annoyed. Phones got people smiling though. A screen would blast one’s face with blinding white light. They’d shove the meme or text in front of their friend, and it must’ve been the highlight of their night with such an animated face it mustered, albeit briefly.

Both men and women stirred straws instead moving to the music. Voices seemed manufactured. Dancing didn’t test anyone’s balance. Shoulders clenched close to ears instead of swaying to the beat. Arms were crossed and hands were fidgety.

Cliques of our Ineligibles made their laps to acquaint themselves with the bar. They reconvened upstairs at the bar opposite the dancefloor. They ordered eighteen shots of vodka and nine cocktails. They were able to speak with inside voices for the music sounded far away. Not many conversations were heard throughout the bar.

They all took their first shot without words. They grabbed the second and waited for Louis’s toast. Louis said, “It’s never the music, it’s the dancer. Dance real, have fun, welcome the dance, welcome other dancers, shun the weirdos, and no, absolutely NO fucking circles!” One more witty joke from one of the brothers, cackles, then the second shot. They snagged their cocktails and marched to the dancefloor.

The dancefloor had some women moving with purpose. Some couples were grinding monotonously. Most dancers were reserved. Plenty of people stood around the edges. Groups of three or four women swayed side to side. Men stood behind hoping they’d be noticed and included.

Our nine found space at the back of the dancefloor. The shifted weight, nodded smiles to each other, and found their own beat. Some stepped to the full beat; others to the half beat; Noah the know-it-all moved to the quarter beat.

What immediately happened was space. However, the Ineligibles were dancing tight. They didn’t throw their weight around. They weren’t flaying arms. They weren’t stomping close to other dancers. They didn’t peck noses at women who were cautious about our nine’s intentions. The Ineligibles didn’t have hungry eyes or staring smiles. They held calm smiles with only each other. . . for now.

Regardless, the Ineligibles dance was a shark swimming through a school of fish. People backpedaled, further slowed their own dancing, and watched. Nervous standing men were repelled. Women hoped they wouldn’t be surrounded.

This was the test. If this minute of strangers’ watching embarrassed our Ineligibles; if impatience discouraged them; if others’ whispers made them nervous; if the brothers tried to back out with shaking heads, laughing denials, waving their hands, and mouthing “just kidding”; if they begged women to join; then they’d be doomed as charlatans. They’d be attention seekers, desperate, drunk, or both. They would have only upset the status quo. Backing out of your dance is immediate failure. You must intend to dance for yourself and your partner. . . which is the dance itself.

Our nine, slightly liquored men used the space without dominating it. They spun and stepped wider, but it was still a tight organization.

Louis, Sergei, and Wesley jigged their way up closer to the DJ. Emilio and Marty started up on a sort of swing dance where they’d make their moves individually, then spin with each other to transition. Noah and Bryce were dancing with their hands, making squares around their faces to the beat. Cory did a sort of salsa bachata step to the electric dance music. Ivan attempted disco moves and spun with outstretched arms.

After the testy minute, women realized our Ineligibles weren’t posturing to accost them. Many resumed with their friends with increased vigor and confidence. The dancefloor had no border patrol-standers anymore. New women who weren’t dancing before now joined the dance. Men emulated our Ineligibles. Then, couples joined in, adding to the authenticity. Everyone was feeling the dance collectively: with a partner directly or with all fellow dancers spiritually.

Our Ineligibles never turned backs to anyone new. Men and women who approached were welcomed with encouragement. The vibe was contagious. Dancers were the chorus, yelling refrains in unison. A misstep ceased to exist. Nobody bumped into each other; they bounced off each other to bounce with each other. Eyes were not tempted by any beauty besides applause for someone’s dance. Sweat did not secrete self-consciousness. The lightshow now punctuated dance moves in the dark. Happy grins overthrew RBF.

Jealousy, greed, lust, or pride over a dance partner never afflicted any of our nine because the primal desire was to dance. Their pleasure was invested in the mission. The Ineligibles commit to the plan.

And they had struck. The second story shook. The people thumped, jumped, and stomped. The music was turned up. The DJ began spotlighting dancers as if the night were choreographed. Our nine had stung. The itch was infectious.

Louis the linguist needed a break for a drink. He easily slid out of the crowded dancefloor because he had resurrected what had died: dancing is moving. Before reaching the bar, he ran into Marty the magician, smirking.

Marty the magician was a shorter Asian man “below average looking” (by his own words). However, he earned his nickname. He worked as some higher up in Facebook or Meta so he always could find the most random but relevant information on people and places no matter where annual trip took our nine. He made craploads of money and loved “making deals” as he says (He spent his money for off menu perks).

Marty stopped Louis. He had to yell. Other conversations in the bar were louder than the music which was already turned up higher than before. Marty yelled, “This is sick, man! You going for a drink?—Nah don’t. I got us already. I got the maganer [sic] to send a server with vodka sodas and waters. . . and vodka sodas to us on the dancefloor from the server waitress and whoever we want to share with.”

“Marty, you maniac! You’re a unit, bro!” said Louis.

“And he’s sending up a surcurty [sic] ‘cause people are getting out of hand. That guy. That’a guy’a.” Marty pointed to a bouncer approaching.

People were getting out of hand. Our Ineligibles were solid still. They danced with men as if they were brothers. They spun with women as if they were sisters. Men came up and introduced themselves. Women smiled as if in love. Our nine invited and encouraged, nonverbally and verbally, all to join. Many did. Those who denied or were hesitant. . . it did not affect anyone’s mood, granted they reciprocated with equally good faith.

However, faith is dying, let alone good faith. Pests were infesting the dancefloor.

Two men were hell bent on sandwiching a tightly dressed women.

A woman paused and used her phone in the middle of dancers.

A man kept walking through the dancefloor, not dancing, as if looking for something lost. He’d nudge dancers aside to clear his path. “Did he drop it on the ceiling? Wtf!”

A group of women commandeered a good amount of our Ineligibles’ dance space. It wouldn’t have been an issue if they had joined in the comradery, but they barged in backwards forming a closed circle and sent disgusted looks to the Ineligibles who dared send friendly eyes.

Ivan and Cory joined Louis and Marty. Marty introduced the bouncer to the other three and pointed out the other Ineligibles. Cory and Louis joked that Marty was acting as if he knew the bouncer his whole life and just met Cory, Louis, and the other Ineligibles. Marty winked.

The bouncer picked up on the plan quickly. I guess sober people don’t need as much explaining as the inebriated. The girl on the phone and the nudging man were immediately bounced from the dancefloor. Ivan and Cory talked with the lusty sandwichers to warn them. They realized, obeyed, danced half-assed for half a song, then departed.

The server arrived with refills. The Ineligibles jigged to her tray, tipped her with cash, and flattered her with a dance move, pleading for her to join yet knowing she tragically couldn’t. She still had four vodka sodas after serving all our nine. Wesley, Bryce, and Emilio called over four women they had befriended. They were gratefully speechless. A few envious men (naturally envious—not hostile) watched the drink delivery. Sergei told the waitress that these men and their dancing dates get the next drinks. Moods skyrocketed even higher.

As if providence approved, the DJ started a banger that doubled everyone’s energy. Eye contact with strangers was no longer a game of chicken. The air vibrated. A hot breeze refreshed the whole bar. Legs were not tired, but rather massaged with energy. Spins never made one dizzy. Breath was never lost. Everyone knew what to do with their hands. Ecstasy arrived without drugs. Trances allowed life’s stress to be forgotten.

Louis was interrupted by two of the interloping, closed circle women. He met them with the required smile which was still truly inviting. They also smiled as they said something. Louis couldn’t hear so he lowered his ear to them.

“Are you buying shots?!” sobered Louis up.

Louis still moved freely with the music. He increased his smile to show teeth. “No, I’m sorry were not. We’re just dancing! You want to dance?” Their faces dropped crestfallen. They rolled their eyes as if Louis lingered after they rejected him. They closed off again and stood still as if they wouldn’t work without being paid.

Louis smiled, signaled the bouncer, and said to the women, “We’re dancing in this space so you can dance too or give us our space back.”

The women huddled closer as if Louis was an existential threat, rasping OMGs and snarling sidelong sneers. The bouncer ushered them away. They questioned, resisted, played dumb, denied accountability, and all the usual tricks to save face. A bubble of doubt or pity hiccup’ed in Louis until Emilio the empath danced over. “Yo, you bounced them?!”

“Yeah,” said Louis without looking at Emilio.

“Don’t worry, man, they deserved it! They were—”

A few newly befriended women danced over. “Thank God! Those chicks were the worst. The one talking to you was staring me up and down because I’m wearing jean shorts! What a freak.”

Emilio, Louis, and some other Ineligibles danced with their new gal friends. Some dances were intimate; a few suggestive; none were awkward. Twos came together naturally and separated to shine seamlessly.

This is not to say that everyone was converted into a cultish trance because nine, confident, amateur men danced at a random bar. There still existed the same insecurities, blatant sexual solicitations, and nefarious motives.

For instance, a boyfriend got mad that his girlfriend was enjoying dancing with the Ineligibles more than him. But they never sequestered her. They invited him to join too.

Gay men and boundaryless women groped our Ineligibles. The gay men were boundaryless too, but I don’t know a better word to call such women. Crazy? Aggressive? Criminal it the politically correct word (for both), but politically correct is never sexy.

Also, an extremely drunk woman with a lowcut (and loose) top was sending wet eyes to every Ineligible. The funny part was that there was a man attached to her ass. It was as if he had done enough work on her for the night, but couldn’t close and get her home. They looked like they were searching for dance space to bump and grind. But there was space, and they weren’t dancing, lol. And, this woman eye fucked everyone because her “dancing partner” (or whatever you call him) was behind her looking over her hair unable to see the woman’s eyes.

Wesley the wise guy started chirping too much as he always does. With confidence in the power of numbers and a sanctioned bouncer, he said something pretty inappropriate that got the man pissed off and the woman excited. The man led his drunk “date” (?) away, but before they went down the stairs, the drunk woman freed her hands, pulled up her shirt, and flashed the whole dancefloor! It was a nice rack. Natural, big, firm, and fun. A gentleman might say “comely” or “supple”, but whatever. The Ineligibles had plenty more to say. Regardless, the crowd went wild. The DJ played a song kinda’ related to her flashing and people laughed extra energy into their dance.

Marty summoned each Ineligible with a yell into his ear. Time for a quick time out. The nine moved opposite the dancefloor to the corner of the balcony.

Marty pointed down at the first-floor entrance. “Dude, look at the line!” There was at least sixty people queued. “I posted some photos and boosted it in this area with #BounceOrBeBounced. It’s going viral, man. Look at this. 250 posts with it, right here!”

“Louis,” began Cory the counselor, “I had my doubts, but fuck yes!” He grabbed Louis by the collar. “Fuck yes, brother.” Cory urged Louis into the center of the Ineligibles. “Look at it, bro!” They ruffled his shoulders as if he made the game winning shot.

Dancing strangers could be mistaken for lifelong friends. Conversations off the dancefloor were as lively as the dance. Shoulders were relaxed. Smiles’ teeth brightened the bar. Men were relaxed enough to be confident. Women were happy to see men be themselves. No one was alone anymore.

Their new gal friends summoned our nine back over. The Ineligible Bachelors happily obliged.