 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;
and 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 side 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 to 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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