He had never been single in Los Angeles before. My partner and I had moved here from New York. I worked a very early shift in Sony Pictures, pumping the movie Grosses seven days a week, and he handled a co -owner property restaurant in Hollywood with a closed shift at night late at night.
Our schedules did not coincide, and their night change of liquidation offered many more extracurricular opportunities than my vigil change. The inevitable division occurred, and together with the restaurant was social life, friends, house and even the cat.
Only and in search of new friends and romances, it was suggested that the newly opened Home Depot in Sunset Boulevard was a great place to meet gay boys, but, unfortunately, the heterosexual type with the back of bubbles in the painting department was calling all the attention. In fact, Ikea had many guys, but almost all were coupled. That left West Hollywood's bars, where you were aligned against the wall as pins in a bowling alley and you would wait a blow. This was years before the online appointments occurred. Left or right sluting was made face to face, and it was brutal.
My chiropractic recruited a masseuse named Daniel to help with my “steel butt”, as he said. Daniel offered two options: slow and easy, what would take weeks, or fast and deep, what I opted until my chiropractic told Daniel that it was a little easier since my strong groan scared patients in the waiting room.
Daniel was going through his own break and suggested that he tried the western country dance. “It's an excellent way to meet people, and dance for five minutes and go to the next. How to take a driving test,” he said.
I thought reasonable, but country music? Maybe a man in my arms would neutralize the sound of steel guitars in my ears. But then I remembered that I danced with the six Dutch fat people in the ninth grade. My school had six weeks of social dance in the gym during the hard winter months in Minnesota.
It was mainly square dance, but we also learned to Waltz, Polka, Schottische and Foxtrot. It was Foxtrot that was giving me problems now. Similar to Texas in two steps, but with an additional step, he continued to stumble on the dance floor along with the poor sap that I felt sorry for me and asked me to dance. A reputation like a bad dancer extends faster than a wild fire at the end of November.
So I went to the dance lessons of the week in Rawhide, where bad dancers try to improve dancing with other bad dancers in the hope of becoming mediocre and then, maybe if you really concentrate, one step to the right.
So we return to the main event and the Beur Sunday Beer: we, the beginners, at least we could dance among us and learn to stay out of the path of the best couples. I would dance some dances, but above all it would rely on a publication and see the action.
And then there was.
Of all the boys of the crowd, there was something in him and his tight jeans, his boots and his cowboy hat. His dance card was continuously full and my possibilities felt empty. You would need at least a month of lessons on Tuesday to gain enough confidence to ask you to dance. But I returned every Sunday and tried to apply my improvement skills.
As the weeks went by, I disappointed me all the saga that danced in the country, and while driving on the hill to the valley a Sunday, I asked myself: “Do you really want to continue with this?” When I entered the sober bar, I looked at the crowd. Lorrie Morgan had just launched a country version of “My Favorite Things”, which was playing.
I saw all these men with jeans, mostly with cowboy boots and hats, and some with leather sheets. Short, tall, thin and robust, everyone held someone in their arms and dancing a waltz, no doubt dreaming of cream ponies. He was surreal, but attracted myself.
When I went to the bar, I had a beer and returned to my favorite publication to see everything, it happened. I realized that it noticed me.
In another's arms, he looked and smiled as he turned. And then again in the next round.
I felt that adrenaline tide sends my heart to palpitations while long and latent hope arose from that simple smile. And when the music stopped and began the strains of a new song, walked towards me and asked me to dance. We dance again, and the following Sunday too. And next Sunday, and then many months of Sundays.
25 years have passed since our first dance. We are a little slower, a little less energetic and the years show in our faces also in the color and/or lack of hair.
Our favorite places to dance have closed. As with most relationships, there have been strange sour notes over the years, but mostly harmonious music. And when we are in pace with the arms of each other, I do not need to worry about the steps because my feet do not touch the ground.
The author lives in Mid-City with his partner Nick. It is quite antisocial on social networks. If necessary, it can be contacted in [email protected].
Los Angeles Affairs Chronices The search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to listen to their real history. We pay $ 400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find presentation guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
