By the time it had ended, a large crowd had gathered around us. They clapped once the spell had broken. I looked around, unsure of what the hell had just happened.
Helga was standing in front of me, face flushed. She eyed me up and down. “I know a motel that rents by the hour,” she said, licking her lips. “Just as long as you don’t tell my husband, Merle.”
“What the balls?” I screeched. “Sandy! What’s going on? What happened? What was that?”
Sandy was staring at me with something akin to awe. “Apparently, we’ve found your gay anthem.”
“My what?”
“Your gay anthem. Every guy has one, straight or gay, whether they admit it or not. That one song you hear, that when it starts playing, you have to move like a goddamn diva. I always thought we’d never find yours. I mean, you’re almost twenty now. I just….” He wiped his eyes. “I never thought I’d get to see the day when you flame out like the Human Torch. This will become your greatest weakness. Anytime it’s played, you w
ill be unable to do anything but dance to it. It’s… the way of things.”
“I don’t… I don’t remember much,” I admitted, still dazed. “What was it? What was the song?”
On January 13th, 2004, I finally found my gay anthem. It was the first day the song had been released. It came from a blonde girl born in Mississippi, one who I had paid only marginal attention to in the years since she’d come out. I knew of her, but I didn’t know that she was capable of casting a spell over me and making my body turn into a dancing sex machine. I had woken up that morning not giving a crap about her, but everything changed on that Tuesday when the song was released, the second single from her fourth album In The Zone. And when Sandy spoke again, he said only three words that would be burned forever into every single gay bone in my body.
“Britney Spears,” he said. “‘Toxic’.”
“OH NO,” I breathed as the familiar song started playing from the speakers of Jack It, but it was already far too late as Sexy Paul took control, growling as I began to prowl the stage in front of Vince.
“What’s happening?” Vince asked, swallowing thickly as he watched me move in front of him. “Helena, what’s he doing?”
Helena chuckled into the microphone as she moved off stage. “Oh, baby doll. Consider this my wedding present to you. I hope you’re ready to see a side of your husband-to-be you’ve never seen before. You’re welcome.” And then she melted into the crowd.
Not that I was paying any real attention to her.
No. I was stalking my prey, who sat so prettily before me.
“Paul?” Vince asked, sounding a little worried. “Is everything—holy fucking shit!”
I had dropped to my knees in front of him between his spread legs, hands rubbing against his thighs, my face in his stomach near his crotch as I pushed myself forward and up. I let him anchor me as I rose, my chest pressing against his, lips trailing along the skin of his neck up to his jaw and left ear.
“What are you doing?” he squeaked at me, pupils dilated in the flashing strobe light. “Are you giving me a lap dance?”
Sexy Paul didn’t have time for talking when he was fully involved in the art of seduction. Sexy Paul didn’t need words. All Sexy Paul needed was his dance moves. And there was a small, small part of me that knew the extent to which Sandy had planned all this, from the Jager to the Britney, that he’d known what the inevitable outcome would be. That small part of me made a mental note to plot an elaborate revenge against him involving fake identities and extravagant mustaches, but that part was shoved away when I felt Vince’s hands on my hips.
The music hit again and I twisted myself around until I was seated in his lap, lying against his chest, rotating my hips, trying to remember every single stripper move I’d ever learned from Paula Abdul’s Get Up and Dance exercise VHS tape that Sandy and I had tried when we were fifteen years old. I’d told myself when I was huffing and puffing my way through it that one day, I’d probably have to use what I’d learned one day. And my time had finally come. I knew Paula would be proud, wherever she was.
I heard Vince grunting underneath me and I knew him better than anyone, so I knew it wasn’t the get off, you’re squishing me grunt, but instead, was the you’re squishing my dick and I want to get off so bad grunt.
Sexy Paul had struck again.
The song was only halfway over.
I pushed off him, standing and ignoring the sounds of the crowd hyperventilating around us. I considered throwing in some Flashdance to mix with my Paula Abdul but didn’t think I was ready for that just yet. I thought I could be one day, but that day was not today. And since I didn’t have a bucket of water to drop on my chest as I threw my head back, I decided to stick with what I knew.
I turned back around to Vince as I swiveled my hips, reaching up and tearing the tiara off my head, throwing it to the side. It smashed against the wall and sounded like it broke. I heard Helena screech in outrage, but I didn’t give a shit. I had a mission.
I ripped the sash up and over my head and thrust it between my legs, reaching behind me with my other hand to grab the edge. And then I proceeded to do one of the most erotic dances of all time: Flossing. I pulled the sash back and forth between my legs like I was trying to get a particularly stubborn piece of food out from between my teeth. I sneered at Vince who looked like he was two point six seconds away from launching himself at me and ravishing me right there in front of anyone.
The next dance move was the Lassoing a Steer, another thing I’d learned from Paula Abdul. I took the sash and began to twirl it above my head like it was a lasso, hopping from one foot to another bow-legged, like I was riding a horse in a competitive rodeo, needing to rope the calf as quickly as possible.
Vince spread his legs a little wider and I threw the sash at him where it landed perfectly around his neck, capturing my side of beef in record time. If this had been a real rodeo, I would have won the biggest belt buckle known to mankind. I figured it was okay for me to settle with the prized bull that was flaring his nostrils in front of me, his hands fisted on his thighs, chest heaving.
I jerked my end of the sash tight, pulling him up from the back of the chair until his face was in my chest. Holding on to make sure he stayed in place, I used my other hand to pop open the top few buttons of my shirt, my fingers poking against his face. Probably not the sexiest of moves, but I didn’t hear him complaining when I felt his hot breath against my skin. I let him take a few deep breaths, his nose pressed against my sweaty chest, before I pushed him back against the chair, letting the sash fall against him.
I ignored the people in the audience who had started to make it rain, dollar bills being thrown onto the stage around me. Sandy had taught me that when money was thrown, the best thing to do was to wait until the performance was over before picking it up. Otherwise, you’d just look money hungry and trashy.