From an early age I realized that to dance was to be free. Free from the chains of expectation. Free from the oppression of stillness. Dance is movement. Dance is fluid. Dance is life. Dance is God. Dance is sex. Dance is death and rebirth. Dance is like getting attacked by sharks but then a pod of dolphins comes up and starts ramming into the sharks with their bottle noses and the sharks are like “These bottle noses hurt like shit. Let’s skidaddle” and then the dolphins let you ride on their backs and you’re having so much fun that you forget you minor shark wounds and then this sexy lady dolphin swims up and is like “Hey boooooy, you cute as hell. Come on over here and give mama some sugar” and one thing leads to another and next thing you know, you’re plowing her blowhole WITH YOUR DICK. Without a condom WITH YOUR DICK. Skin on skin. Like it was Easter Sunday. WITH YOUR DICK. That’s dance. Tap. Jazz. Hip Hop. Ballet. Clog. Square. Interpretive. Break. Pole. When we dance, we become a vessel for the muses. We become something more than ourselves. We become the dance and the dance becomes us.
From an early age, everyone told me I couldn’t dance. They said I didn’t have the moxie. They said I didn’t have the sheer unmitigated spunk. They said I was a fat cunt with bitch titties whose fanny was hurting for a squirting. Dreaming of a creaming. Hankering for a wankering. Maybe in a way, they were right. Maybe they pushed me to try harder. To prove them wrong. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed. And prove them wrong I did.