William watched Matt drink. “And rule number two, Matthew?”
46:11 on the countdown clock. Who or what was “Bella Bottoms”?
“Do not leave the premises under any circumstances—unless Brad Pitt is driving, in which case we’re to invite you to join us.”
William smiled wistfully. He had a thing for Brad Pitt. “And number three: Change dance partners frequently. Leave them before they leave you. Come back here if you need to. Better that than being stranded on the dance floor. Never get stranded on the dance floor.”
Forty-five minutes and change remained on the countdown clock when Dimples reappeared. He took Matt’s hand and led him down into the pit.
The pit was crowded. And wildly dynamic. Infinitely more so than any soccer field, which never held more than 22 players, all of whom were rational actors once one understood the purpose of the game. Not so with dancing. It was anything but rational.
Dimples edged into a tight space, whirled, and faced Matt. He leaned in close, put his lips to Matt’s ear. “You’re so fucking hot!” he slurred. Then he started dancing.
Matt smiled at Dimples. Hoped it was a smile and not a goofy grin. He couldn’t be certain. His face felt numb.
Matt’s feet froze to the floor. The best he could manage was a slight side-to-side wobble. Like a Weeble. How did it go? “Weeble’s wobble, but they don’t fall down.” He giggled.
William had assured him dancing would come naturally. It was in the gay DNA, which obviously wasn’t true in Matt’s case. Six generations of Church of Christ inbreeding in Matt’s line had extinguished any genetic markers for rhythm.
William had been right about one thing, though. He’d somehow guessed that Matt, who exuded confidence in most situations, who charged in recklessly where others urged caution—that same Matt would be a wallflower at his Debutante Ball.
How William had guessed it was a mystery. But just as he’d coached Paul to lean into the cocky nerd vibe, he’d told Matt to embrace shyness and uncertainty. To dress like a straight boy—no matchy colors, nothing tight, white socks even—and to let people assume his nervousness pertained to being in a gay space for the first time. Apparently converting straight-ish boys ranked #3 in gay fantasies. Mormon missionaries knocking on one’s door was #1. Number 2 was too freaky to be recounted.
Paul marched into the pit, accompanied by a guy wearing cut-off jeans and combat boots. Spiked hair. A skinny, baby-faced guy trying to look like a tough.
Pineapple Paul, in his Hawaiian shirt and nerdy glasses, owned his piece of the pit. He wasn’t hot enough or a good enough dancer to dominate the whole floor, but he absolutely controlled his 4 square feet of fame, and Mr. Spiky was eating it up, worshipping Paul as Matt had worshipped the flaxen-haired guy who looked like Adam.
Glancing around at the other dancers, Matt realized William had also been right about “costuming” as he called it. (Paul’s Hawaiian shirt, Matt’s white socks.)
Matt had argued that the clothes and the posturing were inauthentic.
William had sneered. “Authentic won’t get you laid, dahling. Authentic would be everyone showing up in the same boring clothes and un-gelled hair they wear the other six days of the week. Guys go to the clubs to escape authentic. They want to meet their fantasy guy. It doesn’t work unless everyone postures as some version of someone’s fantasy.”
“But—” Matt had stuttered.
“It is time you figured out that few places in life are authentic,” William had said. “Church? Those people in the pews are anything but authentic. Wearing their best clothes. Acting like they never take a shit, and even if they did, it certainly wouldn’t stink.”
“But I don’t want to lie,” Matt had persisted. “Am I supposed to say I’m a virgin?”
“Play your cards right and there won’t be much conversation,” William had said. “Stop overthinking things, Matthew.”
The song wound down.
Matt stopped swaying. That stupid countdown flashed overhead, but the numbers were too blurred for him to make out.
A new song amped up. The bass pulsed through the air like a frantic message in Morse Code.
“Molly?” Dimples asked. Had to repeat it louder.
Matt smiled. Or grinned? How did this guy know Molly? It really was a small world!
“Molly! Yes!” Matt enthused. “She’s my SGA buddy!”
Dimples frowned.
Only then did Matt notice that Dimples had been offering him a small pill. Shit! William had coached him and Paul that “Molly” was a euphemism for ecstasy. They were to avoid any drugs for now.
Dimples tongued the pill, swallowed it. Pulled off his t-shirt and tucked it into the back of his jeans, where it hung like a sexy tail. His perfect pecs seemed almost molded. Matt wanted to flick one of the guy’s nipples, test its authenticity.
Dimples grasped Matt’s hips. Guided him into the beat. Pulled Matt closer until they were staring into each other’s eyes like lovers.
“Lift your arms into the air!” Dimples shouted. “Now close your eyes and feel the beat! Trust me! I’ll keep hold of you!”
Matt did as instructed. Closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the rhythm. He felt safe in Dimples’ strong hands.
Matt didn’t open his eyes again until the song ended, at which time he noticed that Evan and Luke were dancing nearby. They were such a cute couple: the tall, Gallic Evan, the willowy Luke. Matt smiled at the memory of Evan’s deliciously curved dick, envied Luke for getting to sample it regularly.
report As soon as the first few bars of the new song pierced the air, Evan and Luke each changed the orbit of their dancing.
Luke pivoted toward Dimples, smiled demurely, and diverted his attention from Matt.
Dimples let go of Matt’s hips, pursued Luke’s—hips, that is.
Evan, meanwhile, had engaged with Matt. They danced for a minute (Evan danced, Matt wobbled), and then Evan maneuvered them to the edge of the pit, to the steps leading up.
Evan stopped dancing, pointed up. “How about a break? Let’s get you some water.”
Back at the table, Matt sipped water. William had quarantined his cocktail.
“Sobriety check, dahling.” William said to Matt. He pointed to the large screen with the flashing countdown. “Can you read that for me?” he asked.
Matt shook his head. Grinned happily. The screen was a beautiful blur that seemed to pulse with the beat, which reminded him: he’d been rocking the dancing thing!
As for the screen, Matt remembered it involved a countdown. Remembered there had been numbers and words. Scrunched his face in concentration. What had it read? “Belly Buttons?” … “Belly Bottoms?”
Then it came to him. “Bella Bottoms! What’s that?” He reached for his drink.
“Stick to water,” William said. “We’ve got a little more than thirty minutes to sober you up before Bella takes the stage. And shortly after that, you’ll hopefully be up there with her.”
“WHAT?”
William ignored Matt, spoke to Evan, who was watching the dance floor below. “How’s our other debutante doing?”
“Excellent!” Evan reported. “He danced two songs with the guy in combat boots, then started dancing with that wild, shirtless guy. See them in the center of the floor?”