Return of the Dance Floor Makeout

When Joseph proposed to me, I came to terms with never being single again – I had accepted it… perhaps even mourned the loss of my singleness. Gone were the days of meeting random men and making out with them on the dance floor. Turns out those days weren’t over. Dance Floor Makeouts (henceforth referred to as DFMs) were instantaneously restored to me!

Two weeks after the break up, my college roommate Marcy and my friend April took me out on the town for a ladies night. Let me set the stage for you: three attractive women scantily clad, all recently single and all 29 years old. Trouble with a freaking huge T. Marcy alluded to my former makeout queen self with raised eyebrows implying I would be on the prowl that evening. I scoffed at the notion because I was “not in any way, shape or form ready to kiss someone else.” My hooker heels, which had been gathering dust in the closet since Joseph was short, were decidedly NOT scoffing at that notion.

We made our way to one of those forgettable bars with barely passable music. Jokers took their turns approaching us, buying us drinks and chatting us up. A tall, blond man kept looking at me and I thought to myself “drink it in, buddy.” He was not my type at all. Too white. Too blond. More drinks and dances followed until somehow, inexplicably the tall, blond man made his move. Suddenly we were dancing and surprisingly enough he was a good dancer. Scratch that. A damn sexy dancer. I knew he wanted to kiss me – all I had to do was tilt my head up slightly to give him access. I liked the way he was holding me so I closed my eyes, lifted my face and BOOM! I’m back.

He asked me my name. His dance skills became more understandable as his accent revealed his French-ness. I stuttered for a moment forgetting what I had decided my bar name would be. It came out something like “Ja-Britney.” This is what followed:

Me: What’s your name?

French-man: &%oiuatniocf&*^

Me: What?

French-man: *&Oiztoiueax#

Me: Shhhh. Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.

French-man: I’m staying at the Crown Plaza.

Me: That’s nice. K, bye.

We made a quick exit - both April and Marcy had enjoyed DFMs but we weren’t trying to go home with these guys. Back in the kitchen of my apartment I was reduced to what is known as “beer tears.” Unintelligible, incoherent crying that sometimes happens after a night of drinking. In my case it was coupled with the emotional turmoil of “why did he leave me?”,“I can’t believe I kissed someone else” and “why did Frenchie use so much tongue?”

Bottom line: Hooker heels + DFMs + beer tears = successful night.