Last Song of the Night = Last Chance to Grind

On any given Friday night, you’ll find me at the rink playing ice hockey in a men’s league. What can I say? I’m a badass. For my actual birthday I went back to Ohio to spend the weekend with college friends and my parents. For my “DC birthday” I invited a group of six ladies out for an evening of ice hockey and booty dancing. Too legit to quit.

I don’t know how else to say this but I have cute friends. I’m not just saying that – it’s empirically proven. We have a particularly good game which probably has nothing to do with the fact the guys know six lovely ladies are watching. After the game, I quickly shower and change into a teeny tiny red dress. Slightly slutty? Perhaps – but it’s MY birthday after all.

We head to a sleazy nightclub in Arlington, Clarendon Ballroom, where another friend is waiting for us. With drinks in hand, Rashida ushers us onto the dance floor where she has already made friends. I’m not surprised. One guy is tall, broad shouldered and handsome but obviously interested in Rashida who is humoring him. His friend is shorter, ginger and bearded. Not exactly my type but he’s fun to dance with and he makes sure all of my friends have fun too. Bonus.

Many guys try to break into our group and look enviously at the two men allowed in the dance circle with seven hot ladies. One Turkish man infiltrates and absconds with April. I can’t tell if she needs rescuing or not so I shoot her a few ‘just give me the sign and I’ll swoop in’ looks. Yes, you can communicate all of that with one raised eyebrow. She seems content to let Turkish man monopolize her dance space so I return my attention to Brian. I’m not used to someone being able to keep up with me on the dance floor. I’m digging it. And him, unexpectedly. He’s from Idaho. I can’t help but make the joke “*I* da ho? YOU da Ho!” It’s terrible and I know it but it has already escaped my mouth and I can’t get it back. He laughs. Oh, it’s on.

There isn’t much time, though. And ginger man is not making any moves. I’m feeling magnanimous so I decide to help a brother out.

Brian Ballroom, the name that is later assigned to him in my cell phone, looks shocked but I don’t have to tell him twice. He’s an exceptional kisser and I don’t even mind the scratchy beard. We leave the club and I get this text message from him shortly thereafter: “Hey Ms. Ballroom, you were a riot :) Happy Birthday.” Aww, sweet. Too bad he ruined it with a later text “it’s a sad image thinking you’re snuggling alone on your birthday night.” Not as sad as you trying to holler at 3:45 am, buddy. Does this actually work on some women? It’s sort of like cat-calling. Has that ever worked in the history of gross men whistling at women on the street? No dice, Brian Ballroom. At least invite me to Panera for a bread bowl first. Sheesh.