Macho men don’t dance. But that’s why they’re so dumb. Because even as they skulk manfully beside the bar, looking snottily at the dance floor as they flex their muscles picking up ice cubes, some smooth operator with gel in his hair will oil in and impress all the women with his John Travolta moves.
Women adore men who dance. And who can blame them? It’s a choice between standing like a wallflower besides Rambo all night, as he tries to make small talk over loud addictive music, or being swept onto the dance floor by a hunky Ricky Martin look alike, (and men with dance moves somehow always seem hunky) who then proceeds to teach you how to salsa like some groovy girl from the movies.
Yeah. You can blame it on the movies. Every girl who’s ever been brought up on a balanced diet of dance movies, from John Travolta in Grease to Patrick Swayze in that all time favourite ‘Dirty Dancing,’ dreams of someday meeting The Man Who Dances.
However, he’s as rare a species these days as The Man Who Opens Doors. And the whole problem is the fact that a large number of men think dancing is effeminate. Which, in other words means, they look like idiots on the dance floor.
Fortunately, help is at hand. Dance schools are opening up in ever city. And are they drawing people? Well, does Puff Daddy like jewellery?
Women flock to dance classes. And, as everyone knows, where women go men will follow. The smart men who learn how to dance have a never-fail opening line at parties, “Shall I teach you the Samba/Salsa/ Lambada/ to Jive?” I’ve seen parties where women queue up to dance with these man.
And for Rambo? Well, let’s hope his ice keeps him warm.
Going by her account, there are only two kinds they notice in a disco: A Rambo or a Disco Dancer.
I won’t bother taking Stallone’s side because she’s anyway explained why he’s boring.
What I would talk about is the disco dancer: Yes, yes, the Mithun Da types. (Then what? You thought you ll find Patrick Swayze or Travolta on the dance floor? This is India, madam. Here only hero-tapori or dance master types do dance-wance on the floor.)
Actually, I CAN imagine her match step to step with the likes of Prabhu Deva, Raju Sundaram, Govinda, Mithun or Simbu, all reputed to be the best dancers around. Or occasionally, the Michael Jackson look-alikes doing the moonwalk after a couple of rounds.
Since these guys are obviously unattainable, the women settle for lesser dancers. Like that one guy on the floor who can dance, the smooth operator who has more dates than the calendar itself. What does this guy do? He entertains yet another woman who fancies her chance with him for a dance or more. Does the ‘dance’ when he gets a chance or more.
Before he can move over to the prettier, hotter, item number on the floor. Like she said, there’s a queue to choose from.
Before he can arrive at the best of the lot, he has to be polite enough to entertain scores of other women with two left feet, bad breath, body odour, terrible sense of humour, alcoholics and the other single lonely Bridget Joness who fancy him.
While one out of these 100 get the man that evening, what happens to the other 99? They go hunting for others who can dance, wait for their turn or drink their blues away. Three drinks later, when they can’t tell whether they are dancing or not, our man with the ice-cubes steps in. Now our Stallone has a choice: 99 desperate women!
Come on guys, who would you rather be? A guy with the arms to carry her home? Or the guy mobbed by women you don’t want to dance with?