So Friday night rolls around and you find yourself deciding: Grand, Slegion, Pause, all three? Obviously you’re going to pre-game because who would want to feel a complete stranger or acquaintance run his hands down your thighs sober? So you glance at the clock: it’s 8:00 and certainly dark out so why not down some shots in a room with a towel against the door?
You pick some tunes: Kanye seems apt. You spend the prerequisite time looking at yourself in the mirror, maybe apply another coat of mascara, and go from door to door looking for something to complete your White Trash outfit. You’re ready to go.
So now you’re at the dance and the music’s raging: nothing says romance like some Lil’ Jon (which sidenote: why is that song still popular? Pretty sure I was waving my arms to windows and walls in 7th grade). You lock eyes with some kid from your English class from across the room and down the drink while the rhythms boom. He’s always seemed to respond well to things you’ve said in class and it’s clear that you both have been eyeing each other regularly. So you saunter on over (an optimistic memory. In actuality, probably stumbled over) and start dancing with him.
Things are going well: dance floor makeout, check; invite to room, check; continuation of the aforementioned until his roommate walks in, check. You’re feeling good Sunday: you even get dressed up for brunch with your friends in case you happen to bump into him waiting for your toast. No such luck so you pick an even better outfit for English class the next day. He’s not sitting in his normal spot next to you but across the room next to your Prof. He’s never seemed so studious, copiously taking notes and avoiding eye contact. “It’s almost like he’s avoiding me,” you think and actually, he grabs his books and books it (pun unintended). You think, “I don’t understand. I thought we had such a connection.”
Now, I don’t want anyone to think I cast judgment on the vast stereotype of the hypothetical character in my sardonic prelude because I’ve been there. In fact, that was probably one of my overarching mistakes of my freshman year, thinking that attending a Pause dance would bear fruit a relationship, or even a consistent casual hookup. And at the time, you think alcohol as a means of social lubrication and dancing with a flirtatious acquaintance is a good idea, not accounting for the days of awkwardness that will ensue.
So thus I pose the question: what about a dancefloor hookup ruins your chance for a future anything with this person? Though I certainly couldn’t sum it up to one particular thing, I wonder if we’re defining what we want out of a relationship by how we start it? Now I’m certainly aligned with the idea that we live in a strange society comprised of the sexually repressed and hyper-sexualized. But now, I look at girls at dances (most of whom were freshman me) and think, “you’re better than that.”