What in the fuck happened to my dance arsenal?

I've got to be honest with you, I'm finally starting to embrace this whole "getting older" thing. When my heart feels like its going to jump out of my chest every time I put some low self esteem having damsel in distress on the business end of a mean spirited deep dicking - I no longer check my pulse like I know what I'm looking for, I just tell the woman to ride me faster and occasionally point her in the direction of the CPR diagram on the wall mid thrust whenever I feel light headed. As each Grey hair found its way into my beard I used to freak the fuck out something serious, hoping that women wouldn't start giving me pity sex because of my "old timer" status - you know, them saying shit like "I'd bet you'd get hard if I covered myself in Ben-gay motherfucker!" and "If you are good, for your birthday I'll come to bed dressed like Betsy Ross and shit! How would you like that?!!" But who am I kidding, I don't care in what form consensual vagina comes my way - I can't tell you how many of my girlfriends depressingly offered me a complimentary "Break up" fuck as if I wasn't going to take it, as soon as they finished the sentence I was thrusting on top of her like a coked up dog in heat - only rhetorically asking her if she "likes it" while she lay there motionless, with her eyes rolled no less. As my brown skin wrinkles and my attitude grows more and more cantankerous with every passing birthday, I really want to reject people's inclination to ask me for advice just because I happened to be practicing intercourse the year that they were born. But the truth is I enjoy hearing someones problems, it makes my life fell somewhat normal - people confiding in me feels great, but please don't make the mistake of yelling out "I knew it!!! I knew you were abused!!" to some stripper as she pours her heart out to you.

But the one talent that father time has erased, a ninja-like gracefulness that I couldn't get back if I sold Lucifer the rights to my calorie filled soul, is my ability to - as Young MC so succinctly put it - "Bust a Move". When I was a child I could move like the Godfather of soul himself, shuffling and doing sporadic splits like some sort of trained monkey for all those racist ass teachers that wanted to see the only black kid in the school perform for them. As I got older I was the furthest thing from the best B-Boy, but I did enough for some of the young ladies to randomly throw a pre-teen titty in my mouth - and I was just good enough where the other more experienced B-Boys didn't find the need to treat my skull like a negro pinata. In high school I had the full arsenal of choreography, whenever I entered a school dance I walked in with the swagger of Rambo, canvassing the war-zone for my best plan of attack - my artillery including "The Running Man", a handful of Dance-hall moves that I refused to learn the names of, "The Bus stop", "The Prep", and the proverbial Chewbacca belt wrapped around my body were the slew of dance moves that I happened to invent myself. Even in college I still had it, do you know how many women will hand you the keys to that sweet ass based on that foolish "If he's a good dancer he must be a good lay" myth? My college career was littered with disgruntled lovers who said, "He can't fuck worth a damn, but he can sure dance his ass off!!"

Concerning my dance prowess now, I feel exactly the same way I did while sobbingly clutching the breasts of a woman after her reduction surgery, screaming to the high heavens "Where did it all go?!!" On the dance floor I've become Clark Kent with a Kryptonite rock in his trousers, Austin Powers without his mojo, Barry Bonds without his steroid syringe, I've suddenly went from a bona fide dance machine to those white girls I danced with in High School who moved like they were listening to an entirely different song. I'm serious man, even the most pedestrian of dance maneuvers take some very intense thought and planning - as if my left and right brain were plotting while looking at some well detailed schematics. Granted, I have a few moves in my repertoire, but they are sadder than shit. Here a a few:

The same old two step: I feel like an absolute fraud, akin to those Hip Hop bloggers that want to make you think they are authentic despite their love for Lil Wayne or Chamillionaire - or that Sunday preacher who goes on and on about the sanctity of marriage even though his favorite pastime is sharing ejaculate with women who aren't his wife, the mere fact I'm doing the "two step" is contradictory to everything that I've ever believed in. I used to clown people who did that dance move, one that seemed like it only required an ounce of motor skills - me openly mocking them by screaming "Are you counting the beat? 1-2-3 -1-2-3!!! Hahaha!!" Karma is a bitch because now I'm that guy, afraid to let loose on unsuspecting motherfuckers for fear of permanent injury or death - not for nothing, but dying in a dive bar called "Sneaky Pete's" is hardly something that I want to be included in my obituary. So that simple two step is my favorite move, a maneuver that I dress up with random shaking, impressive head movements, even gyrating my hips so skillfully that it would resurrect the withering remains of Mr. Elvis Presley himself(you fucking black culture stealer you) - but then again, "dressing up" those particular moves is akin to putting a bow-tie on a turd, or pressing a woman to thank you after pre-ejaculating on her prom dress.


Dry-humping to a beat: Bumping and grinding on a dance floor is an aged old tradition, like Sunday dinners and oppression, there's nothing particularly shocking about me rubbing my well-crafted piece of "Virginia Oak" against some loose woman's overpriced jeans. I'm actually a grizzled veteran of this particular ritual, if I had a million dollars for every time sex was the end result of me saying to a woman "Girl, you feel that?!! THAT can be inside you if you want it to be?!!" - well, my bank account would be in the same sorry state of affairs that its in currently. But now I just creep women out, no longer masking my urge to fuck with fluid dance moves - now I just lead the woman around by my erection, acting as if my unimpressive phallus is a light-saber and her backside is a pesky storm trooper. Sometimes it goes to a whole other sad level, getting so worked up that when she turns around and says "Wow, you really are excited aren't you?" I just quickly put my finger over her mouth, manually turn her head back around and say "Shh, you know you ruin it by talking!!" Man, I have to get married.

The "treat her like a stripper" move: I used to be able to keep up with chicks who thought that they were auditioning for an episode of "Solid Gold", I had enough hyperactive moves in my repertoire that we both came off looking like a Melanin enriched version of Fred and Ginger. But now I'm too old for such foolishness, the only thing that I get excited about any more is Hip Hop that I don't lose I.Q points listening to and the thought of eating mac and cheese off of some chubby woman's backside. Besides, I'm not trying to get all sweaty, what if one of these broads in desperate need of 10 bucks wants to orally pleasure me in the romantic confines of my front seat? So whenever some chick comes to me with the same aggressiveness of a "Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo" battle, I just let her do her thing while I watch as if I'm in a music video. Occasionally I'll say shit like, "Work it baby!!!" and "Damn girl, you make a chubby bastard like me wanna have enough energy to fuck you after meals and shit!!!" It's funny though, as mad as they get when you throw ones at her well manicured feet, she sure does pick that shit up before she leaves the dance-floor though.