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Tony Lawrence: The Dance
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The music from the clubhouse dance easily reaches the Ghetto trailers.
It is not distinct, and the higher notes have dissipated themselves,
and the words we hear are recognizable only because of familiarity,
but we know the dance has started.
Few of us will go this early. We aren't ready, the fire still holds
some of us in it's circle. Too early. Another hour or so. Maybe
a final dip in the pool, or some time in the hot tub. No rush.
Linda and I are enjoying a late supper on our deck. A few other
people are similarly engaged. A small group is gathered around
the fire, and the rumble of conversation and laughter mixes with
the music flowing down from the clubhouse. A few trailers away,
Paul is doing body painting for his wife and a few other friends.
Not an artist by trade, he is nonetheless very good, and some of
his more inspired creations are simply breathtaking. Great color
sense, excellent eye for proportion and detail all combine in
fanciful swirls and feathers. Undoubtedly he could charge
for this, but he does it for simple enjoyment.
The sun has already set tonight, gone behind the mountain with
a glorious display of reddened clouds. The air is cool and sweet,
and it moves by us, tickling our feet as it goes. We inhale it,
hold it in our lungs, reluctant to let it go.
A fast song is playing in the clubhouse. We can't quite make it
out, but the bass notes set our fingers drumming. We look at each
other, and silently agree that it is near time to go.
First, of course, we have to get dressed. Sometimes we have theme
dances that call for particular outfits, but tonight is just
an ordinary dance. Nudists dress for dances, a fact that sometimes
mystifies those who have never tried dancing nude. Male or
female, most of us have *something* that is not particularly
comfortable bouncing around a dance floor. Or maybe it's just
because we like to dress up for a party. Whatever the reason, few
people come nude to the dance. If it is hot, there will likely
be more and more nudity as the night goes un, but it doesn't start
that way.
I choose my usual uninspired cut-off jeans. Dull and boring, I'm
ready in a few seconds. Linda is more selective, and has more
to put on. Sometimes she'll do shorts, sometimes a dress, and
always some sort of top. It takes her a bit longer to decide
and actually get ready. I amuse myself by reading while she
does these things.
When we are both ready, we walk up the hill to the clubhouse. There
is always the stop at the ladies room for final attention to hair
and makeup. I stand outside talking to other abandoned men
who also wait for their dates.
Toiletries attended to, we are ready to climb the clubhouse stairs.
These lead to a large deck that is outside the recreation
and bar rooms. On a hot night there will be as many people or
more out here as are in the dance. There are large windows
where you can look inside and make faces at your friends, and
there are tables and benches where you can escape the ever present
smoke and sit to catch your breath.
Smoking is a problem at this club. The majority of people would
prefer that there was no smoking allowed at the dance, and even
voted that way some time back. However, bar business apparently
suffered too much, so the owners changed the policy back to
allow smoking in one section of the dance floor area only. It
is a poor compromise, but if the doors and windows are open, it
is at least not suffocating.
When we enter, we greet friends and may sit and chat with some of them
for a moment or two. But we didn't come to sit and drink. We
came to dance.
I'm a bad dancer. I have no feeling for music. That's not entirely
true: some classical works will move me to tears, but my *body*
doesn't feel the beat. I'm not coordinated, not smooth, not
graceful. Everything I am not, however, Linda is, and I dance
because I love to dance with her.
We will usually pass on the slow dances, and take that opportunity
to talk with other folks or get some fresh air on the deck. The
owners unfortunately seldom make any income from us at the bar,
but I'm sure that other folks more than make up for us.
The fast dances almost always draw us onto the floor. I do
whatever goofy movements seem to somewhat match what Linda
is doing, and we get by. We dance, and we dance, and we dance.
As the night gets darker, more people drift in. Many of the
women wear lingerie. Some have been painted, probably by
Paul. Some wear dresses, skirts, whatever. The men are
usually less imaginative.
The floor can get very crowded at times. I've had my feet
stepped on by some very large people in the crush, but it's
all part of the excitement.
There are certain songs that seem to be required at nudist
dances. Some of the favorites at our club are a bit on
the raunchy side, or become so after the crowd gets creative
with the lyrics. Unfortunately, we had some person or persons
object and try to ban certain songs from being played. I
think that issue has been dealt with and I hope we won't
have to have a problem. We have all agreed that these songs
should not be played until after the children have left
the dance (children are required to leave at 9:00 PM),
and most of us hope that's the end of it. We'll see.
Once in a while we get some exceptional dancers. There are
several women who are unusually good, but now and then we've
seen some men who can really dance. There is a young man
who only started coming a year or so ago who is amazingly
talented. Sometimes even I will just watch him in slack
jawed admiration.
But mostly we just dance. We dance long and we dance hard,
and as we get older, it's rare for us to be able to keep
up the pace all the way to the end at 2:00 PM. We usually
give up and crawl into our bed much earlier. Part of
that is tiredness, but I guess more of it is the damn smoke.
It gets worse as the evening goes on, and of course fast
dancing means we breathe more of it. Both of us are
ex-smokers, so we certainly understand the compulsions
that smokers live with, but we wish more of them would have
simple consideration and move outside to smoke. A very
few do conscientiously do that, but the great majority
don't seem to care.
When we do give up and head toward our camper, the music
follows us down the hill. We toss our smoke drenched clothes
in the corner, clean up, and roll into bed. Berkshire
Sunday morning will be knocking at our door soon enough. The
dancing has worn us out, and we'll drift off quickly.
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