September 8. 2020“She’s a very kinky girl… the kind you don’t take home to mother.” Funky music blaring, smiling faces, clapping, shouts of approval and encouragement being drowned out in my head by a voice saying “that looks cool… I hope I dance like that,” “that looks stupid… make sure not to do that move,” “what am I going to do when it’s my turn,” “that bitch she stole ‘the robot’ my signature move and now I can’t use it,” “ok, remember those five top dance moves so people see you as cool, sexy, fun, and real.” Grooving down the conveyer belt a beat at a time, closer and closer, my turn to dance down the line is coming, anxiety building and building, mind chatter drowning out Super Freak, getting closer and closer, resisting and wanting, resisting putting myself in a place of judgement while simultaneously wanting to be accepted and approved of as I begin my dance down this hallway of “judging” eyes.
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