If She Asks You To Dance, You Dance

I don’t generally like to tell people what to do when it comes to dating, considering I myself am painfully single. Today, however, I’m breaking all the rules. I’m Victoria, the wild rule breaker, and I’ve come here to say one thing.

Dance with me, goddamn it.

I’ll say it again.

In the name of all that is holy, if I ask you to dance with me, just fucking dance with me.

Let me pull back the curtain for a second. If we’re out on a date and I say, “Hey Steve, want to dance?” know this: you are not auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. I am well aware you are not a professional dancer. Please relax.

When I ask you to dance, what I really want is just to have your body pressed against my body and to touch you in places I can’t while we’re sitting at the bar. Is that okay?

I know this may come as a shock, but I am also not a professional dancer. I cannot belly roll like Xtina or dislocate my hips like Shakira. My dance moves generally consist of some lower body gyration, knee rotating, and the ever so casual giggle and hand through my hair.

If I ask you to dance, I’m not doing an analysis of whether or not we will have to attend salsa lessons to train for our wedding, or if you can join my company flash dance. I certainly am not going to use it as some sort of quality of sex indicator like I’m the human manifestation of Cosmopolitan magazine. You have my word that I will not equate how you dance to “Bump and Grind” to your actual bedroom bump and grind.


When a gentleman doesn’t dance with me, it signals two things; 1) He’s insecure and 2) He probably doesn’t like me. Now, if you are trying to signal either of those things, by all means keep that ass planted right in that chair. If you’d like to never see me again, secretly want to date my friend, an ex has paid you to piss me off, or we are somehow related and I do not know it, certainly do not grab my waist and pull me close.

Otherwise, grab my body with your body and rock your body.

I am not in the business of list making. It does not suit my writing strategy, which falls stylistically somewhere at the crossroads of day drunk and rambling stream of consciousness. That being said, I feel so strongly about this topic I have acquiesced to list format. A few helpful dancing pointers are as follows:

1. Observe your surroundings.

Try to copy the other patrons around you in terms of general style. If we’re at a jazz club, and folks are swinging each other around like it’s 1942, best not to rub up on me in the style of ‘middle school grind train.’ That makes everyone uncomfortable.

Conversely, if you’re taking up prime real-estate on the club dance floor by insisting you showcase the square-dance box step you learned at your cousins wedding, please instead be a follower and drop it low like the rest of us. The dance floor is a shared space. Let’s be respectful.

2. Don’t you dare try to pull an OTDFMO.

I am an adult perfectly capable of controlling myself and so are you. Let’s save the spit swapping for appropriate places like my apartment, your car, a dark ally, or a very quiet park. On the dance floor make outs are for bar mitzvahs and college Instagram feeds. We’re better than that. No matter how much eye contact I’m making, or how close my genitals are to yours, I can guarantee I don’t want to make out with you on a dance floor full of strangers. Grab the back of my head, give me a firm peck as a sampler, and whisper in my ear, “I’ll save the rest for later baby.” That, right there, is romance.

3. Everybody sweats.

I’m not a huge sweat person, but if we’re slipin and slindin on the dance floor, so be it.

For whatever reason, sweat is one of those things that is completely chill some places and so incredibly uncomfortable in others. If we’re in the office, on the metro, at a sports event, or standing in line at a food truck, please avoid touching me with your sweaty body at all costs. If we’re at the gym, having sex, or on the dance floor, sure, rub up on me.

I know this is illogical because it’s all the same sweat but, for whatever reason, I’m not down with office sweat but am very down with dancefloor sweat. If we’re fist bumping, spinning, or cupid shuffling, let it rain, baby. Your sweat is my sweat.

4. Put your drink down.

I get it. You just paid $14 for a vodka-soda, but I’m going to need you to a) stop going to places that charge $14 for the preferred drink of sorority members and wealthy mothers and b) chug that shit. Dancing, similar to operating heavy machinery, demands complete use of both hands. If you’d rather caress the bottom of a scotch glass than my actual bottom, then this thing just isn’t going to work. That’s right. I just used the word bottom.

This is a call to arms folks. Gyrate, groove, slide, grind, twist, and shout. I’m here to dance and you’re coming with me.

Image via YouTube

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Life is messy, let's get dirty.

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