Keep on Dancing. … Yeah…
I remember, as a little kid, asking my father why songs always focused on ‘mushy stuff’ like love and kisses. Obviously, this was well before my little boy libido became fully operative ;>). He advised me that music was all about dancing and holding a girl. And dancing often led to love. It sufficed as an answer, for a while.
By the time I reached thirteen, having a girlfriend meant something quite wonderful. I was talked into going to my first school dance about then, and lo and behold! They encouraged us to hold each other. Holy shit, this was a pretty good deal. I figured I’d happened upon just about the greatest pastime in the world, and set out to become the best dancer I could be.
Throughout high school, I won quite a few dance contests. Girls who liked to get up on stage and shake what-she-got often wanted me as a partner. Even if we didn’t nail first place, we’d always make it to the finals. It served me well with the young ladies; I must say my dad had something going after all.
San Francisco’s party scene during the 60’s and 70’s almost always included dancing. I kept up my chops, out there showing others how it’s done. Well, speaking of done—yes, now that’s all done. The mind wants to jive, but the body says no.
I have to wonder how much our taste in music, or for that matter any art, relies on nostalgia. Earlier discussion around this topic explored synesthesia, the phenomenon that intertwines color, touch and auditory sensations. My memories tend to carry something I can only call a ‘flavor’. I suppose sense of place, sights, sounds, temperatures and drugs ingested engage our receptors as all-encompassing textures, moods, impressions, combining into a sensory mélange attributable to a particular time in life.
With that in mind, I offer you:
Aftermath, 70’s Style Copyright 2012 Daddy X
The dancing had been spontaneous. Donny Hathaway laid out his soul in “The Ghetto.” Marvin Gaye, was givin’ it up on the vinyl 33’s. Havin’ a party. Boz Scaggs with his class band. King Curtis and Champion Jack Dupree, Live at Montreaux.
Sneaky Pete, drinkin’ water, get in the groove. When you gets ready everybody move…
The smell of pot permeated the apartment. Bottles of all sorts lay about in various degrees of empty. Many revelers had abandoned accepted social decorum and entered free-form dance expressions—raging, rocked-out hormones, swaying and jiving anywhere offering room to dig it. Somebody brought some Quaaludes.
James Brown told it like it was.
Get up! Get into it! Get involved!
A tall guy in a ponytail and tweed jacket caught my libidinous attention, though he didn’t appear the dancing type. I heard he was a poet—Evan something. He spoke with a natural confidence, conducting conversations of various topics with numerous revelers. An engaging presence, seemingly far beyond the others in intellectual acuity. Evan wore no facial hair. For all these things the man stood out.
Over the course of the evening, Evan had become, if not the life of the party, its soul. He’d engaged easily with strangers, interjecting common sense whenever the conversation became too far-out. I’d been lusting after him all night, my pussy moist and swollen with his words, concepts and chiseled looks.
He’s a poetry man...
Dancing and flirting long exhausted, maybe eight or ten holdouts lay around in various stages of nodding off. We’d explored esoteric, important and poignant subjects for hours. Now we’re on the sofa, my legs across Evan’s lap. He and I the only ones still conscious, speaking in hushed tones so as not to wake the others.
But now I sense his touch under my skirt, fingers pressing into my slick mound. Peering around to see that everyone’s still asleep, I push back into his hand.
‘It makes me fee ee ee eel …. aa alll right…’
He stretches alongside me, turning my face to the sofa back. “Shhh,” he whispers. “Bite into the pillow.”
Lifting a knee allows him access. Undies pulled aside, he slides into my grateful pussy from behind. His arm circles my waist. Gentle fingers find their way between my labia. We engage in a slow, silent challenge of a fuck, trying not to alert anyone of our indiscretion.
I emerge from my orgasm to the sound of a phonograph needle skipping regularly at the end of an album … thup … thup … my dry, whimpering mouth full of soggy cushion. His breath warms my ear with his own release.
To our surprise, the music begins again. Boz Scaggs.
Angel Lady … Come just in time…
Behind us, a pattering of applause erupts unexpected.
A 200wc version of “Aftermath 70’s Style” is in ERWA’s 2012 Treasure Chest. There’s very little reference to music and dancing in that version.
For this version, I’d like to thank:
Donnie Hathaway (deceased)
King Curits (deceased)
Champion Jack Dupree (deceased)
Marvin Gaye (deceased)
James Brown (deceased)
For the sound and feel of their lyrics, no matter how badly I’ve fucked them up.