I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You

I'm Not Gonna
Teach Your Boyfriend
How to Dance with You

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You” by Black Kids.

Off of the album: Partie Traumatic.

Idiot. IDIOT! What a stupid, sexist, conniving, flagrantly horny, intolerably profane, stupid fucking idiot. Idiot. IDIOT!

"Is that what you really think?" he asked with an impetuous air.

"I mean, it's kinda stupid, I agree..." Isabelle replied, trying to use democracy in the discussion which I was spitefully listening in on from the back seat.

"But-but-but! But-but-but!" Jacob replied with undue haste, trying to make a point. This conversation has been going on for four songs now. We're driving, and driving, and it's taking for-fucking-ever to get into the damn city, and the third chorus in the fourth song is singing-singing about whatever the hell pop artists sing about these days, because even though none of us like pop music particularly - because fucking Jacob - who secretly loves country - which Isabelle vehemently LOATHES - along with myself - is so insistent on arguing his fucking ignorant ignorance with Isabelle so he can prove a point like a pretentious douchebag nobody can take five seconds out of their life to tune to a new Goddamn radio station while the pop star finishes on a damn high note and a fade out and please, oh God, please, change the damn radio station and shut the hell up Jacob!

But-but-but we can't digress from the conversation. "But-but-but" Jacob replied with undue haste, trying to make a point. "But you said you liked them."

"I said a little bit..."

"But-but-but! But you said you liked them a little bit! Admit it!" Admit it, Jacob. But-but-but, admit you're a stupid ass guy who hasn't gotten laid in months and is getting desperate. But-but-but, admit that you're more excited to get drunk at a club and hope that while us girls are away in the restroom or something you can sneak peaks at the drunk girls doting about. But-but-but why the hell do you always have to say 'but-but-but?!' Once is enough, you pig!

Isabelle sighed. She sighed! Her lovely face sighed a sighing sigh that was unbecoming of her calm, quiet demeanour on her soft, relaxed visage. "Please, can we drop it?"

"Not until you admit you like them! You like them a little bit!" Yelled Pig... I mean Jacob the Pig.

"I like them. Just a little bit." Isabelle frowned. She frowned! She wouldn't have to frown if it weren't for Jacob the Pig. Damn you, you horrid beast!

Jacob the Pig guffawed. He guffawed! That bitch-ass motherfucker guffawed! "You like the Jonas Brothers! Hahahahahaha!!!"

"Whatever," Isabelle said, though she'd never have to use that word with me. "Whatever. Can we just drop it? You said you'd drop it."

"We can drop it," Jacob the Pig finally called for cessation of his offensive. "What kind of shitty music are we listening to now? I hate pop music."

"It's really not that bad, honeycakes..." Isabelle called him honeycakes. She hated calling him honeycakes. She had no issues with pet names, but didn't think honeycakes was a particularly good one. She hated using it, especially when addressing Jacob the Pig (A name I hailed as more appropriate, as you can probably tell. But don't tell Isabelle I said that.). But Jacob thought it was cute, and silly, and sweet, and he preferred to be called that, to the point where sometimes if Isabelle called, 'Jacob!' when a cell phone bill for him arrived in the mail, he wouldn't respond.

But I digress from the conversation. "It's really not that bad, honeycakes..."

But Jacob the Pig interrupted her as we finally found Ontario Street. "You better believe it is. It's crap. Slush. Crappy slush. Or like a crappy beer. A warm beer. A crappy warm beer. Or something European. A crappy, warm, European beer, or some shit like that." Jacob tuned through several stations. He stopped briefly when he glided over a country station, but so as not to reveal the truth, flipped to a different station as quickly as possible. The radio ended up on another pop station, but nobody mentioned it.

"How are you doing back there, Jo?" Jacob the Pig asked me.

"The back seat has its ups and downs. I definitely have the whole third-wheel feeling, but at least I have front row seats to you two for entertainment."

"Don't be like that..." Isabelle mentioned.

I apologized quietly in return, but Jacob the Pig masked it with his own profound statement. "Yeah, don't be like that, Jo! We're downtown! Downtown Chi-town. It doesn't get much better than this! Happy, happy, get happy dude!"

"Whatever," I said, though I'd never have to use that word with her.

In five minutes we were on the street, walkin', walkin', walkin', and in ten minutes, we were waitin', waitin', waitin'. It strikes me as strange, the whole nightclub scene. I enjoy it, don't get me wrong; it's invigorating to be able to douse the flames of your fiery, fervoured heart in tasty, strong alcohol, and join thousands of strangers in communal dance; I have always enjoyed dancing, whether it's with Isabelle, or our girl friends, or the hot boys we found in the clubs who flirted with us when Isabelle was still single. Though I guess that's how Isabelle found Jacob the Pig.

Regardless, dancing is a wondrous outlet. To move, to sweat, to groove to music, despite the melody or tune, is such a grand outlet for energy and feelings. Angry, sad, happy, depressed, stoic, wild, it doesn't matter; you can dance, and you won't have to speak a word. Your hips, your hands, your feet, they'll all speak for you, in languages you'll never learn to articulate.


But the nightclub scene still strikes me as queer. I guess it is how the different clubs form their own little personality, and people judge the clubs not by their actual good-bad distinctions, but instead by their contrived personalities. That club over there is lame for whatever reason, and that club over there is alright after this time for whatever reason, but this club is great always for whatever reason. But there are no real reasons. They're all clubs. They all play basically the same music. They all have the same deals on the stuff they serve at their bars. They're all typically fun to dance at. Loyalty to a nightclub is like loyalty to a retail outlet. Yeah, you could shop exclusively at Target, or Walmart, or K-Mart. But they all sell the same things, so why exclude the others?

We're at Blue Label tonight, but I bet you can guess who's choice it was. His name is Jacob and he is a Pig. Yep. Normally I would detest going to any club that he preferred, but frankly, we've been here quite a few times after he and Isabelle started dating. I would normally detest... but frankly, he knows the owner, so we get in free as long as we wait in line. I am perfectly content with a jerkoff getting me and my best friend into a club for free, even if he is a pig.

So here I am, standin' and waitin' and watchin' Jacob the Pig talk to supermodel Isabelle in line, as people to and fro chatter here and there. Oh, pig - you pig - Jacob - pig - you stand there conceitedly with your arm wrapped around Isabella's waist, your floppy hand resting on her inner thigh, so blatantly and grossly perverted in the middle of public. How obscene. How you stand there in your 'classy' white button-up shirt with the beer stain, and the somewhat tattered jeans, and unfashionable sneakers, and oversized belt buckle, and tousled hair, and shutter shades. Pff.

And there she is. Isabelle, such a beauty. Her dress was short, only halfway down her thighs, but not slutty by any means; with her body, it's a perfect length for her; it glowed a vibrant ruby red with an odd tone under the dark blue neon lights that glowed above. Her earrings were dark red, small, and modest, matching her dress to the hue. She wore matching flats instead of heels, like most girls would have; she doesn't need to impress anyone; she knows she's drop dead sexy, and would much rather wear something comfortable while dancing.

I'd say what I'm wearing. I'd say I'm wearing some nice black jeans, a sleek and freshly washed white shirt, with a slim black vest atop, with my "hipster" thick rimmed glasses over my eyes, and black and white Chucks on my feet along with the rainbow socks nobody could see anyway. I could tell you about the boy's tie I'm wearing for a belt, or the three different rings on different fingers, or a friendship bracelet on my arm given to me by Isabelle back in middle school, or the numerous other bangles and bracelets adorning my wrists. But I'd rather not.

We were eventually let inside, and we entered Blue Label on a lively Saturday night. There were just the right amount of strangers in the room, just enough to feel completely anonymous, but not too many where you would feel uncomfortable. The crowd seemed to be having a blast, and there were cameras hanging from somewhere which featured different dancing people on the large television screen.

The Pig had to go pee, though I assume he's off to get one of those condoms out of the filthy machines they have in the restrooms at clubs, just in case he couldn't wait until they got home or something. Pff. Isabelle and I chatted it up at the bar, getting alcohol into our systems. Jacob the Pig ordered something once he joined us, but I helped Isabelle not pay attention to him. I held her hand, or wrapped my arm around her whenever Jacob tried to talk to her, because I knew it annoyed him and made him jealous.

"Dude, Jo, how can you drink that much and not need to go?" Jacob asked. Which was his secret code for, 'Get out of here, because I want to make out with Isabelle.'

I ignored him, and whispered in Isabelle's ear. Obviously, she couldn't hear my whisper over the music, but neither could Jacob, which added to the comedy. Sadly, the worst song of all songs came on. It was some country song which some sell-out hip-hop artist got the bright idea to steal and use as his own. And it was Jacob and Isabelle's "song."

"It's our song, babe!" Jacob the Pig hollered. "Let's go dance!"

"Sure thing, honeycakes," Isabelle replied, much to my lament. "Will you be alright here, Jo?"

I sighed. "Sure. Alright, here, alone, bored. I'll find some friendly drinks to devour."

"Promise - Jo - I promise, you and I get the next dance!" They both wandered off.

By some freak standard, the most pronounced girlyman I had ever seen in my life took Isabelle's place. He stared at me as if he could look so intently, he might be able to read my DNA or something. Eventually, he averted his gaze when the bartender wandered back, and he got a drink. He was clearly one of two things: obviously flaming gay, with a light brown head of hair in a faux-hawk, an extremely pink polo, some nice jeans that looked very expensive, along with some very clean sneakers. Or he was gay, and trying to compensate by attempting to look very straight, sipping his domestic beer very cool-like. Turned off, I looked out in the crowd for Isabelle.

"Have I seen you before?" girlyman, whom I will now refer to as Faux, on account of the unfortunate haircut, asked. I didn't grace him with a gaze, instead continuing to look for Isabelle. "Seen you here, at this club, before, I mean. Have I seen you here?"

"Probably," I mentioned, finally finding Isabelle and the Pig in the crowd. "I've been coming here with my best friend and her boyfriend for the past month, almost every weekend."

"I knew it! So have I. Well, I mean, I've been here every weekend," Faux said nervously. "Do you mind if you help me out real quick?"

What in the hell was this? A tragedy? A travesty? What's the best word for it? It certainly wasn't dancing, watching lovely Isabelle and poor Pig trying his best to dance. Jacob wasn't a dancer. He has two left feet by nature. He stumbled over Isabelle several times while I looked on, and it infuriated me. Isabelle loves to dance. She deserves a significant other who can at least dance with her. That should be me.

Wait, Faux asked me a question. "What?" I replied. "Help with what?"

I finally looked at Faux, and he sighed with relief once he looked at my eyes and lips. He passed me his cell phone. "I can't tell if my phone's working. Like, I'm trying to call my pal Mark. But the signal won't go through. Could you call your phone on mine real quick to see if my phone's alright?"

Ladies, this is what you call, nipping it in the bud. I took Faux's phone, glanced at it, and put it on the bar next to his drink. "What's your name?" I asked with a coy smile.

"Jacob."

Good, this will be easier for me now. "Hi Jacob. I'm Jocelyn - call me Jo. Now, Jacob, let me tell you something. I know your phone is working. I know that you want me to call my phone so you can trick me into giving you my number. I know you like me, and let me tell you, I'm very uninterested.

"And this is the part where you say, 'Wow, that's harsh. Cause I mean, you're a hot chick, and I just wanted to buy you a drink.' But I'll have you know that you're not playing the right field with me - you're not in the ballpark right now - honeycakes - we're not even playing the same game. Bye bye now." I hopped off my barstool and wandered out toward the dancefloor.

The song ended while I was midway out and switched to something even more fun and lively than the previous. Once I reached Isabelle and her stumbling buffoon, I took her by the hand and spun her around. The Pig scowled, but Isabelle laughed. "I hope you met a lot of nice drinks in our absence!" she said above the music.

"That I did. But you promised. Honeycakes," I said to Jacob the Pig, "maybe you should meet some nice drinks now."

"Yeah, maybe," he replied, partially confused. "I loosen up for dancing more after a few more drinks."

The Pig made himself scarce, and Isabelle and I launched ourselves into fluid, passion filled dancing. We were queens! We were confident! There were millions on the dancefloor with us, but who cares, cause everyone knew we were the best. I thought of Isabelle. I thought, I thought, I thought, and as song, after song, after song passed through our ears, and as hip, after hip, after hip wagged and moved to the beat, I thought, and thought, and thought. Isabelle, Isabelle, Isabelle.

I thought of all the boyfriends we've had over the years. And how we were so crazy for them, but always realized later they were horrible choices. I remembered when she made me that friendship bracelet that never broke. I remembered truth or dare, when the naive boys dared us to kiss, and we gave them a show, making the whole room 'ooh' and 'ahh,' and how we couldn't stop laughing afterwards. I remembered sleeping over at each others houses almost every single day. I remembered our runway shows, where we saved our allowance for months, and then would buy as much lingerie as we could; we hid it, because both our mothers hated it; when everyone else was asleep though, we would pretend to be supermodels in our new lingerie, and would strut around our rooms in our see-through bras and thongs. We'd try our own on, then try each others, and strut, and pose, and dance all night long until we couldn't see straight.

Then we'd fall into bed, price tags still on our lingerie, and fight over who would get to have more of the blankets until we fell asleep, and just ended up rolling on top of each other sometime during the night anyway, waking up face to face, eye to eye. I remembered the summers, when the air conditioning broke at my house, and it was too hot to breath. Where we didn't even bother wearing lingerie, waking up to each others naked bodies, only covered by a sheet in case the parentals walked in. I remembered that summer, one morning, when I woke up before Isabelle, and I watched her sleep; our naked bodies pressed together close, our shaven, sixteen year old legs entangled, and her warm breath on my lips like lip gloss. I remembered realizing I love her like no boy ever could. I remembered realizing I never loved any boy. I remembered realizing I was gay, and my life wouldn't be complete without Isabelle. Life equals Jocelyn plus Isabelle... Isabelle and Jocelyn... Isabelle to Jocelyn...

"Isabelle to Jocelyn!" my beauty called above the music to me, in my right ear, over my shoulder. We were still dancing - how long we had danced already, I knew not - my back was to her - her thumbs through my beltloops as we continued, "I hate to be a total killjoy. But I could use a drink. Mind going to get one of me?"

"Of course not, darling," I replied with a turn of my head. "You don't mind being abandoned here? You don't want to come with? Don't want to look for your hopeless dancer of a boyfriend?" I spun around and grabbed her hands for support as we both continued dancing while talking.

Her face was making a shape I did not enjoy. Most would call it a frown. I disapproved. "I'd rather not," she said, which is when I said...

"Okay, fess up. What's wrong, sweetie?"

She was quiet, and watched her feet while we continued dancing. Isabelle shook her head, "Nevermind. We can keep dancing."

After a few seconds though, the song ended, and a slow dance song came on. I made a nod to see if she wanted to look awkward with me during a slow dance as usual. Her hair was mostly covering her eyes in an unflattering way, but she definitely nodded. We took each other in our arms and pulled each other close. Isabelle laid her head on my shoulder, and we moved our bodies to the beat of the music in silence.

"He really sucks, I guess is the problem," she said quietly, but loud enough for me to hear."

"Jacob?"

"Yeah... he can't even dance."

"Tell me about it."

Another pause as the first chorus finished, and the slow R&B song switched to verse two. "I read the text messages on his phone before driving here. He was talking to Quentin, the guy who owns this place. And they were talking about a girl that Quentin thought Jacob should hook up with."

I could see this story was not going to be a good one. I squeezed her lightly, and kissed her shoulder in comfort.

She continued. "I know this wasn't the first time he's cheated on me... He's been cheating on me for quite some time, actually. Remember that one time I crawled into bed with you in the middle of the night, a couple of months ago, when you had a cold?"

I rubbed her back in a way that was comforting and said yes.

"I told you I just couldn't get to sleep. I had been out with friends that night. I got home early, and thought Jacob was asleep. So I went into our bedroom quietly. He was having sex with someone. Who knows who."

"Why did you want to keep dating him... you act like your head over heels for him," I replied.

"I was hoping that maybe he'd change... maybe he'd realize, 'Wow, I have a beautiful girlfriend. I don't need to cheat on her - I have everything I could ever want.' But I guess that won't be happening. I guess I'm not everything he could ever want. I guess I'm pretty worthless..."

I told her to shut up. "Shut up." I kissed her neck. "You will never be worthless. You could never be worthless, even if you tried. Because you're everything without trying."

"Not his everything."

"You're my everything, Isabelle."

It was the second chorus now, and we both backed away from each other, so we could look at each other in the eyes. We kept dancing, because we had to keep communicating. Remember, our dancing was speaking a language we could never express. We had to keep expressing. We couldn't stop speaking to one another, not right now.

"So I was right," she said abruptly.

"Right about what?" I suddenly felt very self-conscious, which is odd, because usually I'm the complete opposite. Usually I'm a bit too confident.

"You don't like boys, do you?"

I hesitated longer than I intended. "No."

"And you like me, don't you?"

I didn't hesitate. "Yes."

The bridge in the song started. The singer wailed something passionate.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"I just figured it out," she said, resting her head on my shoulder again. "You stopped dating boys in high school. You asked my little brother to prom because you didn't want to go with anyone in particular. And we were always close. Closer than most anyone else has been in our lives. And when I needed someone stronger and braver than me, you did what my boyfriends never did. You protected me. You were very defensive when it came to me. You always defended me when I needed defending."

"I have to admit, I guess..." I murmured, "I've been in love with you for quite a long time."

"And I guess I have to admit the same..." she replied.

I almost choked on air to this, and looked at her in confusion and shock. "What?"

"Don't get me wrong," she said, very plainly looking into my eyes, as if we were sixteen and lying entangled in bed; as if she could see a reflection of my heart in my glasses. "I have, and I suppose still do, like boys. I mean, I've slept with a few, so I guess that speaks more than words..." A new slow song came on, still R&B.

"But I always had feeling for you. I didn't pay attention to them for the longest time. I thought it was just a phase in high school, or just a silly thought in the back of my mind. But you bathed me in your love for years. And you were subtle, but I eventually noticed. And couldn't deny I felt the same, in a weird way."

We were quiet and danced for quite some time, and we could feel every part of our bodies pressed together. I backed up from her, and kissed her. We kissed, and I cried. I cried while we kissed, and we only stopped once or twice, long enough for me to wipe my tears on her dress. Crying, kissing... it was almost pathetic, but who was I to complain?

This was love, true love. The worthwhile kind of love. Love is like dancing, if you ask me. It's a lot like dancing. Every song is different and unique, and every lover is different and unique, yet they're all somewhat similar if you look hard enough. You move the same ways sometimes, and you love the same ways sometimes. And it's always a lot of fun. But when you're dancing, the best part is right after the third verse, during the last chorus.

During that last chorus, the song has one more exultation - one more triumphant blast of repetition - where you hear the most crucial part of the song one last time. The last chorus is when the best dancing happens, because you get all the last tiny bits of emotion for that song out before it ends. But you have to save your energy - you have to be patient - just like with love. If you waste your energy in the beginning of the song, you won't have any energy by the end. If you jump the gun in love, you won't have any love to spare when love is really important.

You have to save your energy 'til the fourth minute in the song, when it's the best time to dance. You have to save your love, and hold on tight, until all the frustration, and sadness, and depression, and insanity you've seen while holding onto that love finally makes sense. You have to save your love for when it matters. It's the love that was worth the weight - worth the wait. It's that fourth minute, last chorus kind of love. The love you have to wait patiently for, or else you might not see it. That - this - is true love. The worthwhile kind of love.

A new song - a pop song - started when Isabelle's tongue was in my mouth, caressing a tongue of my own. That's when I felt someone yank at the collar of my shirt, ripping me away from my love, and spinning me around. It was Jacob the Pig, who had a fist ready like a riot squad baton. He gasped when he realized I was who I was. "What the fuck?"

"I could ask the same," I replied, wiping some of Isabelle's spit from my lips. I stood in front of her, and she stood very matter-of-factly behind me.

Jacob was quite confused at this point. "Jocelyn... I... What the fuck? Jocelyn, were you just making out with my fucking girlfriend?"

"It takes two to kiss, Jacob," Isabelle noted. "Though I'm sure you realize that."

"What the fuck?" The Pig blubbered.

"You've said that three times now, and you sound like a retard," I told him. "Here's a secret. Me and Isabelle - Isabelle and I - we kinda like pop music. And we like each other for good reasons. But I know you hate pop music. And I know will never love Isabelle as purely as I will. And I'm pretty sure Isabelle knows this too."

"Jocelyn, what the hell are you talking about? You're pissing me off," The Pig snorted.

"We're through, Jacob. Don't come home tonight. You're not welcome there. I'll pack your things and leave them on the porch."

"Isa... honeycakes... You're breaking up with me?"

Isabelle nodded appropriately while the crowd chanted to the music.

"Isabelle... I think you're just confused. Honeycakes, I..."

"And," I interrupted, "I hate how you call her honeycakes. And she does as well. You should've figured that out after dating her for three months."

"Jocelyn, I'm about this close," he showed a small distance between his thumb and index finger, "to knocking your damn teeth out if you don't shut the hell up right now."

I turned to my love, but spoke to both her and Jacob. "Isabelle, I really hope you forgive me. I'm not going teach your boyfriend how to dance with you. But I'm going to teach him some manners."

"Jocelyn, what the..."

WHOCKKKKK!

In three fourths of Jacob's sentence, I spun back around, and my ringed knuckles cracked against Jacob's nose. I hit him harder than I intended, and I didn't break his nose, but I definitely felt the bones move a little and pop unpleasantly. My right hand's knuckles were now quite numb, but luckily I'm left-handed.

Jacob was so taken off guard, that not only did he not have time to react, or retaliate, but he completely lost balance and fell on top nearby dancers, before slithering in a daze to the floor. Many people gasped and yelped around us. I glanced back at Isabelle, hoping she understood I decked her boyfriend in both of our best interests, and I luckily found her desperately clinging to my waist for balance, almost falling over with laughter.

"What the... What...?" Jacob mumbled from the floor. His nose was bleeding freely when he looked up at me, as soon as Isabelle kissed me. As the blood ran to his mouth, I saw a red stain around his mouth not left by blood.

"And next time you try pleading with your girlfriend, after cheating on her, wipe off all the lipstick first."

"What the... What...?"

But Isabelle kissed me again, so I didn't listen to The Pig. I took Isabelle by the hand, and we made our way off the dance floor and out of Blue Label. We hurried through the windy streets to our car, and made our getaway back to our home in Lake Zurich. Just like dancing - which is oh so natural - just like our childhood - which was oh so natural - we had a party and a sleepover. We celebrated by packing all of Jacob's things into a small suitcase, and literally kicked it out of the front door. Jacob was an idiot - IDIOT! - but smart enough to know he shouldn't break into a house with two girl residents. We were safe from his ignorance.

So, naturally, we had a sleepover. Of course, we have long since childhood been able to wear whatever underwear we please. But we happily had an old fashioned lingerie runway show, with loud music in every room, the entire house as our runway. We laughed, and strutted, and posed, and danced all night long. And when we were exhausted, we took off the skimpy undergarments, and fell into bed with one another. And we held each other close, and entwined each others legs, and kissed, and kissed, and kissed, just like true lovers should.

"Jocelyn... I love you..." Isabelle whispered between kisses. At some point, I guess the alcohol got the better of her, because Isabelle fell asleep mid-kiss without a further motion or word, a hand in my hair and the other on my breast. I couldn't help but laugh as I felt her warm breath on my lips. I kissed her in her sleep. And I loved her.

In that moment, Isabelle was perfect. And I knew that I would fall asleep with Isabelle's hand still cupping my breast. And I knew she would wake up tomorrow morning. And I knew the first thought on her mind would be, "I really have to pee." But certainly the second would be, How many people are there that would let me flop on top of them while making out naked together? Only one. Only Jocelyn. Only my true love. And who could I lie in bed with, tangled with no sheets or blankets covering us, since our mothers wouldn't see?

Only one. Only Isabelle. Only my true love. Only.