Fishing With Bait

Dancing is like fishing. Some people are fisherpersons, and some people are dancers. I like fly fishing. I used to hate dances, but they’re growing on me, once I saw the practical applications. You choose your bait, putting on an outfit in the hopes of "catching" someone. If you don't "catch" anyone, you blame it on the outfit. "Oh, maybe I shoud have worn the pink dress with the ruffles." Likewise, if you don't catch a fish, you blame it on the bait. "Oh, I should have casted the green one with the fuzzy wings." The only thing is, you can't eat your "catch" for dinner like you can eat your trout. You can't even take him home and mount him over your fireplace. That's what men could be useful for, taxedermy. I could have a hot guy stuffed and mounted, and I'd be happy for years.

My friend, Monica, took me to the school Valentine's dance in eighth grade. I immediately made an Entrance, jutting my pelvis to the music. Monica elbowed me. "Stop, you're scaring the boys away!" she wispered vehemently. Of course this was my first dance, and I was familiar with the tradition that, on a person's first fishing trip, there is a definite Teacher and a Student. I was the Student. Monica was going to help me reel in a good 'un. Many dances later, I hadn't even caught a sucker.

Then Monica resorted to reeling in one for me, another first-time fishing experience. When a fisherperson fishes for the first time, they usually don't catch anything, so you have to help them out a little bit. First you get a fish hooked on the line, then you give the pole to the new fisherperson. They get really excited: "I caught one! I caught one!" only you don't tell them that you did it for them.

Monica was less discreet. "Hey, wanna dance with my friend?" she said not a few times before many guys rejected me to my face. Then she got smart. Ryan was afraid of Monica, and she knew it. She walked up behind him, gripping his shoulder. "Will you dance with her?!" she said in a nasty tone, pulling him and me together. The whole time, Ryan and I tried to stay as far apart as possible. I touched my fingertips to the fleshy part between his collar bone and his shoulder, and he touched his fingertips to my waist. We both tilted our heads away from each other and avoided all forms of eye contact. We just stood there the whole time, and Monica hovered by us, re-positioning my hands on his shoulders and repremanding me. "You at least have to touch each other," she would say. I finished the dance, threw him back in the stream, and went back to fly fishing.