To discuss a Jersey girl telling me about a wild night

Tomorrow, I'll have up my "What I Learned from Cosmo" post, to help out all those lost souls who have been looking for ultimate pleasure but don't know how to get it until Cosmo tells them... If you just started reading Wild ARS after jumping over from Pop Candy yesterday, welcome.
For now, let me offer you a special treat: A guest post from Finger Talks, who recently came out of semi-blog retirement after I gave her an award. Finger wrote this in honor of my birthday last Friday:

In honor of our WildArs’ 26th year of life… a story of confusion:

I will be turning 28 in three months. I realize this is not technically “old” in mine and other 20-somethings eyes, but I also understand (through the braying and throwing of small rocks) that since I am turning 28 and single (disclaimer: you must not look directly at this post or you may catch the singledom disease), in the eyes of some people, this makes me a shriveled up spinster who is either a royal ugly bitch oozing vomit from every orifice that can’t capture any male (ARS:you mean like Rosie O'Donnell?) to make her a real live girl, or a lesbian (which doesn’t help because then they just think I can’t get a woman ((you still mean like Rosie O'Donnell?)).

So, in light of turning an age with its toes bumped up so close to thirty, I have been slightly depressed about the prospect of having to “grow-up”. I don’t want to be one of those stuffy office workers, who walk around with rulers down there pants like a duck on stilts, living for the 5 o’clock whistle (I wish my office had a whistle) and talking about the amount of fiber in their diet versus the consistency of the bowel movement. (Ok, maybe I’m not there yet but it’s coming people.)

So, last weekend, when I was invited to a party at my friend Belinda’s house I happily said, yes, please! Maybe I could fight off the image of me in a plaid suit for a little longer with some good old fashioned rump shaking and jimmie poppin’. (Does jimmie poppin' involve things Cosmo writes about?)

My best friend, Kwizbee, and I got dolled up (his version of dolled up would I guess be G.I. Joe’d up) and headed out for the party around 7, just in time to be fashionably late. As we walked in, the lack of people in the living room confused us, but we followed the light hum of noise coming from the basement. Descending the stack of wooden stairs in my big girl sexy boots and living hell tight pants, accomplished successfully, we surveyed our surroundings.

Folded metal chairs lined the cinder block walls, two people were huddled over a small computer trying to make sense of the sound system and everyone else was separated down the middle: boys on one side, girls on the other (This is an episode of the Cosby Show, I think). I had successfully done it; I had turned back the clock. Unfortunately, I seemed to have turned it back a little too far and ended up at a 7^th grade sweetheart dance where everyone still has cooties and giggling while you run away is foreplay. (It still is. You can get herpes from it.)

I was eventually dragged away to be “paired off” with a young man (I use the term man loosely) and dance a little merengue. As he grasped my hands I saw a small smile escape from his nervous lips and he hunched over to watch our feet as he stepped to the rhythm. His thick black glasses slipped down with every down step and his hands slipped from mine during the attempted spins from the nervous sweat dripping down his palms. Was it possible? Was this the first time this 20something year old man had danced with a girl? Was I in the twilight zone and about to be eaten by a pack of albino monkeys with speech impediments? I smiled up at him and realized I was in for a long ass night, with very little ass involved.

My next and last male dance partner actually managed to get up enough nerve to ask me to dance. We started to dance and as he stepped squarely on my leather clad foot he hurried out, “I’m not very good, I just started learning.” I reassured him that whatever he did would be fine and continued out awkward, spastic, travel around the cement floor (why do I feel like you're going to get Roofied at some point?).

My reassurance that he should just keep it simple was drowned out by his unexpected, “OK, ready?” “Ready!?! Ready for friggin what?” I stammered just as he spun me around as fast as humanly possible, twisting my arm around his back over his head and daftly getting us stuck in a position I only want to be in if you’ve bought me dinner first. I tilt my head backwards and say let go of my hands. He looks down saying, “Wait, I think I can figure this out, I think you just turn… this way… and I… twist here…” Our limbs becoming ridiculously intertwined and my face growing less like a happy Barbie and more like a rabid Chihuahua, I shout, “Just let go!” Twinkle toes finally lets go and I stumble back towards the stairs into a heap of big hair and high heels (so, like Tina Turner after a performance with Beyonce). Blowing the hair out of my eyes, I smile up at him and pray for locusts or 10 o’clock, whichever comes first.(Please let it be locusts!)

The rest of the night the boys decided to dance among themselves. They seemed to have given up on nervously asking the females to join them and huddled together in a strange dance off with gyrating hips and pulsating hands flailing about (Did you turn them gay?). At one point I think there was even an imaginary box being rhythmically passed between them only to be crushed between their feet releasing an invisible lightning bolt of dance fury.

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Thanks again, Finger Talks. Every time you go party, something magical happens. You're the best thing since Girl Scout Thin Mints-- and you know how I just love Girl Scouts.