Sausage swapping

I held hands with a man last night whose fingers were like uncooked sausages.

I also held hands with a man wearing a spotty neck kerchief and whose name was probably Marc.

And finally, I also held hands with a man, who, if he ever managed to have sex with someone, would afterwards stain a dozen white roses in droplets of his blood and then stand outside that someone's bedroom window pulling off each petal and licking them. Or something to that effect.

Swing dancing classes are as equally fun as they are disturbing. It's the single freak man's dream. Not only do they get to touch a real life woman, they get to touch a roomful of WOMEN. It's the ultimate excursion from porn. For someone who doesn't like being touched by strangers, let alone petal licking freaks, I had to make a conscious effort not to do 'my face'. For those who haven't seen this afore mentioned 'face', it can only be described as what your own face would look like if a stranger took a shit on your shoe, but a lot less animated. So I guess it would be, more accurately, deadpan shit on your shoe.

But back to the lessons.

The whole swing dance thing is almost literally swinging. You can go to these lessons alone or with a partner, it doesn't really matter because you end up swapping. A lot. Good for singles, good for first time women touchers, not good for those who when faced with raw sausage hands wants to vomit. With each new partner, it's such an intimate position and situation that you don't know where to look. You can't look into their eyes because that's just excruciating (especially if they're counting at you 'one, two, rock step'), so you both look at the floor, or a shoulder, anywhere to avoid that awkward moment of eye contact that inevitably happens. And then it begins again with the next call of a partner swap. But it's not all bad, it's actually quite fun, especially when you get back to the person whose hands you'd much prefer to be holding. Oh and being able to wash your hands after. Twice.