Wednesday, August 24, 2005
The Horizontal Mambo
Last night I went to see Patrick Swayze promote his new film One Last Dance, at a downtown theater. The event doubled as a benefit for the venue and was followed by an after-party at a swanky nightclub. I went mainly for the open bar, but didn’t mind possibly meeting the stoned kahuna with the bleached-out mullet who peppered 1991 surf-caper Pointbreak with gritty pearls like: “You want the ultimate thrill, you gotta be willing to pay the ultimate price!”
Unfortunately, I never got anywhere near Swayze. Black-suited and modishly-coiffed, he spent most of the night insulated by a thick body-blanket of menopausal Dirty Dancing groupies. I realized then that Swayze is the dancing Neil Diamond.
Standing along sidelines, I saw that the way he pivoted his big cowboy head and blithely said of his wife, “She takes my breath away,” gave the old gals synchronized hot-flashes.
They adored his cowlick and seemed chuffed to know that he’s been with wife Lisa Niemi for 30 years (a well-known fact that was nonetheless repeatedly alluded to in the course of the evening both on and off stage.)
As I sized up the western profile, the dancers body, the Texas twang, the uxoriousness -- a surprising thing happened: the mantel of corn receded to reveal a desirable man.
Don’t get me wrong, The Swayze is not my type, but I can understand the appeal he has for women who grew up swooning over Elvis, another hip-grinding pretty-boy.
Historically the attraction white women have felt for men with rhythm and sensitivity has manifested in the fetishizing of male dancers.
Rudolf Valentino, Fred Astaire and Elvis Presley were worshipped for their prowess on the parquet. Why? Because a lot of men are sexual clods who fail to satisfy the desires of women by thinking staying power is the key to great sex.
In reality women want physically intuitive minxes. Big johnsons? We love them, particularly when they are put in the service of attentive, limber, sexual athletes. The idea that size-doesn't -matter originates from women who’ve bedded misguided goobers with 11-inch bicycle pumps.
In an age when most fathers are too estranged from their sons (and wives) to offer insight, I take it upon myself to spell out what it takes to make a girl happy.
First: Be intensely attracted to her. Don't think about why. It really doesn't matter.
Next: Be nice. Truly hot chicks (and I'm not just talking about looks) are like 401K's, the greater your personal investment the greater your ultimate return.
Next: When you give her a ride on your rocket, listen to what she has to say. If you do the right thing she’ll guide you to the stars. Don’t be childish and ask for detailed instructions. Take her cues and use your imagination.
Last: When it’s all over, turn to her and admit that she takes your breath away.
Know that, like The Swayze, you are looking at potentially 30 years of great sex.
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