Matt smiled. Hoped it was a smile and not a goofy grin. He couldn’t be certain. His face felt numb.
Matt’s feet froze to the floor. The best he could manage was a slight side-to-side wobble. Like a Weeble.
William had assured him dancing would come naturally. It was in the gay DNA, which obviously wasn’t true in Matt’s case. Six generations offCOC inbreeding had extinguished any genetic markers for rhythm.
William had been right about one thing, though. He’d somehow guessed that Matt, who exuded confidence in most situations, who charged in recklessly where others urged caution—would be a wallflower at his Debutante Ball.
How William had guessed it was a mystery. But just as he’d coached Paul to lean into the cocky nerd vibe, he’d told Matt to embrace shyness and uncertainty. To dress like a straight boy—no matchy colors, nothing tight, white socks even—and to let people assume his nervousness pertained to being in a gay space for the first time.
Apparently, converting straight-ish boys ranked #3 in gay fantasies. Mormon missionaries knocking on one’s door was #1. Number 2 was too freaky to be recounted.
Paul marched into the pit, accompanied by a guy wearing cut-off jeans and combat boots. Spiked hair. A skinny, baby-faced guy trying to look like a tough.
Paul, in his Hawaiian shirt and nerdy glasses, owned his piece of the pit. He wasn’t hot enough or a good enough dancer to dominate the whole floor, but he absolutely controlled his 4 square feet of fame, and Mr. Spiky ate it up, worshipping him.
The song wound down.
Matt stopped swaying. That stupid countdown flashed overhead, but the numbers were too blurred for him to make out.
A new song amped up. The bass pulsed through the air like a frantic message in Morse Code.
“Molly?” Dimples asked. Had to repeat it louder.
Matt smiled. Or grinned? How did this guy know Molly? It really was a small world!
“Molly! Yes!” Matt enthused. “She’s my SGA buddy!”
Dimples frowned.
Only then did Matt notice that Dimples had been offering him a small pill.
Dimples tongued the pill, swallowed it. Pulled off his t-shirt and tucked it into the back of his jeans, where it hung like a sexy tail. His perfect pecs seemed almost molded.
Matt wanted to flick one of the guy’s nipples, test its authenticity.
Dimples grasped Matt’s hips. Guided him into the beat. Pulled Matt closer until they were staring into each other’s eyes.
“Lift your arms into the air!” Dimples shouted. “Now close your eyes and feel the beat! Trust me! I’ll keep hold of you!”
Matt did as instructed. Closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the rhythm.
He didn’t open his eyes again until the song ended, at which time he noticed that Evan and Luke were dancing nearby. They were such a cute couple: the tall, Gallic Evan, the willowy Luke.
As soon as the first few bars of the new song pierced the air, Luke pivoted toward Dimples and smiled demurely.
Dimples let go of Matt’s hips, pursued Luke’s—hips, that is.
Evan, meanwhile, engaged with Matt. They danced for a minute (Evan danced, Matt wobbled), and then Evan maneuvered them to the edge of the pit, to the steps leading up.
“How about a break?” Evan said. “Let’s get you some water.”
Back at the table, Matt sipped water.
“Sobriety check, dahling.” William said. He pointed to the large screen with the flashing countdown. “Can you read that for me?”
Matt shook his head. The screen was a beautiful blur that seemed to pulse with the beat, which reminded him: he’d been rocking thedancing thing!
As for the screen, Matt remembered it involved a countdown. Remembered there had been numbers and words. Scrunched his face in concentration. What had it read? “Belly Buttons?” … “Belly Bottoms?”
