I am a passionate dancer!
It turns me on!
It is easy for me – or, to take a lateral slant on today’s prompt and use a slang expression, a piece of cake!
I would not claim anything close to technical expertise, grace or accuracy (though I have had some training in both ballet and tap); nor would I state that I am safe to dance with – or near! – because I almost certainly am not!
I am ANIMAL when I dance. The rhythm of the music infuses my body with thrumming spirit and sexuality, and I express who I truly am when I take to the dance floor.
I just let go of all constraints and inhibitions and am wild and free. There is something, to me, magnetic and erotic about the dance: The heat, the sweating, the crazy way the muscles move, the deep beat of the music, the eye contact and brief brushes of skin with other dancers, the connection with the earth…
I am at ease in my body when the music starts and I leap onto floor, grass, stage, carpet; I am happy in my skin, and aroused (in every sense) when the Inner Dervish comes out to play.
In no conventional sense am I a good dancer – and doubt I’d get a single point if forced to submit to the rigorous training of ‘Strictly Come Dancing’: Apart from the fact that my habit of wolfing down cake in the more literal sense has given me a tonnage and poundage which would almost certainly squash my poor dancing partner flat, the balletic and well-trained would, I fear, struggle to anticipate, let alone keep up with, my next madcap move!
The discipline would, undoubtedly, be very good for me (and would cut down on some of the Victoria Sandwich-induced ravages of time, thus leaving me looking a bit less as if I am going to give birth any second!) – but would take its toll on any poor sod asked to partner and coach me!
No: I am not for the televisual treat that has, I believe, just started once again: It would not be my cup of tea/slab of cake!
I dance alone!