By Dianne Moritz
They come dressed like real dudes: faded levis, tooled leather boots, silver concho belts, hair slicked back under cowboy hats, raring to score and Boot Scootin’ Boogie.
They sashay over, heels clacking on the wax tongue-n-groove, offer out a calloused hand, swing you through the rowdy crowd, singing “Achy, Breaky Heart,” confident they’ll soon break yours.
They lock you in a fierce embrace, glance down, ask: So how’ve you been? all the while checking out the competition, lazy and loose with booze.
Shuffling left, instead of right, they stumble, stomp your big toe, clumsy with the latest dance craze, twirl you under their sweaty armpits, sultry air heavy with greasy smells: French fries, onions, barbecue, burgers, beer.
They yammer on about themselves, casually blowing their lion-breath into your smiling face, as you plot your escape to coincide with the guitar’s last twang, all the while secretly praying a tall, handsome stranger two-steps into view.