We danced then, and we danced in his little sister’s bedroom, we danced while his parents sat downstairs in the living room eating KFC and watching Cops.
#Song magic carpet ride crack
He couldn’t dance worth shit, though he kind of hung his torso low, like King Louie in The Jungle Book when he jumps rope with his arms, and he bobbed his head and shifted his feet as if he were waiting for a bus and the goddamn thing wouldn’t come and hit him and make him stop the dancing, because my friends were all looking at me with my hot boyfriend who was moving around our homecoming shebang like Coco the Gorilla’s crack baby. In short, he was a senior and had biceps like grapefruits and he could flex his pectoral muscles in time to music or to the punchline of a joke. His nickname was King Kong Schlong, for obvious reasons, and so naturally at that age his brain wasn’t of the greatest importance to me.
I’d think about what an idiot my boyfriend was, and then I would just look at him: he had a swimmer’s body, the kind where you see him hunched over on the blocks, ready to spring, and you can count the notches on his spine, and when he glides into the water to emerge for the butterfly, he is like a gigantic fish flinging his body upward, and you can’t help but notice the pelvic thrusts demanded by this type of stroke, and when he climbs out of the pool, he towers, and also, his Speedo clings. I never argued that he wasn’t a dumb pile of bricks, and really, if I have ever stood by anything in my life, if I have ever really felt conviction for something, it was for his stupidity. I was 16, he was a late 18, but I was still three levels higher than him in math-and I detest math. Hearing it, though, having Steppenwolf course through me, I am 16 and my feet fucking hurt from all the Lego pieces on the floor. I feel like such a pervert saying it: “Why don’t you come with me, little girl, on a magic-carpet ride.” But then, I am not a man nor am I old nor am I into that sort of thing.
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