Mr. Irresistible the Conclusion

In some half-retarded effort to undo a lifetime of neglect, I did sit-ups and push-ups every morning and night before my walk to and from school. My father could barely look at me, too consumed by shame. I had explained the joke to him a few days after signing up, and to say he had found it un-amusing would be an understatement. “When I was your age, I was having sex with my girlfriend while my friend was having sex with his girlfriend in the front,” he proclaimed in disgust.

My father had not been so ashamed of me since the night he had barged into my room only to see me surfing the internet in my underwear. For a few proud moments he believed he had caught me masturbating to internet porn and had apologetically attempted to withdraw. When I brought him over and explained that I was researching string theory out of curiosity he turned around and slammed the door shut on his way out infuriated.

Coming home from school I would search KaZaA to find appropriate songs to dance to, while looking in the mirror giving my best “math sex” look and pulling off my gloves one finger at a time. I found it was especially difficult to compute while shaking my ass at the same time, and must admit I never fully mastered the trick. In the back yard I would figure out just how far away I could throw my cowboy hat into a crowd of spectators. As I danced my arrhythmic dance to every sex-allusion filled song I could think of, I wondered how it would be on stage. Surely, once I was underneath the lights it would be as though I no longer existed. I would become a creature of dance, one with the music, and my body would move itself. The math would compute itself. All would happen without me.

At the rehearsal, I learned the opening routine for all the men without too much trouble. My sponsor was the local country radio station and I was given a shirt with their corporate logo. I imagined if any of them came that they would be less than pleased to see 95.3 KXXK stretched out across my gut. After two hours, I was told there was no time to practice my talent, as it was a foregone conclusion that my talent would be disastrous. The cheerleaders then asked each of us to write a question to be asked of one of our fellow contestants. Taking this opportunity for a bit of revenge, I formulated what I considered a fair question given the current state of world affairs. That night I went home, overcome with dread once again.

I am a man who can barely tolerate a conversation. If I have to speak to three or more people I begin to show frayed nerves. In front of a couple of hundred? Dance, I told myself. When I began to dance none of that would matter. I would simply float through the entire process. Dance. As all of the movies on the subject so eloquently said, dancing wasn’t about thinking. Dancing was about feeling. If I felt it strongly enough, the dance would perform itself.

I showed up for the event an hour early along with everyone else and changed into the opening ensemble. I realized then that I was the fattest two people in the room. Dance, I told myself. Just dance. A smaller part of me was screaming, Jack-Ass! Jack-Ass! Jack-Ass!

I sweat rivers and oceans under the stage lights for the opening number, a mad grin on my face as if I could pretend to enjoy it. All those eyes on me, each pushing a little bit like the small bits of snow that form an avalanche. Pressing against me. Drowning me. Dance, I pleaded. Dance.

Question and answer session. I have to speak. I fumble every word trying to be clever. Those eyes. Those damned eyes I can’t see out there in the darkness. Who knows what they’re all thinking in that sea of minds. Pressing. I smile reluctantly signaling I’ve finished. They move on. Somewhere down the line, Susie Green snorts as she reads a question aloud. She gives me an angry gaze, and I feel a small spark of relief. She turns to Brad Thompson agitated.

“Please compare, using historical examples…” she’s struggling with her fury, “how military tactics must adapt to the conflict in Fallujah?…. placing special emphasis on how this relates to the… Tet-Offensive?… and how such tactics have evolved over time.”

Brad Thompson smiles dumbly and everyone laughs. I wish I had that kind of charisma.

We go back in the changing room, and I put on my stripper’s outfit. I look ridiculous. I wasn’t quite brave enough to go shirtless so I compromised by putting on several layers of clothes to take off in various stages. I ask where my white board is. They tell me proudly that there isn’t one. God. Damn. It. We manage to find a small two foot by two foot white board five minutes before I have to go on. I hand my CD to the person manning the stereo equipment. Then I just look out at the stage, swallowing. Dance Jack-Ass! Dance Jack-Ass! Dance! The crazy wave over-takes me. Convinces me I can enjoy this. Convinces me of Glory.

The talent ahead of me ends. Susie Green starts reading the question I gave her to the audience. “If Curious George tries to escape the Man in the Yellow Hat, and jumps off a building with such such a velocity from such and such a height, how far from the building will the man in the yellow hat have to put his net if his net is five feet above the ground. I had worked out the solution hundreds of times just to be sure, but it is like all the numbers have left my head.

The stereo turns on. “I Touch Myself” by the DiVynals. I run out on stage as though riding a pretend horse, smacking my own ass as I throw my cowboy hat off into the audience. For one moment I am afraid so horribly I can barely move. Then it happens. Dance Jack-Ass! I am! And it is glorious!

The cheerleader who reluctantly agreed to hold my white board turns away in disgust as I begin to take off my gloves sensually, one finger at a time. The audience is in hysterics not able to understand exactly what is happening, yet laughing because it is so uncomfortable. I undress part-way when I pull out my dry-erase marker fighting off the urge to pretend it is a penis and setting to work. My hands are flying so much so that for a few moments my ass forgets to shake. I go back to dancing for a bit, shouting out the solution to the first part of the problem. I take off my second to last shirt, and the bottom of my white stomach flashes. The audience groans but continues to laugh.

I am lost in the dance, sucking at every point but not caring about how much I suck and this crazy glee fills the room except for two of the judges who have looks on their faces that scream “This is the most wildly inappropriate thing I have ever seen” and are half torn between watching and calling a stop to the whole thing.

I gyrate my hips forward humping the air and pumping my fists like in one of those crazy Latin R&B videos you can only find on the internet. I finish the solution and scream it out loud to the audience. My Calculus teacher is applauding and laughing his ass off. I give a thumbs-up. You rock high school Calculus Teacher! When I am off the stage it slams into me like a hammer.

What the fuck did I just do?

I won best talent. That’s what I did.

You will be glad to hear that “What the fuck I just did” was video-taped and has been shown every year in every science class at my high school ever since.

Author’s Note: I am working on tracking down the video.