Mere noisemaking, though, wasn't up to the level of our companions' enthusiasm. As we watched them stagger around the back section of the bar, lo and behold, they began to dance. For a bunch of drunk guys, they were pretty well synchronized, and listening to their continued sing-along, I had the feeling I had wandered into "West Side Story." Bathed in the red light of the bar's smoky interior, with the omnipresent televised soccer game playing in the background, the scene was surreal.
As recent transplants from America, witnessing this scene raised some interesting questions for us. We had already observed that European men seem to be allowed, or to allow themselves, a greater margin of what an American would consider effeminacy. Not that their approach to the fairer sex leaves any room for doubt. A lot of French guys hit on anything female the way American men scratch an itch: without thinking twice. The habitual nature of it makes me feel less bad about turning most of them down. It may not be flattering, but it makes sense, from the point of view of odds. The Anglo-Saxon strategy of careful planning and feigned indifference gambles too much on one throw of the dice, with the additional risk of a badly bruised ego if things don't work out. Of course, if you're going to be picky … On the other hand, the casual sketchiness of the Gallic method increases the chances of not going home alone at the end of the night, and whether they knew they were using it or not, I have seen certain people employ it to perfection at TAP.
And yet … French men wear tight pants. They accessorize with scarves. They carry bags that look like purses. They are openly affectionate with each other: even scary-looking street punks with safety pins rammed through their noses kiss each other on the cheek to say hello. They dance together, more or less, but without ulterior motives, for while certain exhibitionist friends and I have discovered that a little simulated lesbian action on the dance floor attracts ogling males the way honey draws flies, the ruse doesn't work in reverse. In other words, they're just doing it for fun. What the hell is going on here?
My friend Cheryl, a brassy blonde out of Georgetown University, thinks any man who can twist his hips must be a homosexual. As she puts it, "What French guys think is hot is gay back in the States," or at least comes across as such, meaning that even if Pierre pimps it with Parisian women, he may find himself fending off men right and left in Los Angeles or New York. The whole rugged, unshaven, smelling-of-sweat-and-leather ideal of the masculine that prevails in America renders dancing beneath the dignity of most men, which is unfortunate, because it means a lot of cute rear ends get overlooked. While French men don't dance with a lot of soul-they are white, after all-one still has to admire the spirit, if not the grace, of the whole endeavor. If they can actually dance well, straight men become enormously more attractive, just as they do if they have personality or wads of cash.
I would probably be at the vanguard of some crusade to teach every man between the ages of fifteen and fifty to dance, were it not for the fact that I can't dance. Not remotely. I flunked out of ballet class when I was five. I barely passed the dance unit of P.E. in junior high, even though I was a couch potato and it was the least strenuous part of the class. The closest I came to dancing was moshing, which I would have been perfectly happy doing for the rest of my life. Bruised, maybe, but happy. When swing came back into its brief vogue a few years ago, I felt personally targeted: why, after the decades and decades where people flailed and swayed aimlessly to rock music, had formal dancing reappeared just in time to terrorize my adolescence? I still went out with my hipster friends, but after a few adventures stepping on strangers' toes, I decided that sitting in a corner while looking sultry and sipping a martini, was infinitely more appealing.
Which is why, in general, I limit myself to simply encouraging men to sing. Singing, like dancing, is invariably a suspect occupation in the eyes of straight-male America. But boys, if you can carry a tune, then, no matter what your persuasion, a few well-chosen bars will have women falling at your feet. If you don't believe me, just ask the Zumbyes. They'll tell you they get more booty than the entire football team. (It might even be true.) And if you get them drunk enough, they'll tell you the four words that have led to their sweet success: boogie woogie, all night.