Happy Music

Sitting at the very back stage at the world-famous Acropolis, Tracy and I watched the slender, clever S. dance to some very heavy metal music. On a rockin’ Saturday night, the music all four dancers shake their moneymakers is chosen by the dancer on the very front stage, and apparently the girl on the main stage liked the dark stuff.

Tracy turned to me, leaned close and spoke directly into my ear. “I hate this music. How do they” she nodded towards S., writhing on the rail in front of a mixed-gender bunch of trucker-cap wearing young hipsters “dance to this shit?”

I just shrugged.

S. danced her way over to us. She smiled when she recognized my face. I introduced her to Tracy and they said hi to each other.

“Hey, lady, want to boink?” I said.

S. looked puzzled, which went well with her half-nakedness. “Boink? You mean hump?”

We’d had a discussion a couple of weeks ago about hump being the funniest word for sex. In the time since then, I’d been reminded of the word boink, which, by one of the rules of comedy (“words with a hard C or G sound in them are funnier than words without”) is funnier than hump.

Boink is funnier than hump,” I said.

S. laid on her back, along the rail, leaning on her arm. Her right breast was level with Tracy’s eyes; only about 5 or 6 inches separated them. “No,” S. said, with finality. “Hump is funnier.” She looked at Tracy. “Right?”

Tracy nodded. “I agree.”

I was outnumbered.

S. pouted. “I hate this music.”

Tracy laughed. “Me, too! What kind of music do you like?”

“I like happy music,” S. stated, as if that were the only possible answer.