I mean, think about it - you have all the elements necessary for a good time: hot writhing bodies that can dance much better than you can or ever will, and the free entertainment of watching them girate against each other to the exact rythym of your rapidly burning loins. The doctor couldn't prescribe a better antecdote to an otherwise boring Wednesday nite.
There really is something to be said for this kind of carnal on-screen stimulus - even though some of the modern moves are classics that I perform in my own bedroom when no one (or everyone's) watching, there are also hot little numbers that make me want to grab the nearest man and never let go.
Such is life.
Such is life.
I really do believe that shows like this one are sneaky pornos in disguise, set forth to spread horny into unsuspecting living rooms across the nation. Granted, many of the pieces are also as moving as they are lusty. I'd be lying if I said I haven't teared up. But oftentimes the innate hunger for lovin' that comes with watching this show overrules my tear ducts, and I'm okay with it.
Though I deeply enjoy the strange sensation I get watching these powerful dances on stage, there is also something to be said for the fact that they in turn make me loathe my pitiful non-dancing existence. My body will never move the way theirs do, and I'm pretty sure I won't be allowed to wear a half-dress and frolic onstage in front of millions of viewers any time soon. (Though the world would undoubtedly be a much more scary place if I did.)
So for now I'll continue to blush from the couch, and cross my legs tighter than I thought possible while I live vicariously through the life of an artistic wonder I'll never be.
And wonder bashfully if anyone else has the secret fantasy that a sexy dancing man will suddenly and accidentally appear in their living room.