2001-11-04 � I think I'm in love, boys

Last night the boyfriend and I went to Norma's for a bite. Tom suggested it because he was hungry and the Thai place had a long line, out the door it was. I said yes right away because I have a secret crush on Omar the belly dancer. I worry that I might have agreed a tad too quickly.

Omar is, it seems, one of very few male belly dancers around. He is delicious with his finger cymbals, and his Hammer pants, only they work on him because they are glistening, and his sequined vest that flies open when he spins, and his soul deep stare.

I should also mention that whenever I am in a restaurant that features a dancer or a mariachi band or an operatic soprano, the performer zeros in on me. The same thing happens to me on the street when every homeless schizophrenic asks me for money. Picks me out of a pack and puts a paper cup in my face. It is not because I am especially good looking or because I have twenty-dollar bills in my teeth ready to dispense as tips and handouts. It is because I watch what they are doing. I pay attention. I like people and I'm genuinely interested in what they do and that comes across somehow. For whatever reason, I just can't not not watch the performer regardless of skill.

There was no wait, and we were seated right away. Almost as soon as our chairs were pulled under the table, the belly dancing music began. I tried not to appear too anxious. Norma's has two dining rooms. A regular dining room and, around the corner, a private dining room that can be rented out. The dancers must make their way from room to room, making sure all customers are sated by the sight of their whispy veils and hip gyrations. Sometimes, the dancers appear in the main dining room first. Other times they start in the private dining room. They always start in the room in which I am not seated.

I could not see who was dancing, but I could hear the finger cymbals and I could hear the pleased oohs of the diners and I could hear the swish of shiny fabric. I hoped it was Omar.

When the dancer finally burst into the room, I was disappointed to note it was a girl. Omar must have been out tomcatting at some other schwarma stand. I was a little disappointed, but soon I began to appreciate that she was probably the most remarkable belly dancer I had ever seen.

To begin with, she was old. Like 60. Second, she was not even close to being in any way related to any human ever to have come out of the Middle East. She was a Jersey girl with the pale skin and the harsh braying accent and the bangs in her hair. Hair, which had been chemically altered to appear jet-black. And she had huge firm looking boobs (Tom wouldn't let me touch so I don't know if they were actually firm. It is a mystery) that spilled out of the supportive garment she had squeezed into. It's not remarkable for a belly dancer to have huge boobs, but it is remarkable for a geriatric to have perfect, huge boobs.

So she starts dancing toward us almost immediately, because they always do, and when she gets close she shakes her boobs in my face and says, "It's the Lebanese Hooters boys!" and she laughed. We laughed too, though it was an uncomfortable laugh because we had no real point of comparison. Gay boys don't go to Hooters that much.

She danced past us and Tom and I tried to continue a conversation we had been wrapped up in during the drive over. It was hard because of the cymbals. I held my head at one point for dramatic effect in the conversation. Before I knew it, the dancer was back.

"Don't hold your ears when I play my music!" she brayed. This was followed by the sharp retort of finger cymbals in my ears. She rested the backs of her hands on my shoulders and clapped out a rhythm with her musical fingers, fingers poised at my ears.

�I wasn�t holding my ears, I swear.�

�Oh sure!� She laughed and danced away crying, �I saw you and it hurt my feelings, boys!� I felt compelled to watch her until she danced into the other room. We resumed our conversation, and snacked on stuffed grape leaves.

Pretty soon she returned with a number of women following her. She had apparently convinced a number of the restaurant patrons to try their hands at belly dancing. They were not so gifted. The belly dancer looked at the ceiling, and shouted �I love my job, boys!�

And then she danced out of my life. She danced out of the room and did not return. I wanted to say goodbye, but it was not to be. I miss her.

Posted at 9:37 p.m.

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