A Persistent Fantasy of an Ephemeral Evening

There is a dance ball. It’s outdoors. There’s a pool full of water lilies and lotuses. Everybody is dressed like the 1930s or 1940s, and I am too – I am there in a tuxedo.

I meet a sweet young woman, and we dance. I lead, she follows. We dance and dance. The dance intimately connects us – I feel what she feels, she feels what I feels. Through the dance I take care of her and make her feel like the most wonderful dancer in the world.

Indeed, I make this night the best night of her life, and my pleasure comes from knowing that I made it so.

As the music fades, we sit down, hold hands, and enjoy each other’s presence for a few, final, precious moments. We part, never to contact each other ever again.

When I was 15 I went to an outdoor masque ball, and a couple hours before, I decided I would pretend to be a boy and dance with all the girls. With so little preparation, I sucked as a boy, though I did dance with girls, and I even fooled one into thinking I really was a boy.

One time, I brought some female friends to downtown San Jose. I drove. One friend commented ‘Wow, you can drive a stick!’ That pleased me because of the masculine connotations of driving stick-shift. I navigated, because I was the one who knew downtown San Jose best. I picked the restaurant – and everybody really liked it. We saw a mounted policeman, rode on a ferris wheel, then saw a play. The play was disappointing, but that was not my fault. Then, I drove them back home. It was exhilarating be responsible for giving girls a great evening.

I once took a swing dance class, largely because of this fantasy. During the first class, I followed, but dancing with guys felt wrong. Next class, I led, and felt much better. I was the only female leader in the class. One girl asked me if I was a lesbian, and I honestly answered ‘no’, but quite frankly I did not care what people thought. I really do want to take another swing class some day, and actually go to swing dance clubs on a regular basis.

And once, I was in a tap dance performance – and not only was I wearing a tuxedo, I was paired with a girl in a dress.

In this fantasy, I think of myself as being an extreme tomboy, not truly male. My cis-female identity does not change. I do not even consider this a romantic fantasy in the traditional sense because, while I do become psychologically intimate with the girl, we do not kiss, or even hug. Most of all, I think it is a fantasy about transcending the mundane and, for a moment, connecting with another human being, a moment made all the more precious because it is fleeting.

6 thoughts on “A Persistent Fantasy of an Ephemeral Evening

  1. This kind of fantasy appeals to me, also.

    Most of all, I think it is a fantasy about transcending the mundane and, for a moment, connecting with another human being, a moment made all the more precious because it is fleeting.

    That’s my own definition of romance, basically. At least, the only one that’s broad enough to make sense to me.

    • Hmmm, for me, that’s too broad to mean romance – at least romance with a small ‘r’. Now, if you mean Romance with a capital ‘R’ – as in

        Romance of the Three Kingdoms


        The Mysteries of Udolpho

      and so forth, I have to agree, but when most people talk about romance, they mean romance with the small ‘r’.

  2. Pingback: Takarazuka: Passionate, Yet Non-Sexual | The Notes Which Do Not Fit

  3. (No need to publish this comment — I’d send a direct email, but don’t have your address)

    Typo in your post: should be “Next class, I led” (not “lead”).

    (I wish more things on the web were like Wikipedia. I’m a bit of a compulsive typo spotter, and I wish I could just quietly correct tiny errors (subject to approval of the author). Like tending to a garden by plucking a weed here and there.

    Of course, typos usually don’t matter. Not sure why they bother me so much. Of course, they also humanize a text. So maybe I should just let them be. But I can’t help fussing about such trivialities. And I suppose such fussing is also human.)

    Anyhoo! I also wanted to tell you how much I like your blog. Somehow I get an email every time you post, and I always enjoy reading what you write. And sometimes, when I have time, as I seem to have quite a lot of these days, I check through your archives. I don’t read many blogs regularly, but somehow yours has found a place in the small motley collection that I find worth reading in its entirety.

    I like reading your posts because they are a combination of smart, hyper-rational, endearing, informative, thought-provoking, well-written, honest, original, exemplary. Your writing isn’t relevant to me in any obvious way, except for the language/Asia angle.

    So I’m not sure exactly what it is, but it’s nice to see you write what you do.

    Take care. I look forward to reading more.*


    *(No pressure though… Me, the times I’ve written public stuff, I soon found the stress of public writing unbearable. It was probably because what I wrote was junk, or if not junk, not sufficiently in my own voice, so somehow false. You don’t seem to have that problem.)

    • Your comment was published automatically (when I have approved a previous comment of somebody, their further comments do not have to pass moderation). If you would prefer, I can unpublish this comment.

      Typo fixed! Thanks for catching it.

      Your praise is making me blush. Not sure how to respond.

  4. Pingback: Who would have thought that this blog would last four years… | The Notes Which Do Not Fit

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