My memory of this memory gets increasingly fuzzy by the year. But, this is what I remember. (Well, what I think I remember.)
I was 18. She had on white pants and a black tank. She was light brown skinned, and built like Free after breaking a month long juice fast with a salmon burger. I thought she smelled like peaches and honey, and I complimented her fragrance, but years later I realized that smell was actually Alize Gold Passion.
We made eye contact when Heads High—my third all time favorite college-era dancehall track that doesn’t graphically depict the murder of homosexuals in the chorus—pumped through the speakers. I reached for her hand. She grabbed it, allowed me to pull her towards me, and turned her back, pressing her pants against my trendy Mecca sweats.
She grinded slowly for the entire first verse. I had no idea where to put my hands, and thought about putting them in my pockets until I looked around and realized I’d be the only person on the entire dance floor with their hands in their pockets.
When the chorus started, she reached back and put her hands behind my neck, making the dance even more intimate. I was harder than a Chinese math test on a Braille chalkboard. (No, that didn’t make any sense to me either.)
Sometime during the middle of the second verse, she bent over, balancing herself by placing her hands on a very tiny table. (It was an oddly constructed dance floor.)
We stayed in that position until the end of the song. She effectively using me as a twerk prop, and me still not knowing what the hell to do with my hands.
When the song ended, she bounced up from her awkward position, turned, smiled at me, and walked away. I started to follow her, but my wang was still too hard for me to move anywhere without poking someone in the stomach, so I spent a couple moments thinking about chickens (Don’t ask) until I was flaccid enough to move again.
I looked, but I couldn’t find her. Dejected, I thought about chickens some more and went to go talk to my man.
I saw her again as we were about to leave. I was sitting in my man’s car, and he was talking to her and her friend, trying to get on the friend.
Moments later, he came back to the car. As we pulled off, he asked me a question.
“Are you gay?”
“You heard me, n*gga.”
“When I was talking to that chick just now, her girl said she was feeling you, but you aint try to touch her or get her number or nothing. What’s wrong with you? She was fine as f*ck.”
“I know. But…chickens.”
“Yeah. You’re definitely gay.”
This all happened at a party in Canada the spring of my senior year of high school. I was visiting one of the colleges that offered me a basketball scholarship. My “man” was a junior on the team, and my host for the weekend.
The coaches took me out for breakfast the following morning, and gave me the full spiel about how much they wanted me to go there, and how great it would be for me. When breakfast was over, I signed the scholarship papers.
Before the party the night before, I still hadn’t made up my mind on where I wanted to go. I’m not going to say that the grind/twerk session convinced me to make an academic and athletic decision that would impact the rest of my life…but the grind/twerk session convinced me to make an academic and athletic decision that would impact the rest of my life.
Why am I telling this story today? Well, between T.W.A.T., #abcreports, the excessive use of a word no one even know existed until like last March, and the false but still hilarious anti-twerking measures at Hampton, twerking has had a bad week. I thought it would be a good idea to remind everyone of it’s transformative and transcendent power.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who believes in twerking, though. People of VSB, share your stories! How has twerking been good for you? What benefit has the twerk provided you? Did a timely twerk session alter your life? When did you first fall in love with the twerk
team? When was the last time you twerked or were twerked on?
—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)