(Author's note: This story is part of a series I plan on working on involving stories inspired by porn performers. You can consider "Service Call" from last year the first one; this one is inspired by Lyla Everwettt.)
Private Dance Lessons
My phone buzzed. I had an incoming text message. It was from my friend Matt:
Sry. Cant make it. Strep throat. Catch ya in a few days.
“Oh, are you shitting me?” I groaned. It was my worst nightmare come true.
Matt, somehow, had talked me in to signing up for dancing lessons. He assured me it was a great place to meet women. Not that he had trouble meeting women on his own; he was tall with movie star good looks.
I was always cast in the role of his wingman; bearded, overweight person of color to the blonde conquering hero. It was my lot in life. He was a great friend, don’t get me wrong; always there for me when I needed him and I’d known him since college.
But his getting sick left me stuck in a class that I didn’t want to be in doing something that I didn’t have the ability to do well: Dance.
I found myself in a familiar position in the studio where class was as I slipped my phone back into my pocket: hugging the wall. Alone.
The co-instructors for the class, a delightful, vivacious elderly couple in their 60s, welcomed us to the lesson today. The wife said, “We will focus on two dances today—the waltz and the tango. It looks like we have an equal number of men and women, so everyone find a partner.”
I looked around the room, trying to find someone who might take pity on me. And then I saw her across the room. A pale skinned BBW. Her shoulder length brown hair was highlighted with strips of purple and blue and done up in pigtails. She wore tortoise shell glasses, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt that showed off her amazing chest, and a pair of jeans that accentuated an absolutely amazing booty. Our eyes locked from across the room and she smiled at me, revealing two dimples that caused my knees to get weak.
