I went to a Singles Dance, down in Nashua, with a group of friends. This dance, sponsored by a national' dating service, is held at a major hotel, and is a quasi-dressy affair. Not my idea of a good time, but I needed fresh grist for my creative writing mill, and it's tax deductible. However, there are certain pleasurable aspects about being in a room with 150 single women. The idea actually sounds exciting. Maybe I'll have some fun tonight.

We begin by entering a large ballroom filled with a sound system, single adults, Swedish meatballs, and little hot dogs in greasy sleeves. Sound good so far? Wait... there seems to be a hold up just inside the door. A bunch of people, mostly guys, are standing within 10' of where they came in. Com'on, move it! Spread out! We're all here to watch, so spread out!

I know it was 'mood' lighting, but I felt it was kinda gloomy in there. At first, everyone's just looking around, desperately avoiding eye contact with anybody. I mean, everyone was wearing clothing, but it still felt like the inside of a side show where a lady dances topless with a snake. There's a distinct sense of cattle here. Where's the beef? I'm on the outside looking in. Boy, it's a good thing I came here to work, and not to have fun. There's no good material here.

This isn't funny. The night drags on. I see 55 year old women in mini-skirts, big hair, two pairs of snakeskin boots. Nothing to write about. Two hours into the night, the hot topic: two women sitting in a corner with light 5 o'clock shadows, who don't look quite right. We thinks they be boys. But one way or another, they were great with make-up.

I bump into two members from my club. I see two others from a dance up north. One of my friends is having a great time, but then, he hasn't been out in over a year. Midway through the evening, there is a slow dance happening, and I see one couple is made. She has her tongue so far in his ear, it looked liked surgery. Too much drink. Too much time alone. Eek, this is depressing. But wait...what's that? Look, there's entertainment here! There's my column! There's a great looking blond, busty, 25ish, built, wearing a short black miniskirt and a silk shirt, and she dancing like she's on fire!

And the dancing is very provocative. She is dancing, hands over head, elbows bent, head turning from left to right, and back, and back, her chest flung violently out on the 2 and the 4, the 2 and the 4. And parts attached to her chest are vibrating in slight delay, creating a sensuously syncopated boom chucka chucka, boom chucka chucka.

I've spoken to many men who believe that for women, dancing is a vertical manifestation of a horizontal desire. But before you ladies get me arrested for what I'm thinking, let me ask for some help from the guys. We have 50,000 heterosexual guys, all different nationalities, all different religions, all different backgrounds, watching this girl. What are 49,936 of them thinking about? Baseball? I think not.

In the year 1 million BC, there was no game playing. Everyone knew what 'the dance' meant. No mixed messages in Fred Flintstone's day. Here's a scenario. There's 25 women from the village down by the river, pounding loin cloths with rocks, while the men wait in the village, scratching their stomachs, resting up for their next encounter with the wooly mammoth, trying to look good for something. All of a sudden, a young cave girl jumps up from her washing duties. Hands over head, elbows bent, head turning from left to right, and back, and back, she is thrusting her chest violently on the 2 and the 4, the 2 and the 4. Suddenly, a man in the village jumps up, nose in the air.

It's coming from the river! It's the miracle of procreation about to work it's magic. Now we know what the men are good for. He rushes to the stream, nose in the air. She is thrusting more violently now (boom chucka chucka, boom chucka chucka). He better get in there quick or she will finish without him. So he clubs her on the head, drags her back to the cave, finishes the ritual, and now here we are, reading this column (boom chucka chucka, boom chucka chucka).

Any of this stuff ever happen to you? Gotta go now. Arthur Murray is on the phone.