Ballroom Blitz

Shelby was behind the wheel, driving and cussing with equal fervor, and Meg was the DJ. I sat in the back, eyes closed, knuckles white.

Suddenly, Meg and Shelby were scream singing to this rapid-fire falsetto I had never heard. “This is pretty great,” I shouted over the music. “What is it?”

Meg held up a finger. “Wait for the chorus!” Then the words spilled from their lips.

Ibelieveinathingcalledlove
Justlistentotherhythmofmyheart
Theresachancewecouldmakeitnow
Wellberockingtilthesungoesdown
I believe in a thing called lo-oo-oo-oo-ve!

“How can I not know this song?” I shouted. “It’s so killer. Reminds me of Sweet.”

“Fuck yeah it is,” Meg said. “What’s Sweet?”

“How can you not know Sweet?” I exclaimed. “We’ll fix this at my place.”

“Touching yo-oo-oou,” Shelby sang, “Touching me-ee-ee-ee.”

That night, the girls were schooled in old-school glam.

The other night, Meg was up too late, high and horny, watching videos. One thing led to another, and she found this jewel.



She swiftly sent it to the Smut Turntable DJ booth, under a subject line with four exclamation points. Four!

“Holy smokes,” I replied. “It’s the same cute boys that Jason Blake sent!”

“Dude, they are all over YouTube,” she replied. “Okay, now I have to masturbate.”

While Meg diddles, we have time to see Sweet perform. Ready Meg? Let’s go!



The Sweet