Reflections, Reflections

In order to check out the gym, I had asked to sign up for a dance class as a try-out. And who turns out to be the instructor for the class? The lesbian/bisexual crap that had insisted in talking to me in a charged, perverted manner. The instructor takes her place on a small stage in a large room. She is surrounded by other muscled male instructors. In the air, an enormously deafening pump-pump music starts blasting, which added a kind of cult-like collective idiocy: we don't think about anything, we just pump, pump, pump, the liberal idiots that we are. The dance class hadn't gone for more than 10 minutes when the woman instructor literally massaged her torso along with her breasts in front of the entire class audience several times as part of a very raunchy “choreography.” I mean, it was not subtle (like the Eric Prydz "Call On Me" video clip). I can't remember if she groaned, cheered the crowd, or what came out of her mouth to complement the specially slutty massage moment in the routine, but I do remember a real sleazy look in her eyes gazing into the horizon of the room. The exercise-dance class was mostly reproducing exactly the same choreographies as performed by sleazy MTV artists (and other junk tv/Internet outlets), although that's not how they described it in the pamphlet.