It was supposed to be a simple night out. Stepping away from the usual D&D campaigns and the cozy confines of my polycule, we ventured into a club last weekend, aiming for a bit of carefree fun. For the first hour, the evening was unremarkable, just the usual club ambience. I was nodding along to the music near the bar when Walk the Moon’s ubiquitous hit, “Shut Up and Dance,” began to play. The song, with its anthemic yet somewhat hollow indie rock vibe, filled the space.
Then it happened. A striking woman in an orange dress approached, and with impeccable timing as the chorus swelled, she whispered right into my ear, “Shut up and dance with me.” These innocent words, perfectly aligned with The Song Shut Up And Dance With Me, unknowingly unlocked a vault of deeply buried dance-related trauma dating back to my early thirties.
Dancing Dreams and YouTube Schemes
The year was 2011, and I had just turned 31. LMFAO’s “Party Rock Anthem” was inescapable, a global phenomenon of infectious, synth-heavy beats. While I’d never progressed beyond the rudimentary dance moves of a Peanuts character, I harbored a secret desire to emulate the impressive routines I saw online and on shows like Ellen. Fueled by this ambition, I transformed my living room into a makeshift dance studio.
I began recording my practice sessions, naively uploading them to my fledgling YouTube channel, hoping for words of encouragement and maybe a little online validation. The harsh reality quickly set in: I wasn’t improving. Recognizing my limitations, I decided to seek professional help and hired a dance teacher named Linda.
The Dance Teacher from Hell: Linda’s Reign of Terror
Linda was, to put it mildly, harsh. Her teaching methods were devoid of any positive reinforcement. She possessed an uncanny ability to pinpoint every flaw, every misstep, and relentlessly highlight them. This barrage of criticism would often reduce me to tears, a reaction perhaps stemming from a childhood where my efforts were always met with unwavering praise. Any sign of a whimper would be met with her signature, booming command: “SHUT UP AND DANCE!” This, unsurprisingly, only amplified the waterworks.
Despite the emotionally draining sessions, I felt a sense of obligation to my nonexistent YouTube audience to continue uploading videos, even these painful practice sessions. Shortly after my final lesson with Linda, someone compiled a video montage of all the Linda-induced crying and yelling moments.
From Dance Class to Infamy: The Pornhub Incident
The edited video, without delving into excessive detail, somehow found its way onto Pornhub and, to my utter mortification, became a top-ranking video within the “humiliation fetish” category for years. The fallout was swift and devastating. Coworkers stumbled upon it. Family members discovered it. Many people in my life, unable to process the bizarre nature of the situation, simply exited. The only individuals who remained steadfastly accepting were my fellow D&D adventurers and polycule partners, perhaps because their own… interests… made my accidental foray into humiliation porn seem rather tame in comparison.
Finding My Tribe (Who Don’t Judge My Porn History)
To this day, the phrase “shut up and dance,” especially when delivered with the enthusiastic energy of the song shut up and dance with me, sends a shiver of remembered embarrassment down my spine. I can only hope that my past internet infamy remains confined to the darker corners of the web and doesn’t resurface to haunt my present, especially not within my accepting, if somewhat unconventional, chosen family.
