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Palma – Mallorca: September 2005

The German laddie leans over and says something into my ear. I’m so taut with fear that I don’t hear him properly. I lean closer again and ask him what he said.

‘Please’ he shouts eagerly into my ear ‘please don’t let them touch me!’ and with that he breaks away, eyes bulging with fear, his hand grasping my shoulder.

The ‘they’ he refers to are the Spanish and Italian girls on the dance-floor. They being the Spanish and Italian girls that are sharing the hostel with us, the dance-floor being one foolhardy step away from this haven of a bar. We being the northern European boys that are trapped against this bar and in this neon wonderland. Trapped physically and trapped mentally, too proud to admit that we would rather run away than have to dance for the affections of these beautiful, swaying girls.

The night started so well. 20 strangers from across the glorious continent of ours with free run of the Terramar hostel. Bronzed Italians male models, scantily clad Spanish girls, pale skinned Germans, a terrified English sailor and one pallid little Scot. Together we were young. Together we were going out. What could go wrong?

What went wrong was the choice of bar, the place we were in was too loud, too dance focused and far, far too small. What went wrong was the clash of culture that was always present in the hostel, but never quite so defined. What went wrong was the girls who, without the usual northern European requirement for litres of vodka and sugar, began swaying mercilessly in front of us. No self consciousness, no hiding their intent and worst of all, no lack of beguiling grace and beauty.

Within seconds the German lads, the sailor and the pallid little Scot that was myself had shrunken in size and in confidence. No longer were our pithy comments and wise insights any use. Here and in this place these girls wanted only to know how you could move your hips, how you could spin and sway them with power and machismo? The answer to the former being that my hips are used solely for self-propulsion, the latter being that where we all come from, machismo was lager and stoicism. But this was not home, this was Mallorca. We were not drinking beer we were drinking sangria and we were not impressing, we were sinking.

The girls would make their way along the line at the bar, kindly threatening us with a dance (hence the Germans extreme panic). Each one of use in turn rejecting the offer of these sirens in favour of blessed stable ground. We did not need nor wish to move from where we stood, thank you very much, here our feet were on solid ground and we were not for moving.

However, alcohol does strange things, never more true than when you are on holiday. After a few more glasses, or maybe it was litres, of sangria, I looked at myself in the toilet mirror and told myself that I could do it. Once I had cleared my bladder and wiped away any thoughts of who I once was, I could do this. With that, I stepped back into the fray, I knew which girl was to be mine, and I knew no doubt about this.

I caught her eye as I walked towards her, she looked and smiled, the connection made and the dance to begin, until he stepped forward. The Italian male model chose that very second to swoop in from his preening perch. He grabbed her, my girl, by the waist and forced her across that dance-floor in a display of glorious physicality. His arms flexed and strained with her body, his shirt wide open, his torso burning bright under the lights. Her body melted into his, pliant and eager. As his hands ran firmly across her waist, up across her chest, as his hands grasped her hair in his and spun her around for a fleeting, brutal kiss, she never once complained, never once rejected him. That was machismo and that was dancing.

His final gesture was to spin her around to face me, her body still swaying even as he left her, her eyes wide with joy and lust. She looked at me, keen for this night to continue, keen to be taken; to be forced to dance once again. I looked deep into her eyes, and then beyond them to that empty spot by the bar. The German boy winked gently at me, he knew. He held my spot and he held my pride. I walked calmly past the smooth, tanned curves of the girl that I was never to spin and quietly whispered into the German’s ear

‘Don’t let them touch me, whatever you do, just don’t let them touch me’

And with that we chinked Sangria glasses and drank until dawn.

This past Saturday was our last day of our week long pop up shop in New York City. In this video you can see us taking down all of the art submissions we received and then some random goofiness around the shop. Thanks to everyone who stopped by any of our events. See you next time!