Before turning 20 a few months ago, I began to realize that, sadly, I was getting old. Yeah, yeah I know—I’m not actually old. Nevertheless, sorrowfully parting ways with my teenage years offered me the opportunity to reflect on some early staples of adolescent-hood. Namely, grinding.
Don’t know what grinding is? Lucky you. The move that defined my high school’s dances could be quickly summarized as prolonged dry humping to Lil Wayne. Now don’t get me wrong, 16-year-old Jenna loved grinding as much as she loved strolling down her high school’s halls reciting the words to “Buy U a Drank” (which was a lot, fyi). That said, there comes (or should come) a time in every young adult’s life when she realizes grinding is straight up—for lack of a better word—icky.
I guess I realized I was too old to grind last summer at a D.C. nightclub (which might I note, is the ideal place for deep introspection). After I had thrown my fifth backwards elbow toward the guy with the feely hands and eyebrows that somehow blended effortlessly into his ingrown stubble-beard, I began to wonder why I was ever okay with a stranger silently approaching me from behind to “dance.” No tap on the shoulder, no salutation, no “Hello unfamiliar female, would you mind if I gyrated my crotch on your hind regions?” If grinding could urinate, it would do so solely on chivalry’s grave.
After his ribs were undoubtedly bruised from my repeated elbow blows, my suitor decided to address me for the first time all night. “Why would you come to the club if you didn’t want to make new friends?” he yelled to me over the thumping techno beat as his brow-beard grimaced. Excellent question, Sasquatch. It was my first time in a nightclub and I honestly and naively believed I could get my freak on without actually having to freak on anyone. Needless to say, it was no “Night at the Roxbury.”
I should have known what to expect, given my high school experience. Because my high school was notorious for our love of the bump ’n grind, The Washington Post wrote a feature about us earlier this year called, “Teens getting too freaky at the homecoming dance?” We never win homecoming football games, but at least we have that article to be proud of. Go Blazers.
While grinding was unfortunately a facet of my adolescence, I was still a fairly late bloomer. My first experience grinding and/or coming into close contact with a boy was at a teen club when I was 14. Although it wasn’t unreasonable for my parents to assume that an alcohol-free venue that closed at 11:30 p.m. would be a safe place for their little girl, they forgot to consider that tweens with hormones a-ragin’ would jump at the opportunity to rub up against each other before curfew.
The big problem was I was quite awkward, brace-faced and painfully nervous around boys (plus I had a sense of rhythm that was so bad my first grade ballet teacher asked me how I was able to walk in a straight line). I had no interest in grinding that night until a tall, mature, 15-year-old guy asked me to dance. He either had facial hair or the remnants of some Oreos around his mouth, and I was taken aback by his forwardness. I was surprised by his haste but it wasn’t until I had realized I wasn’t feeling a roll of quarters (or dimes, let’s be honest) in his pocket that it became too much. I proceeded to run to the bathroom as quickly as I could—as would become a frequent action in my life—to do some soul searching.
Despite that scarring night, I slowly began to accept that boys did not have cooties and started to embrace grinding. Now at 20, I feel almost back to square one. It’s not a fear of boys anymore but the slight terror I undergo when I think of the prospect of grinding with my husband (or maybe a bear-faced stranger, who knows) at my child’s wedding. Will grinding still be cool when we’re 25? 45? 85? I couldn’t say, but I’ll likely avoid it like the plague. So on that note, strangers (especially those with facial hair/Oreo crumbs) if you see me bustin’ a move solo, find someone else to freak on, as I’ve been known to throw elbows.
Tired of gettin’ creeped on at the KK while you’re just tryin’ to break it down to “Watch the Throne?” Share your horror stories with Jenna at jbushnell@wisc.edu.
