Cat In A Topaz Tango

Too Hot to Handle

Poor, poor Mr. Matt Devine.

I understand why my Miss Temple has a hard time concealing her anxiety for the end of this pasodoble episode of Dancing With the Celebs.

I have drawn midnight dance duty myself, and well remember having to deal with honeys in heat who outweighed me by a third. Females of my species can be quite a handful any day of the month. When they are in heat, they literally can be too hot to handle.

These celebrity human females have already demonstrated their flair for temperament in the tabloids. I would hate to have to lead them around the floor, gazing hotly into their eyes and bumping intimate body parts right and left.

But this does not matter. I am too short for the job anyway. The job I am not too short for is keeping an eagle eye on the dance floor. If the judges really wanted to know the scoop on fancy footwork, I could consult on this in a heart beat. In fact, my four-onthe-floor pick up the vibrations of a whole lot of stomping going on, particularly in this fiery Spanish dance with Cuban heels on the guys and the usual spike heels on the gals.

I almost do not recognize Mr. Matt. The wizards of the dressing rooms have even further darkened any of his skin that shows: face, hands, and the deep open-front V of his white, long-sleeved, clinging, semitransparent shirt. I do not understand the need or purpose of a semitransparent shirt. Apparently the females in the audience do, for they had become quite rowdy just on his entrance on stage.

The theme du dance here is Spanish gypsy. Mr. Matt’s golden hair is hidden by a gaudy scarf from forehead to nape of neck, where it is tied, and from which a brunet ponytail hangs. He now has black eyebrows and (ghastly vintage fashion!) long sideburns. He looks quite the different fellow.

Nor is Miss Wandawoman recognizable. Her dishwater blond hair is now a tangled mass of raven-black. I cannot fault this judgment call to multiply her locks: when it comes to hair color, black is beautiful. Miss Wandawoman wears much gold dangly jewelry. I much prefer the simple large hoop Mr. Matt sports in one ear.

Her gown is backless and hipless on one side, held up only by flesh-colored elastics my sharp eyes detect. A wide black satin ruffle runs from one shoulder across her body, back and front to the opposite hip. It would resemble the sashes that beauty queens wear, except there is almost no gown under hers, and the sash is ruffled, like her full skirts.

All and all, I must admit they look the parts.

When the music starts, they assume the taut upright poses, one arm flung high, heads haughtily erect, as if sniffing skunk.

Stomp! They are stalking across the floor eyeing each other like mortal enemies, he down on one knee to swirl her around him like a ruffled cape. He rises to seize her for a pair of matched close steps, then swings her aside, thrown away. She circles around to cling as their profiles nearly touch while they glare fiercely.

And so it goes. The audience is whistling and stomping and clapping and hooting, so I suppose this folderol is passing as pasodoble mastery. Much ado about nothing much, think I.

He twirls her tight to one side, spinning her away and then close again. She is leaning hard into him, and when he steps away to give her his back (this is not a polite dance), she slides slowly down his leg.

The audience is shrieking with delight. People here have very high auditory pain thresholds.

He reaches down, twirls her on the floor in a spectacular spin as she executes a full split, and then pulls her prone body through his wide-legged stance to slide halfway across the stage.

The audience is on its feet at this spectacular move, drowning out the sound of the music’s final flourish as Mr. Matt strikes a victorious pose beside his partner and then bends to mime one of those frozen passionate lip locks that end dances around here, despite seeming to be a serious contradiction in impulses. Passion is not usually a freezing and posing matter, I would think.

Her supposed-to-be-proud neck bobbles onto her shoulder. Her legs remain splayed and inert, not moving to assist gracefully in her own resurrection for a bow.

While everyone there on two legs freezes in position, possibly passionate, I am there like a bullwhip on a horsefly, sniffing at her mouth and nose. I smell scented lipstick, metal and sweat, and nothing telltale. I think I feel the slightest stir of breath.

And then I am near trampled as the tardy security detail surrounds Mr. Matt and his partner, who will be taking no bows and getting no judges’ ratings tonight.