"Still Dancing" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Dancing to Thelma Houston
John and Maryann had been friends longer than either of them cared to admit. Over fifty years, their lives had drifted in different directions, yet there was one thing that always anchored them to each other: their love for Thelma Houston’s “Don’t Leave Me This Way.”
It was the early 70s when it all started—two twenty-somethings, brimming with energy and no sense of limits.
They were inseparable then. He, a gay man with an eye for fun and adventure and a smile that could light up the room. She, a straight woman with a laugh that sounded like a bell and a taste for fashion, music, and dancing. Together, they had found their haven at the Gay 90s, a gay disco and bar that thrummed with the pulse of disco beats and the sound of freedom.
They didn’t know it at the time, but those nights at the Gay 90s—where the music was loud and the glitter on the floor was just another part of the magic—were the nights that would define their friendship for decades to come.
Every weekend, they would practice the dance moves they’d seen the other couples perform on the floor. Thelma Houston’s record spun endlessly on John's turntable at home, its soulful beats echoing through the small apartment where they spent hours perfecting spins, dips, and fancy footwork.
“Again, from the top!” Maryann would yell, already in position.
“Hold on, hold on. I can’t get my platform shoes on right,” John would respond, struggling to keep his footing.
They’d laugh. A lot.
One evening, as they practiced a particularly ambitious spin, Maryann’s heel caught the edge of the coffee table. Without missing a beat, she tumbled right across its surface, sending everything on the table crashing to the floor in a symphony of chaos.
John dropped to his knees, unable to catch his breath from laughing. “I’m never going to be able to look at that coffee table the same way again.”
Maryann straightened up, dusting herself off with an exaggerated bow. “I meant to do that.”
It was these moments that bonded them even more deeply. The more they practiced, the more they laughed, and the more they understood each other without saying a word. It was a rare thing, finding someone who didn’t just understand you but could laugh with you at the world’s imperfections.
Then came that night at the Gay 90s that would become their most cherished memory. The dance floor was packed with bodies moving in time to the beats of the latest hits, but when “Don’t Leave Me This Way” began to pulse through the speakers, the entire room seemed to pause. Everyone on the floor knew what was coming.
John took Maryann’s hand, and they moved toward the center. The crowd parted, as it always did, giving way to the familiar duo—their favorite song setting the rhythm for their practiced steps. There was something magical about the way they moved. It wasn’t just the flashy spins or the complicated choreography; it was the joy in their faces, the way they seemed to float across the floor, lost in the music, lost in each other’s company.
As the song reached its peak, they executed a perfect spin-and-dip combination, landing in perfect unison, gasping for breath with wide smiles plastered on their faces.
“That was it, MA,” John said, wiping his brow dramatically.
Just as they caught their breath, a young man appeared at the edge of the dance floor. He was handsome, tall, with a wide smile and an effortless style that made him stand out even in a crowd full of striking characters.
“You two really get down,” he said, nodding in approval.
John and Maryann exchanged a look. The compliment was simple, but somehow, it felt like the most important thing anyone had ever said to them.
“You think so?” Maryann asked, her voice laced with a happy smile.
“Hell yeah,” the man grinned. “You’re killing it out there. Makes me wanna learn how to dance like that.”
John and Maryann beamed. They’d been dancing in the shadows of the Gay 90s for years, but in that moment, the world—if only for a second—had truly noticed them. They carried that compliment with them through the decades. It wasn’t just a compliment; it was a badge of pride, a reminder that even after all this time, they still had it.
Now, more than fifty years later, they were sitting on the phone reminiscing, the soft hum of the past playing in the background of their minds. John, sitting on the couch in his home, was gazing at the framed and autographed Thelma Houston LP (a gift from Maryann) hanging on the wall in a place of honor. The Thelma Houston record, an image representing decades of love and friendship, still held the same magic it had all those years ago.
“Do you think we could still pull it off?” John asked, half-seriously.
Maryann laughed, a sound as familiar and comforting as ever. “I don’t know about you, but I’d need some serious practice. These knees aren’t what they used to be.”
John smirked. “Yeah, but we’ve got the moves. Always will.”
They sat there for a long moment, letting the silence wrap around them like an old, warm blanket. There was no need to say much more. They’d danced their way through life together, through ups and downs, through triumphs and losses. They’d laughed at their mistakes and celebrated their victories. And through it all, “Don’t Leave Me This Way” had been their constant.
Because no matter how much time passed, some things never changed.
~Wylddane
John and Maryann had been friends longer than either of them cared to admit. Over fifty years, their lives had drifted in different directions, yet there was one thing that always anchored them to each other: their love for Thelma Houston’s “Don’t Leave Me This Way.”
It was the early 70s when it all started—two twenty-somethings, brimming with energy and no sense of limits.
They were inseparable then. He, a gay man with an eye for fun and adventure and a smile that could light up the room. She, a straight woman with a laugh that sounded like a bell and a taste for fashion, music, and dancing. Together, they had found their haven at the Gay 90s, a gay disco and bar that thrummed with the pulse of disco beats and the sound of freedom.
They didn’t know it at the time, but those nights at the Gay 90s—where the music was loud and the glitter on the floor was just another part of the magic—were the nights that would define their friendship for decades to come.
Every weekend, they would practice the dance moves they’d seen the other couples perform on the floor. Thelma Houston’s record spun endlessly on John's turntable at home, its soulful beats echoing through the small apartment where they spent hours perfecting spins, dips, and fancy footwork.
“Again, from the top!” Maryann would yell, already in position.
“Hold on, hold on. I can’t get my platform shoes on right,” John would respond, struggling to keep his footing.
They’d laugh. A lot.
One evening, as they practiced a particularly ambitious spin, Maryann’s heel caught the edge of the coffee table. Without missing a beat, she tumbled right across its surface, sending everything on the table crashing to the floor in a symphony of chaos.
John dropped to his knees, unable to catch his breath from laughing. “I’m never going to be able to look at that coffee table the same way again.”
Maryann straightened up, dusting herself off with an exaggerated bow. “I meant to do that.”
It was these moments that bonded them even more deeply. The more they practiced, the more they laughed, and the more they understood each other without saying a word. It was a rare thing, finding someone who didn’t just understand you but could laugh with you at the world’s imperfections.
Then came that night at the Gay 90s that would become their most cherished memory. The dance floor was packed with bodies moving in time to the beats of the latest hits, but when “Don’t Leave Me This Way” began to pulse through the speakers, the entire room seemed to pause. Everyone on the floor knew what was coming.
John took Maryann’s hand, and they moved toward the center. The crowd parted, as it always did, giving way to the familiar duo—their favorite song setting the rhythm for their practiced steps. There was something magical about the way they moved. It wasn’t just the flashy spins or the complicated choreography; it was the joy in their faces, the way they seemed to float across the floor, lost in the music, lost in each other’s company.
As the song reached its peak, they executed a perfect spin-and-dip combination, landing in perfect unison, gasping for breath with wide smiles plastered on their faces.
“That was it, MA,” John said, wiping his brow dramatically.
Just as they caught their breath, a young man appeared at the edge of the dance floor. He was handsome, tall, with a wide smile and an effortless style that made him stand out even in a crowd full of striking characters.
“You two really get down,” he said, nodding in approval.
John and Maryann exchanged a look. The compliment was simple, but somehow, it felt like the most important thing anyone had ever said to them.
“You think so?” Maryann asked, her voice laced with a happy smile.
“Hell yeah,” the man grinned. “You’re killing it out there. Makes me wanna learn how to dance like that.”
John and Maryann beamed. They’d been dancing in the shadows of the Gay 90s for years, but in that moment, the world—if only for a second—had truly noticed them. They carried that compliment with them through the decades. It wasn’t just a compliment; it was a badge of pride, a reminder that even after all this time, they still had it.
Now, more than fifty years later, they were sitting on the phone reminiscing, the soft hum of the past playing in the background of their minds. John, sitting on the couch in his home, was gazing at the framed and autographed Thelma Houston LP (a gift from Maryann) hanging on the wall in a place of honor. The Thelma Houston record, an image representing decades of love and friendship, still held the same magic it had all those years ago.
“Do you think we could still pull it off?” John asked, half-seriously.
Maryann laughed, a sound as familiar and comforting as ever. “I don’t know about you, but I’d need some serious practice. These knees aren’t what they used to be.”
John smirked. “Yeah, but we’ve got the moves. Always will.”
They sat there for a long moment, letting the silence wrap around them like an old, warm blanket. There was no need to say much more. They’d danced their way through life together, through ups and downs, through triumphs and losses. They’d laughed at their mistakes and celebrated their victories. And through it all, “Don’t Leave Me This Way” had been their constant.
Because no matter how much time passed, some things never changed.
~Wylddane
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