Normally, being a male suppressor, or, as we used to call ourselves, “a guy,” I would not discuss belly dancing in public, certainly not with a woman, certainly not with a woman I didn’t know and especially not with a woman with a ring in her nose and wearing a Burn Elon Musk Alive pink baseball cap stained in human blood.

Still burning fresh in my memory was an incident from 30 years ago where my best pal Phil and I were discussing ballet. Phil? He’s a guy, too. I had been fortunate to see both Rudolf Khametovich Nureyev and Mikhail Nikolayevich Baryshnikov perform live. Rudy’s a Russky. Mike’s from Latvia. To see them live is like having courtside seats while watching Larry Bird and Michael Jordan go at it on the hardcourt. Nureyev or Baryshnikov, either danseur can jump in the air and not come down.

So Philly and I are in his living room, talking ballet. In walks his wife, this fetching and energetic Texas debutante equipped with opinions. Ms. Katie waltzes into the room to tell Phil something, throws her hands up in the air like she’s starring in a Lubbock community theater offering of “Carmen,” offers a few obligatory “Lordy Lordys” and “I declares,” then, exasperated for no reason, accuses, “Oh, you two MEN!”

Like we’re second-class plantation help with no feelings.

“You two are just probably going on about hockey fights or dislodged retina wrestling matches,” Mrs. Lanier chimed in an octave I’ll never reach. “I’ll be of no part of it.”

Phil and I looked at one another, weighing that we........

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