It seemed like it was only a few minutes that I had been home from visiting Boogie Bob, but in fact it had been a few hours. Time flies when you’re breakin’ in the basement, I guess but it was that time on the Tic Toc to start making my way towards the infamous Chicagoland Rink. - Especially since Blazins Dad was driving, I knew I’d better be ready early. I could guarantee you that Brock was going to bug his dad like mad until he got into the car to start picking everybody up. Brock was so early for everything that he would show up for a morning “early bird” breakfast, the night before.
And I was right of course, Blazin’ and his old man showed up early to pick me up, just as I suspected. For whatever reason, Blazin’ and I started talking about that TV show, “PM Magazine” again, that we both saw a couple of months ago. “When I saw breakin’ on that show - it was love at first sight,” I told Brock that night as we drove to Chicagoland Rink. I knew I had sounded like a romantic fool when I had said that “Love at First sight” thing, but I didn’t care.
Moments later, Fandango and 2 Tuff got into the ride and we continued onto Chicagoland Rink.
Blazin’ asked Fandango and Miguel what they thought about the PM Magazine TV show when he was cut off my Gio or should I say the artist formerly known as Gio.
Fandango said, “Breakin’ got its name from guys like: DJ Kool Herc and Africa Bambaattaa who I heard were the most influential DJ’s in the foundation of breakin’. Have you guys ever heard of them?” Fandango asked us.
Blazin’ said, “I’ve heard of Afrika Bambaataa, but not the other one.”
“I know Afrika Bambaataa too … because of his song, “Renegades of Funk,” I added.
Then Fandango continued, ”Yeah, everybody knows Afrika Bambaataa but Dj Kool Herc was just as important too. I heard he played a lot of extended breaks when he mixed his jams at his club in New York and that’s when all of the “break boys” would bust out with breakin’ – during the breaks of songs. You see, DJ Kool Herc would take two copies of the exact same record and keep repeating the breaks live, right there on the spot – and that’s when the boys would bust out, hence the name “break boys” or Bboys.
But yeah, someone from the media called it ‘break dancing’ and the term break dancers grew from there. But B-boys and B-girls were clubbers that were rockin’ to break beat music in these New York clubs.” Fandango told us.
As if a light bulb just flicked on, Blazin said, “No shee-ott Bee-otch?”
Then Fandango added, “By the way, for those of you who don’t know, breaks are the part of the song where a DJ either mixes in or mixes out of the song. Usually just drums and percussion make up the breaks. “
“I know … Bruiser was telling us about some of this stuff a couple of months ago,” I said.
“Word,” Blazin agreed.
Then Blazin’ while still in his uproarious and debating mood said, “Some people say that breakin’ started because of James Browns song called the, ‘Good Foot.’ The legend has it that James Brown himself, and his fans, would butt spin, back spin, or do some down rock type stuff or moon walking during his concerts, and this carried over into the clubs of New York. … And this was back in the 1970’s man! When we were just babies,” Blazin’ said with passion.
Miguel 2 Tuff finally broke his silence and entered the confab, “I have seen various Karate movies with martial artists kicking their enemies while doing windmills or helicopters on the ground which undoubtedly is where some breakin’ moves had come from. I thought they called it break dancing because people like Bruce Lee would break someone’s bones as they were wind milling around, kicking them and stuff. But it’s pretty obvious that gymnastics and acrobatics play a big role in breakin’ too,” he said in a soft voice. Sometimes you really had to listen to hear Miguel; he was just a soft spoken dude sometimes.
Fandango looked at his brother incredulously and said, “I told you about DJ Kool Herc and what Crazy legs had said … Remember? … originally Bboy meant Brooklyn boy, remember?”
“I know but even after you told me that, I still thought that Karate movies with fighters getting their bones “breaked” or broken -and stuff was where the name had come from,” Miguel said.
I had my own take on the confab, so I told my fellow B-boys in the now steamed up car from all of the hot air blowing around, “I might have to argue that Thomas Edison was among the first fans of break dancing. In 1898 Thomas Edison recorded on video, an Arabic street dancer doing head spins on a sidewalk. (Look it up on PhilKSwift.com for yourself) … no Shiznit, no Bull Shee-ottin! 1898 Emmer Effers!
How ironic is it that Thomas Edison who invented the turntable (along with Berliner) ,which DJ’s use to play the music that we breakers listen to while spinning around on the floor, also made the very first video recording of someone doing head spins about 100 years ago.” Everyone was eagerly listening to me with serious looks in their eyes - when I started joking.
“Maybe we should really be called Edison dancers or E-Boys … but hey, whatever you want to believe about break dancing or b-boying or breakin’ and how it got its name and who invented it, is all cool with me. Maybe it’s a combination of all of that stuff, but I don’t care who invented it or where it came from. All I know is that it was hip then and it’s even more hip now,” I said.
We arrived in the parking lot of the infamous Chicagoland Rink just as we had finished our talk about where breakin’ had come from. I was glad that none of us said anything negative about the rink on the way up there because one nervous parent equals all of our parents getting nervous, if you know what I mean.
When we got out of the car my eyes were drawn to two fly girls that had just been dropped off, just as we had. One of them had worn bright neon green socks and a matching neon green mesh woven shirt. The two girls had dissolved into the entrance doors of the rink before I could get a real good look at their faces. But I knew I’d find them again; that neon would shine in a blackout. My boys were too busy sorting out who had really started breakin’, so they didn’t see them. I didn’t say anything to the guys though. The way I saw it, I didn’t need a million sausages looking at the buns I had found anyway.
Both of those fly girls were rockin’ black high heeled shoes, the kind that had the straps that wrapped around the ankles, which were wrapped, strapped, and walking through my mind as all of us NSR’s started our journey inside the rink. I wasn’t used to seeing girls our age wearing high heeled shoes, except at church on Sundays. It was usually the twenty something’s that wore that kind of thing when they went out on the weekends. But my first impression of Chicagoland Rink was vastly different from whatever I had heard at school on Friday. It’s funny how girls can make a place seem safe.
By the time my friends and I had entered through the doors of the rink, the two fly girls were already inside and out of sight. We were instantly bassed in our face with grooving Chicago house music. House music was starting to take over the Chicago airwaves, the speakers at the rinks, the dance parties … everywhere. Even Big Teds’ locker at school had been thumping Chicago mix jams from his cassette deck, in between class periods the last couple of weeks. DJs had become torn between pop, hip hop, and house music as the crowd requests played tug o war with each other. At least that’s what DJ Steve was telling me at Suburbanite Rink last night.
The cinder blocked walls of the lobby at Chicagoland Rink were covered in graffiti. It looked like it had been professionally done, very thought out and good use of colors; it looked like a scene out of a comic book. I thought it looked cool; it wasn’t that gang bangin’ graffiti tagged crap you’d see on the side of buildings, done all quick like. It was real artwork that looked like it had taken a while to paint.
Miguel 2 Tuff offered to pay my freight to get in and I couldn’t find a reason to tell him no.
You’re a gentleman and a breaker,” I told him.
“No problem amigo,” Miguel said as he handed the cashier our admission fee.
I continued my re-con of the rink for riff raffs, girls, and breakers while I went through my first ever ”Frisk line” to get patted down. I guess they were looking for guns, knives, and stuff like that. This made me think about all of the exhortations that my friends at school had given me about this place. The pat down, in and of itself spoke volumes about what Chicagoland Rink may have had in store for me, but I tried not to think about it too much.
As we walked into the main room where the large skating rink was located, I saw three young kids skating around the rinks oval hardwood floor and a few moms and dads sitting on the benches along the outskirts. I know I had just been frisked and everything but seeing those girls as I had arrived in the parking lot and seeing the kids skating around the rink, made me feel like the place must be safe. I even told that to Brock, but then he started singing Whodinis song, “The Freaks come out at night.”
I quickly noticed some breakers, which were not a part of our crew, who were hanging off to the far right side – not on the actual rink itself. They weren’t breakin’ just yet, but I could tell by the way they walked and dance-top rock sauntered around and by the way they were dressed, that they were one of us.
I started walking over towards them to get a closer look while the rest of my crew hung back. They were wearing knit hats inside a rink that was plenty warm and they were donning tight tracks suits that screamed breakers. And when I say “tight” I mean the opposite of nasty. As I drew closer, the two dudes started to up rock more seriously and ferociously against each other. They were feigning a straight up street fight and pretending to use weapons against each other and shiznit like that but it was all a part of their up rock. One of them was busting out with bow and arrow charades within his up rock, which I found quite queer but, art is art I guess, it doesn’t always have to make sense. The other knit hat wearing Bboy had feigned using num chucks in his up rock battle against his friend. This made me think about what Miguel had said about breakin’ coming from Karate moves and everything. It looked very “different” to watch those two up rock like that, but to each his own, I guess.
My friends sort of hung out by the popcorn machine that was by the entrance, so I walked back over towards them after I checked out those two Bboys, when I saw all of my homies checking out this group of twenty something’s that were housing it up and jack dancing to the rink DJ’s house jams. They were all groovily engaged in disco dancing to this track called, “Disco Circus,” which is a song I had heard in the mixes on the radio a few times and I had always wondered what the names was, until that night, when Fandango had told me.
“Sweet … the DJ’s playing Disco Circus,” he said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I know,” he said smugly.
Fandango and Miguel always seemed to know the names of the records that were getting mixed at the rink.
That group of twenty something’s or “house people” - we called them, all looked very ecstatic and in their own zones while they danced around to their vibe. Something about them looked different though. They all had these similar wry facial expressions, and a couple of them had these odd smiles that seemed like they weren’t in control of their own mouths. Fandango said they were probably “on something” when I had pointed it out.
And I said, “I don’t ever want to do that or look like that.” Their eyes looked that weird.
Miguel piped in that they had probably “drank some booze” before they had come in.
I wasn’t used to hanging out at venues that were all ages, but that’s what Chicagoland Rink appeared to be; teens and twenty something’s and whoever.
Eventually the kids that had been skating with their parents had left the building as the night had grown older, which ended up putting the song virus (or ear worm) in my head: “The Freaks come out at night.” Every time someone weird looking paid to get in, that song echoed in my head.
After a couple of my guys had bought popcorn, we NSR’s migrated and set up camp near the other B-boys that I had told you about. We had our own dance floor that had these white Christmas type lights constructed into the framework of the partially plexi-glassed and wooden dance floor. And let me tell you, that really got Blazin excited –as if he needed something to get excited about. He yelled out, “AAhh man dudes! … Breakin’ on a lit up dance floor is totally choice, it’s kind of like the dance floor in the “Billie Jean” video, you know guys, you know?” Blazin’ asked every last one of us.
Slim Jim had just arrived at the rink and overheard Brock – he was that loud, so he joined in our conversation about the dance floor. He had heard Blazins’ enthusiasm a mile away, “Hellz yeah my brizzo, skizzo fow shizzo. The floor is all Saturday night fevered out. Dance around Brock - maybe the beavers will shout,” Jim laughed to himself. Slim Jim was always saying goofy shiznit, and then laughing to himself.
Blazin' shouted in a kindred spirit, “Yeah dude, Saturday night fever, that’s what this floor reminds me of! The Saturday night fever movie.”
Slim Jim belly laughed, “Or Billie Jean, whatever? It’s caz-zool, fool.”
“Yay dude, that’s what I just said, Billie Jean,” Brock said as he shook Slim Jims hand.
The DJ played Herbie Hancocks, “Rockit” next, which seemed to inspire the two breakers that I had first peeped when we had got to Chicagoland Rink, to start breakin’ again. They started top rockin’ around and stuff, which led to one of them swiping and back spinning while the other one started head spinning. Not as many as Boogie Bobs head spins, but he did all right.
Miguel, Blazin', Fandango, and Slim Jim were chatting each other up and admiring each other’s B-Boy regalia like it was a fashion show. “It’s not just girls who admire each other’s shoes or skirts or blouses or hairstyles,” I said to them in a lispy soft voice, just to mess with them.
“We guys like to rock the pimpin’ clothes too,” Miguel said.
“Sweet outfit,” Brock added, “I really like your outfit man.”
I sort of feigned a girl’s voice and said, “Outfit or should you have said ensemble sweetie?” Then I leered with a crazy smile just to egg him on, “Dude, it’s not an outfit. My mom wears outfits. Its B-boy regalia or B-boy attire, but don’t go calling it an outfit my brother,” I said.
Brock just brushed me off with a scrunched face so I left it alone. I mean, I was really in the mood to mess with them but I was really more curious about the whereabouts of those two fly girls I had seen when we had first got to the rink.
Since I was left out of the conversation for the moment I began scanning the room for neon sock chick with the mesh shirt, while I listened to “Jam on it” in the background. I hadn’t seen either one of them since we had gotten inside. We were on one end of the building and most of the other people were on the other end of the rink. I figured they had to be over there but I tried to not be too obvious as I looked though, as I said, the last thing I needed was a few more horn dogs from my crew trying to mow my lawn. I didn’t need to make it into a sausage fest when I found them.
The DJ finally got the lights going! The disco ball rotated specs of light everywhere, the laser lights flashed randomly throughout the joint, and after having been blinded about a million times by the laser lights, suddenly my eyes had been drawn towards the rink entrance. The outside street lamps were sneaking inside and creating a shadowy entrance for all of the new comers that were coming from the outside. When someone new had walked in, all I could see was a shadow entering inside.
Some people you can see from a mile away, even if it’s just a shadowy apparition of them. As I looked towards the entrance I saw this new cat entering inside of Chicagoland Rink with mad presence; It was the way he walked from the center of his body and marched his femurs forward before he placed his feet down flat footed, that made me know that it had to be none other than Kid Mojo in the hizzy. By nature, he walked almost zig-zagged, it’s hard to explain; it was queer. But he slammed his feet down and walked zig zag.
I couldn’t be totally certain it was he because of the way his Kangol Bermuda hat played hide and seek with his face. It made him look like the character on the, “neighborhood watch sign,” like the kinds of signs you’ve seen posted on your own neighborhood street that warn the community to look out for riff raff. Well, that’s what Mojo had looked like – hat tilted to hide his face, trench coat, and all.
The shadowy neighborhood watch figure was slowly moving towards us with his head swaying from left to right as he marched sturdily and on beat to the Boogie Boys jam, “Fly Girl.” Since I was pretty sure it was he, I sort of walked slowly towards the entrance. He seemed to have looked our way right after he had paid and he was heading in our direction right from the get go; like he meant to.
Then confirming my suspicions, he busted out into floor gliding, moon walking, poppin’, and tickin’ and such as he drew more near – that was just how he walked, which inspired Slim Jim to bellow, “Kid Mojo – in the Emmer Effin’ hiz ouse!”
Kid Mojo reached out his hand, “Sup Mojo, I thought I saw you walking in. You’re dressed like the neighborhood watch sign with your black Kangol and all,” I said as I shook his hand.
“Sup Mr. Phil K Swift,” Mojo the kid said with a smirk.
“We are going to be breakin’ like madmen tonight,“ I said.
“Yep, we’ll mess anybody up,” Mojo said.
Kid Mojo randomly started talking about his new fat laces that he had put silver glitter on.
And I became just as random and said, “We are all stylin’ and profilin’ with our NSR nameplates … Sportin’ da boner,”
This prompted Slim Jim to add, “That’s right fashion is our passion so we dress to impress …”
Then a group of pneumatic older girls, probably in their twenties, walked by, so of course we talked about the fly females that were switching and swooshing their asses around the rink that night.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw the freak-a-zoid again - Oh yeah, I didn’t even tell you about him yet, there was this creepy dude lurking around the rink. But I almost forgot about the creepy dude for a minute because right when I was about to tell you about that - Mojo had just walked in.
But yeah, this creepy guy was acting all spooky. I couldn’t tell if he was still, “warming up his hands?” or whatever in the eff he was doing? But when I saw that weirdo freak show again I nudged Mojo and Slim Jim and said, “That strange cat over there is either warming up his hands or warming up his nuts.”
They both sort of laughed and looked over by him. Kid Mojo got a big roar out of it and Slim Jim was instantly crept out by the whole thing. It was written all over his face. From where we were, I couldn’t tell if he was “warming up his hands” or not so I asked Mojo and Jim to look. (I didn’t want to look for myself .) They both reluctantly looked over at him and then started shrieking, gulping, and dry heaving
Mojo had made a noise that sounded like he had just swallowed gross ass medicine, “Dude, you’re not kidding.”
“Is he still doing it?” I asked, not really wanting to know, so I didn’t look.
Kid Mojo whined, “Gross dude, yay he’s still doing it.”
“The freaks come out at night” was echoing through my head.
Slim Jim was laughing his ass off while showing disgust on his face all at once, “Okay Philly Phil, you and Mojo can go over there and ask him if you can shizz-ake his emmer effin’ hizz-and me brizzo!”
“Gross,” I winced.
“No way dude,” Kid Mojo said with a wan look on his face, “I’m not shaking anybodies hand.”
Slim Jim kept on saying junk like, “Now that’s a whole new spin on pocket pool,” and
“I’m never shaking another person’s hand again … ever.”
Needless to say, we all got the flip away from that guy lickety-split.
After a while Jim quit talking about “hand warmer guy” and started ranting in his own language about nothing in particular, “mizzo, skizzo,brizzo, for shizzo, my nizzzo and other schlernious shiznit like that. Then he’d laugh to himself as he always did.
Kid Mojo had mysteriously disappeared from Slim Jim and me, so Slim Jim started to get a little more chatty, (he could really get quiet around crowds sometimes) “Sup Swift, my Brudda, there are some straight up skeezers and fly girls up in this joint, right!” Then he bit his lower lip, flared his nostrils and laughed, “Fow shizzo my nizzo, they are strillla for rillla magillla … word up!” he had said as he started to pop, wave, and tick. He really liked to rhyme his mumbo jumbo while boogalooin’. Half of the time I didn’t even know what he was saying but he laughed, so I laughed.
“Say there Slim Jim, tell me dude, when are you going to make me one of those jackets my man?” I asked. Jim was wearing a dark blue jean jacket with a 15 inch by 15 inch patch that was sewn onto the back that had graffiti painted on it.
“Where did you get that pimped out jacket from? You were telling me about it last night until those chicks came by … sorry for blowing you off.”
“Don’t worry about it bro, that one chick was smooth … smooth as ice … she had a nice ass,” he said with a lecherous grin.
“And nice eyes too,” I added. She really did. (He meant Muffys friend Roxanne from Suburbanite last night.)
“She had eyes,” he joked. “Anyway Swift, I made it myself brizzo, I’m the pimp – you know.”
“Big Pimpin’,” I said.
Slim Jim then took off his jacket and handed it to me so I could take a closer look. He started pointing out all of the details on the jacket and then explained about the sizes of brushes he used, the color names of the paint he used: like midnight blue, flesh tone peach, burnt orange and shee-ott like that. But my undiagnosed ADD kicked in and I had trouble following him – too many details. But that happened to me sometimes when I was talking to Slim Jim; his mouth could move at a mile a minute and once you got him going he could talk your ear off. He could give you Vincent Van Gogh syndrome if you let him; that’s how much he could talk your ear off. (Van Gogh is the famous artist that had cut his own ear off, in case you didn’t know.)
Slim said that he even sewed the patch on himself; so I called him, “LIL Suzy homemaker” but I really was impressed. I wasn’t trying to rip on him; not really, I just sort of said it. He scowled for a second then laughed and put his jacket back on, pulled out a stick of gum and then gave me a serious look.
“Did you see that thick book of graffiti art that I brought with to McCollum Park a couple of weeks ago?” he asked eagerly.
“I checked it out for a minute but I didn’t really get to scope it out all that much, someone swiped it out of my hands. –Why?” I asked.
“Well that’s the book that I use to draw my burners and sketches … all of my graffiti art and doodles or whatever is clever. So if you saw anything you liked in there, I can make it for you as a patch to put on a jacket or whatnot.
I’m not some Punk ass Bee-otch that spray paints on someone else’s property. That’s whacked, jacked, heart attacked. I’m like Einstein with my melon, not a felon,” he said as serious as a heart attack as he fixed his sleeves. “I only paint graffiti in legit places where I have permission.”
“You’ve got to make me one of those jackets Brudda,” I said.
“Fer strilla Swifty, it’ll be nifty,” he said. Then, Slim Jim extemporaneously started throwing down with poppin’, wavin’, tickin, and lockin’. He was more of a boogaloo cat rather than a breaker.
“Slim Jim, do it to it and like a witch: brew it,” I said with a wink.
“I’m like a warlock and I’ll put y’all in shock; -doc tickety tock see you in outer space Mr. Spock,“ he said slyly.
Slim Jim had this style of pulsating poppin’ that was as mesmerizing and captivating as lightning. I mean, he didn’t do those hackneyed been there done that, type of moves that everybody else did. He really struck the on lookers with lightning when he boogalooed. He really did.
Slim Jim started quickly vibrating his fingers, joint by joint. He incrementally transferred his flow to his palm, then wrist, to the fore arm, then elbow, and so on; it looked like he had just stuck his fingers into a light socket, which in turn sent a shock wave through his entire body. By the time his vibrating poppin’ reached his torso it got me to thinking; I bet you Slim Jim didn’t even have to use towels or one of those hot air hand dryers after he was done washing his hands. Slim Jim just had to bust out with some of his pulsating poppin’ and then BAMM! His hands would be dry.
“Alright Slim Jim, I’ve got to run to the other side of this Jiz-oint, some female has been eyeballing me TALL. I’ll catch up with you in a few, after I get the digits,” I said cocksure.
I boldly strode toward the direction of where I figured Ms. Neon green socked girl would be, as I dodged through the now busy rink crowd. Truth be told, neon green sock girl wasn’t really eyeballing me, it was the other way around, I was scoping her out, but it just sounded better to say it the other way, that way if she turned me down, nobody had to know. Guys can really razz another guy about that sort of thing. You know?
As I walked around and started to look for her, I sort of wondered if she looked any good or not. - that paper bags for legs incident will haunt me forever. I even started freakin’ myself out too, to be honest with you. I wondered if she was going to be the epitome of femininity or the essence of a calamity.
I didn’t finish telling you about Slim Jim’s jacket though and as I walked around looking for Ms. Neon Green, I sort of thought about it. The patch on the back of his jacket that he had designed, drew and then painted himself had: a red bricked wall in the background, with the mortar finely painted with fine grey brush strokes in between each red brick. There were two breakers as the focus of the jacket; one B-Boy was wind milling and the other B-Girl was executing Atomic flares, you could even see their NSR nameplates - that’s how detailed he had made it.
The setting was a street corner sidewalk in Anytown USA. The ghetto blaster was positioned next to the red bricked wall, right where the two bricked walls had merged and formed an outside street corner. The ghetto blaster was sized as big as one of the breakers, but it looked cool. I mean, even though the ghetto blaster was drawn crazy large, it still looked cool as eff. Slim Jim even drew squiggly lines pointing outwards from the boom box speakers to show that the stereo was emitting music. He had thought of everything.
I really did want one of those jackets too; I wasn’t just saying that to pump his nads or anything. I had meant it. It would have really helped finish off the look that I was sporting that night too. I was rockin’ dark gray suede gym shoes with light gray fat laces, gray slippery parachute pants with a gray and black pullover tracksuit top and of course I had my NSR nameplate as the cynosure. I also had on a black sweatshirt underneath because sometimes when I was wind milling, especially nut cracking, the slippery jacket made me lose traction, so I usually took the slippery pullover off, especially on slippery floors. When I was breakin’ on carpet, like the outskirts at Suburbanite were, I’d keep the pullover on, you dig?
I kept heading towards the DJ booth, vending machines, and restroom area where I thought I had last seen the short skirted, neon green socked, sexy seductress. I watched the DJ grab a twelve inch record from his crate, he put it on the spinning platter and then we all heard, “The roof is on fire” by Rockmaster Scott and the Dynamic Three. I paused next to a large subwoofer and listened to the cut as it moved through the sound system; a definite B-Boy jam. He kept flipping the record over and remixing, “Request line” and “The roof is on fire” back and forth and back again – the crowd was going crazy.
Then something crazy happened. I don’t know if it was the song, or something they had drank, or if this was just how they were? But I spotted a guy and girl starting to get all freaky in the middle of the Chicagolands’ Rink floor. Some skaters were still skating around the oval but many of the party people were starting to navigate their way to the center of the rink floor. It wasn’t officially time for the skaters to stop skating but the dancers were starting to take over, which made the last remaining skaters have to dodge the dancing wayfarer’s that were entering the skaters domain.
Anyhow, getting back to the freaky guy and the freaky girl I was telling you about; the girl was down on all fours like a dog and she was moving, grooving, and dancing to the music – booty in the air and all. Those two, which I guessed were boyfriend and girlfriend by the lascivious nature of their interlude (or should I way inter-lewd) were feigning doggie style. She was sticking her booty out as far as one could possibly stick ones booty out while shakin’ what her mama had gave her while her boyfriend was standing immediately behind her; spanking her and feigning intercourse with her. I felt like a pervert just watching them. Old boy straight up had his drawers questionably low to his knees, with red and black boxers rockin’, which I wished I didn’t know about. I didn’t need to see another dudes drawers – is all I’m saying. However, it was quite the spectacle watching those two “dance” –If that’s what you call it. It even made most of the skaters stop skating, just to watch them act all crazy.
In the midst of the dudes salacious grinding and