How do you shag dance

Everything You Need to Know About Dancing the Carolina Shag • Grand Strand Resorts

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The National Shag Dance has been around for over 80 years. Originating along the Atlantic ocean in Cherry Grove Beach, South Carolina the dance has remained a part of the culture since its creation. Each year North Myrtle Beach holds a shag competition where dancers from all over come to attend and dance. The shag dance is a partner dance that is typically done to shag music or upbeat beach music. The dance is coined to be a descendent of the Carolina Jitterbug and its predecessor “Little Apple” which is a version of “The Big Apple”.

There have been many films made about the shack dance that feature shaggers from all over the world. However, if you don’t know much about the shag, no worries you came to the right spot. Here’s everything you need to know about the Carolina shag dance.

Photo Credit Via Instagram: clemsonshagclub


To shag, you just need to learn a basic six-count step. Within the six-count step, you will do an eight-step pattern danced in a slot. A slot is an imaginary rectangle that the dancers use to remain in position as they move back and forth with the leader. The rhythm of the dance is very similar to the six-count swing as they both include a triple step, counted as one and two, three and four, 5-6.  Steps 1-4 should take about as much time to complete as five and six altogether. So the first four steps are much faster than the last two. Very simply put, the dance is a repetition of stepping forward and backward and switching your weight between your right and your left side throughout your steps.

Key Tips:

When dancing the Carolina Shag it should look and feel as if the dancers are mirroring each other’s movements. The key is to be completely in sync with your partner. The man typically leads with his left foot as the woman follows suit with her right foot. This is where your slot will begin. Each dancer should be doing the same step as the other on the opposite foot. The better you get the easier it becomes to introduce more complicated steps into your routine. The basic steps are a necessity before adding anything else.

Photo Credit Via Instagram: prodohkids

It can be beneficial to watch a classic swing dance as the steps are quite similar. You can even join a dance club for shag dancing where you can learn from Shaggers of all levels.

Carolina Shag Club

Each year the Carolina Shag Club hosts the SOS, or shag competition. The club was originally started in Greenville South Carolina and has grown ever since. Back in 1978 a club called tramps opened in Greenville and quickly turned into a shag phenomenon. When the DJ began to play the beach music, a group of beach lovers would get up and start shagging. This eventually ended up turning into a Wednesday beach night shag event. 

Photo Credit Via: @megarockperth

However, the club did not stop there. In fact, each year you can find a shag competition at Fat Harold’s Beach Club where dancers shag the night away on the dance floor. There are many clubs in North Carolina, Charleston, Alabama, and even Carolina Beach that still offer shag nights on a regular basis. The SOS or dance competition is a way to bring the Shagger’s together and keep the dance alive.

As the shag quickly became the state dance of South Carolina, many became interested in learning the popular dance. To this day there are spots in North Myrtle Beach that have a rhythm and blues night with a shag dance teacher. They will teach you the basic footwork so you can be shaggin on Ocean Drive in no time. No matter where you are from, coming to the Grand Strand to shad or make you feel like you’re a part of history as you see some of the most famous shag dancers in the Hall of Fame. We hope to see you soon and good luck practicing your rock step.

Author Grand Strand ResortsPosted on Categories Vacation Rentals

What is Shag Dancing? - Steps on Toes Dance Lessons


My First Shag Dance teachers, Sylvia Sykes and Jonathan Bixby

British dancers not doubt get a kick out of the fact that what is slang for a four letter activity to them is the name of a dance to us. Three dances to be specific: Collegiate Shag, St Louis Shag, and Carolina Shag. The first two are more closely related to each other but still are quite different dances. Both originated in the 1920s as off-shoots of the Charleston, and both are usually (but not always) danced to fast music. They both look harder than they are, especially when speeded up. They both use a lot of physical energy and require stamina to get through the song. The basic step is completely different so if you were to take a class in each dance the difference would be obvious.

Here’s Valerie LaFemina and Mario Robau, more famous for their West Coast Swing, giving us a good example of St. Louis Shag:

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I learned St. Louis shag first. It was popular in my community about 20 years ago, but very few people do it here now. Like many dances, it had a brief heyday and people lost interest. Now, and for quite some time, it has been replaced by Collegiate Shag. I can’t explain why, and if if any of my local readers have an insight I’d be happy to hear it. I couldn’t find as joyful an example of St. Louis Shag as this delightful demo of Collegiate, so maybe it just inspires more fun and that’s why it’s more popular. Fans of St. Louis will disagree of course, so if any of you have a really great clip, please do send it my way.

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People who dance Balboa often also do Collegiate Shag. Shag is not difficult to learn (relatively speaking) but is physically tiring to do. Balboa, also usually danced to very fast music, is complex and hard to learn but not tiring and can be danced all night without breaking a sweat. Nope, can’t have both qualities in the same dance. You have to pick one. Here’s a look at Bal, and I’ll address that one more in another blog

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Carolina Shag is so different from the other two that it defies logic to give it the same name. You can see a wonderful demonstration of it in my last post, Veteran Dancers Make it Look Easy. Unlike the California state dance, West Coast Swing, which is danced all over the country, Carolina’s state dance is still largely a southern phenomenon. We’ve been introduced to it here in the west, but it hasn’t caught on. It’s a closer cousin to West Coast Swing than to it’s other namesakes. Dancer and dance historian Peter Loggins suggests the possibility that Collegiate Shag may have been the original Carolina Shag. Certainly it is not unheard of for a dance to change it’s style over the years so this is indeed possible. For more of Peter’s insights into the subject, click this link to Peter’s Shag Dance Blog.

And NONE of them have any connection to the British slang definition as far as I know. But if any of my readers have an insight to this curious coincidence, I’m all ears!

by LaurieAnn Lepoff

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Lenny Smirno.

Tinder elf ↓

Illustrations: Hagra, 2021

Notes on sex, separation and love


The left hand outlines such a graceful curve, as if you are waving a handkerchief to a train that is leaving in the distance, and the yellow light from the spotlight and the sparkles on your face shimmer with all the colors of the rainbow. I click on the picture to learn more about you. Higher education, three languages, trans, pédé, queer. And then, at the very bottom of the profile: “Je suis kinky. Plutot sub et maso. Ma manière de lacher prize."

I am writing you a message like diving into cold water. With a run and holding your breath. I say that I really want to play in Russian. “Don't think that I'm exoticizing. It's just that I've only ever played in French before, and I can't wait to feel the strength and power that I get during a submission/dominance session in my native, my sick language."

And here you are sitting in front of me and smiling as if you are looking at a big, pink birthday cake richly decorated with cream and fruit. And according to your facial expression, according to the questions that you ask me, according to the bodily distance that you keep, or rather you can’t stand with me, trying to get closer still, and then a little more, according to all these individually meaningless dotted lines of attraction to this the first meeting, I understand (feel? recognize?) that our attraction is mutual. What if, before I saw you, I was already thinking about what position I would make you take in order to properly spank you for poorly done homework, you too are dying of desire - go understand why - to kneel in front of me and beg so that from the height of my generosity, I will pass a strict but fair sentence on you. Shortly speaking. At the beginning of the timid and bewildered spring of 2021, when the lockdown has just ended, the shops are still closed, the curfew is in effect, and people are crawling out of the winter captivity of their cozy, fragrant talcum powdered apartments with great precautions, we are sitting shoulder to shoulder on the green on a hill in a city park and are perfect for each other, how parts from the same set of tools fit together perfectly, how you look for the right nozzle for a drill, look for it, look for it, you just can’t find it, it disappeared somewhere, probably rolled under the sofa for the last time , and suddenly it turns out that here it is, the necessary attachment, that it was necessary just to put things in order in this suitcase, anyway, reorganization has been asking for a long time, and now you have both a drill and a hole in the wall, and all the tools are neatly folded. And from this feeling of satisfaction, from your laughter, from a bottle of beer with a hangover, from the sun warming your cheeks, from the wind wedged behind the lapel of your coat, from all this light, tenderness, excitement, I'm fucking, not knowing what to say. "Well, let's write then, okay?" "Let's meet on Thursday," you reply.


“Good evening, Lena. Thanks for the invitation. I brought a bottle of Prosecco and mango juice. I hope that you love either one or the other, but if not, then it's okay, we will give the pigeons to drink wine.

It's so stupid to come to visit and take off the mask, not knowing where to put it. It is so strange to come to the apartment of a person whom you see for the second time in your life, knowing that you have come to give him your body at his disposal. And no, it doesn't look like a hookup at all. You come to a sex date with the understanding that you may not get much pleasure, but at least you can put a tick in some mental calendar that, they say, I fucked that day. You come in, you kiss, you get naked, you fuck, then you get dressed and you leave. And if everything goes well, if you didn't attack some rapist or asshole, by and large you retain control over the situation. It's just a fuck. We all eat. Some start earlier, some later, some are generally not interested, some are more or less successful in this and even know how to get an orgasm during the first time with a new partner or partner. But anyway, sex is like peeing. He shook himself off and went.

While playing, you give another person power over your body and head. You decrease as the other increases. You go into subspace and do not know in advance where this labyrinth of pleasure and pain will lead you, and only your top has the power and authority to accompany you and, when the game is over, bring you back to the light.

I'm thinking of a book by the American writer, witch and philosopher Starhawk called Dreaming the Dark: Magic, Sex and Politics. Starhawk writes that people have forgotten dark matter: the underside of the world, on which everything rests, and from which everything consists. That people are afraid of the dark. They are afraid of magic. That people contrast darkness with light in an inappropriate and destructive dichotomy in which darkness is something dirty, vicious, destructive, while light is associated with purity and innocence. But all the most terrible, most destructive things happen in the world. Wars. (Political) violence. Oppression. And - power. But Starhawk distinguishes between two categories of power. "Power over" and "power from within". In other feminist texts, this second category of power is also called "power with". And if “power over” (someone) is the power of politicians and murderers, power with destructive power, then “power from within” (me, from within each of us) is the ability to create, the ability to create things, it is a force that can be infinitely shared with others without losing in intensity. "Power from within" is designed to be shared with others, and it is - a joint action. And this power is magic, this power is passion, this power is creativity, and we draw it from the depths of the world in order to transform the world together with its help.

When we play, you voluntarily give me your "power over". For a certain period and within strictly stipulated limits (I will never do anything that we would not agree on and I will never violate your boundaries, which you told me about in advance), you agree to enter a space in which you no longer have any over than the authorities. I, with your permission, take power over you. And in this voluntary transfer of "power over", in this concession, in this gift, in this gesture of infinite vulnerability, fragility, sincerity - together we fall for an inexhaustible source of "power from within".

You have warm hands. Do you notice that I'm afraid to touch you? I blindfold your eyes with a black handkerchief, and only then, after making sure that you do not see my embarrassment, can I finally touch you. But I'm not in a hurry. I'm leading you down the corridor blindfolded, in complete silence. On the way to the bedroom, I stop and take a couple of steps away from you. Do you hear my breath? Do you know where you are now? Where am I. How can you be sure that I'm still with you? That I didn't leave you alone in the dark and didn't go away? Where. "Take one step in my direction." You are unsteadily walking, swaying. Good. "Take two steps." Nearer. "Three steps". You are almost in my arms. I open the door to the bedroom. I take you by the hand. You have warm hands. I close the door behind you and press you against the wall. I leave you standing alone for a couple of seconds. I turn on the music. This is "The Knock of Bamboo at Eleven O'clock", the album "Easy Deal Cold". Such nightly, gentle music. Here. And now. Now I'm coming close to you again, this time very close. So close that I can smell you for the first time. How to describe it? This indescribable smell. By smell, I find out what kind of connection between us. "I like your smell" - these words still mean nothing. “You smell delicious” - most likely, we will have or have already had sex. Compare. I can smell you and I can't say anything. I just remembered him forever. I know that I will recognize you by it. With closed eyes. On your own skin. A few days later, when I return home from you in the morning, I take off my T-shirt and understand that it is soaked through with your scent. The smell to which you say "stay with me a little more" before you go to the shower.

Next? I undress you, I learn to recognize your body by touch. Lips and tongue. Moles. Postoperative scars. What shape are your forearms? And the hips? And what happens if you hold the back of your hand in the place where the waist goes into the groin? The way your lips open when I put my fingers in your mouth.

Next? Ropes, their hard and rough material. "I like the touch of this matter on my body." “You were not asked. Shut up". The way you flinch when I tie your hands to the legs of the bed and push you into the mattress. Hot wax running down your thighs. And a candle flame. I want you to see this flame, so I untie your eyes: you can look. Look at me. Here I am, holding a burning candle over you. Here you are, tied to the bed in an uncomfortable position, unable to move. Here I am, standing over you at full height, in such a way that you lie between my legs. Here you are, closing your eyes again: from humiliation and fear. Here you are, closing your eyes again: from pleasure and pain. Here I am, I want to cling to you with my whole body, such tenderness overwhelms me to the brim, such tenderness in relation to your helplessness, to your trust, to your beauty.

Lena. - "Yes". "May I put my head on your lap?" - "Yes". Yet.

Why pray when you can read poetry?

Our relationship with V is very different. You are obsessed. And beautiful. She knew about her masochism for so long and hesitated to give it the green light for so long that now that after years of abstinence she began to play, nothing can stop her.

V says "I will never have vanilla sex again."

V says: “I look into your eyes, but I don’t notice how you are dressed.”

V says: "Yes, My Lady" or "Yes, My Master. " — This is, in general, the main thing that V tells me.

On Saturday morning I visit her by tram, on the embankment of the Urk Canal, to drink coffee and read a book on the veranda wrapped in the still cool spring sun. I want to dive into her quotidien. To slip unnoticed into her everyday life, to peep: how a person lives without me, whom I beat to bruises every two weeks, which she lovingly sends me via WhatsApp the next day. V has regular panic attacks. She loves to masturbate but won't let anyone else touch her clit. Instead, she prefers anal sex. As we stand by the stove and wait for the coffee maker to snort, I bury my face in her neck, kiss the dimple between her collarbones, and gently but persistently press her hips against mine. V whispers in my ear: “Je veux que tu me baise dans le cul contre le vitre. Je veux jouir avec tes doigts dedans." J'ai le temps de penser: moi je veux que tu jouisses carrément avec ma bite dedans, baby. But I smile: "I also really want to." "Next time, V. " "Un de ces quatre on fera ça, je te le promets."

Vee taught me a poem by René Vivienne. A poem about desire and passion, in which the poetess describes the excitement that seizes her mistress from her touch, and the expectation and fear mixed with the pleasure of a love game. Our game is that Vee, as a student, must read the agreed poem as best as possible, and I, her teacher, make her repeat the memorized lines over and over again in search of unattainable perfection.

I especially remember the scene we staged one evening. I came to Vi late, after work, after a whole day of classes at Zoom. I was tired, and I wanted some kind of slow, meditative and sacred game filled with meaning. At first, I forced V to clean up the things scattered around the apartment for a long time. Then I noticed that there was a wet mark on the coffee table from the glass that Vee brought me when I first arrived, and a few drops of water here and there. I asked V to wipe off the water. She took a waffle kitchen towel and tried to wipe it off the table, but the table only got wetter from doing so, and now the water showed off wet stains right in front of Vee's nose. I took her by the neck and, sharply pressing on the back of her head, pressed my cheek against the wet surface of the table. "You think that's called 'wipe off the table', V? Do you think you did well what I asked you to do?” “No, My Lord. I feel that the table is still damp." “That's right, V. That's it". “Now take off your sweater and wipe this table dry so that there is not a single wet spot left on the surface. You understood me?" "Yes my Lord". And Vi began to undress and wipe the table. And I tilted the glass and spilled water again on the freshly wiped surface, again and again. I made her take off her things one by one and wipe this water off the table, first with a sweater, then jeans, then a T-shirt, shorts. Until she was completely naked. Then I ordered V to carefully fold his wet clothes on a chair, take a pillow for his knees and kneel in front of me in the middle of the room. I said to V: “Listen, real poetry is prayer. You will read the poem with such awe and with such love, as if you are turning to God with your most secret and most urgent prayer. Extend your arms out to the sides in the shape of a cross. Like this. Do you see the flame of this candle? While you are reading the poem, I will pour hot wax on your palms, arms and forearms. From the fingertips of the right hand to the fingertips of the left. If you make a mistake, I will stop where you left off and start over. And so on until the prayer is answered. Until God bless you. You and this poem. You understood?" "Yes my Lord". "Now read."

This scene is still in front of my eyes. Vee, naked, in the middle of a dimly lit room against heavy suede curtains. The sound of her voice, melodiously repeating the sensual lines of Rene Vivien, now in a whisper, now breaking out in pain and turning almost into a scream. Yellow pillow on the floor. Her outstretched arms. And red wax flowing down the forearms to the floor, to the chest, between the shoulder blades, to the base of the back.

"V". "Yes my Lord". “Be patient. I know that you will endure. There is very little left before God.

I leave, leaving V with trembling hands to press the extinguished candle to his heart.

That's what I jerk off to

That's what I jerk off to. How you, bound, lie on the floor in your own urine, blood and dirt. I take the gag out of your mouth in order to kiss you. I get you out of this shit, carefully help you get up and take you to the shower, where gently and methodically under hot water I wash off all traces of the finished game from you. I masturbate that this is just a game. To what I can do to you, and to the fact that my power over you is not unlimited. I masturbate to the fact that, having “beaten” or “raped” you, I am here with you, next to you, in order to wrap you in a blanket, in order to bring you hot tea, in order to make sure - really make sure - in that your psyche is in order, that your vagina is in order, that you are in order, and that you again hear, see, understand me. I masturbate that I can be the villain who kills you and the hero who saves you at the same time, without really being either. I masturbate that I can be your partner, just your partner, a loving and gentle guy who you can rely on and who knows what you prefer for breakfast. And that I can be your nightmare, your secret erotic desire and your passionate lover at the same time. I masturbate at our tenderness. For our courage. To our weaknesses and our madness too. I jerk off to something that I know would drive me crazy in a different context. I masturbate to my own fear. I masturbate to my injuries. I masturbate to what no one can ever do for me. And what, in spite of everything, you are doing for me. You make me feel strong, calm and powerful in a scenario in which in reality I see myself frozen in panic, weak and helpless in front of someone who does not care about me. Not to me, not to my blood, pain and urine. I masturbate that you allow me to replay again and again, rewrite this script. And the fact that we always care about each other. That only this is what we care about in this game.

Mamba Candy

But the problem is that there is me and you outside the game. Your smell with which I go home. And my feelings, which make me treacherously vulnerable, forcing me to write this text during working hours, instead of checking control students. The problem is that, over and over again, pressing you to my chest after a two-hour session of sadomasochism, I begin to become more and more attached to you. Because you trust me with your most secret desires. Because I let you look at me dans tous mes états. Because, I joke, "you look like an elf with that purple hair." Because you speak all my languages. Because. At night in the park, we lie in a deserted stadium, and the taste of your lips reminds me of Mamba chewing candies, which my classmates and I ran after school in the stall near the subway.

And the problem is that one morning you say to me: "Lenny, I really want to spend time with you, but I'm not in love, I'm sorry, I don't think I'm in love with you, but you..." "And I - Yes".

And I'm leaving, riding a red bicycle along the canal, along the tram tracks in a dank April downpour.

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