n while becoming a slave to the rhythms of a neat beat, “a fish in water” is what I’ve been called by many.
The moves of my midsection command the most attention. If I had a dollar for every time a woman asked me if I moved in bed the way I do on a dance floor, I’d never have to work again. My hip action is innate; whenever a steady beat catches me, the swivel is immediate. Keeping time to almost any rhythm, some may think of me as an exhibitionist when I launch into my gyrations; however, nothing could be further from the truth. Instead of listening to melodious fusion of rhythm and song, I feel it.
The throbbing of its pulse is enticing.
The passion of its groove is exciting.
Like a mouse behind a pied piper, put on a thumping bass line, and my feet are sure to follow. From hip-hop to reggae, house to merengue, I close my eyes and enter a zone where nothing else matters except the music and my partner.
Maybe it’s just me, but the connection between dancing and sex is fiercely intense. Intoxicatingly arousing, synchronicity in motion unleashes primitive, passionate impulses begging to escape the bondage of everyday routine. The inhibitive storm set free, when coupled with a woman that gets down, sparks really fly. Melding into one, the joining of like spirits on the dance floor is the perfect precursor to the primal carnality we both desire. Sometimes, all that stands in the way of such is confidence.
Something I lack when it comes to the most sensuous dance. Every superman has his kryptonite, and mine is salsa. While not green with envy while watching Anthony, Jesus, B.K., Hector and Louis lead their ladies with the right combination of machismo and grace, I long for the day where I can share chemistry to the sounds of Tito Puente, Eddie Palmeri, Johnny Pacheco, and Willie Colon, as opposed to R & B grooves I mastered.
Maybe my Spanish Fly leaving the dance floor will show me someday.
Not now, however.
The club just went old school.
It’s Shabba and Maxi’s “Housecall,” a dancehall groove from back in the day.
Damn, it’s been a minute since I heard this jam.
Head bouncing, my torso is turning.
It’s time for a house call of my own.
Scanning the establishment, I see her.
The chocolate woman in the bar area, wearing that sexy black dress and matching fuck-me pumps, bobbin’ her head, fits the bill.
She’s been checking me out on the low all night.
The Cosmopolitan she’s nursing needs a time-out.
With the boldness of a cobra, I strike. Using nary a word, my hand tickles her fingertips, then abducts them. Deaf to her feeble “Wait, can I finish my drink” plea, she’s my prisoner now. The direction of our escape is to the left, where the hardwood floor will supply everything we need.
Okay, I see that she needs this liberation as badly as I do, for her sway intrigues me.
Let me reel it in by pressing her backside against the fire-storm at my groin.
The purring sound leaving this lady is nice.
Decoding her movements, I can tell she’s wavering between nice and nasty. The aggressive language of her body waves tells me that she doesn’t want to leave the spot alone tonight, yet her hesitance to look at me indicates she wants to remain a lady.
In case I didn’t understand her mixed message, her hands caress the nape of me.
She wants me to ride her ass through the whole song.
Okay, I’ll play along.
My hands and arms form a waist wrap, and our bodies are one.
Rocking and rocking, anyone watching us can tell we’re balanced on the tightrope: one that separates a one-night stand where bodies move in concert in bed from a night of fantasizing about what might have been, had the right words been said. The former thought consumes her; she rotates her hips in a slow circular motion, ticking her pelvis like the second hand of a watch. Glancing back, she looks amazed that I keep up with her. Doesn’t she know that when she’s too bad for everyone else, she’s just right for me?
Her frame shudders.
I can tell I’m getting to her.