Caramel Flava

“Ooh, Guillermo. That’s such a strong name.”

Guillermo, William, Ed the Baker from around the way…whatever. The tree trunk at my groin is encouraging me to be anybody she wants me to be.

“I hear you want to learn how to salsa,” she says.

Startled by my blown cover, I look at Hector, who’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. Don’t you just hate tattletales?

Embarrassed, I nod yes.

The deejay must be smiling from his booth while sensing the attraction of our different worlds. The calypso cuts cease, and “No Soy Para Ti,” a salsa cut by Ismael Rivera, fills the air.

“Guillermo, quieres tocarme?”

Hell yeah, I want to touch her, all over. Damn, the way she says my name in Spanish has my blood on fire. This woman is sexy. And she knows it.

I want to rip that red dress off her and suck on those thick, eraser-sized nipples, but the dance will suffice, for now. As I grab her hand, she feels my insecurity, but allows me to lead her to the hardwood floor. Hopefully, our flames won’t burn the place down.

The combination of beats and brass create a mild rhythm to the song, one we both feel instantly. Capturing her size-six waist, I follow the fluidity of her hip roll and flawless footwork. Back and forth, side to side, I feature her to the nightclub through a series of seductive turns and sumptuous spins. Taking her on a sensuous trip by my table, I notice my posse with their mouths agape.

Anthony and Debbie start clapping, and the rest follow suit as I pull Alicia close.

“Papi, you never danced salsa before?” she asks.

“A little bit, Alicia. My crew shows me things.”

“Well, let me tell you that you’re a natural. Seeing a black man dance Latin well turns me on. It shows me he’s aware of all cultures.”

She has me blushing as the bongos, maracas, trumpets and cowbell of Hector Lavoe’s “Mi Gente” quicken the tempo.

“Time to step it up,” Alicia announces.

Peering at me, she launches into a torrid display that has Selena beaming from the heavens.

“C’mon, baby, control me,” she commands.

I’ll try. Reaching for her hand, my freefall into a passionate inferno is now complete. Not much spinning this time, I let her freestyle, occasionally matching her seamless steps with my own.

My God, it’s working. Feeling my lead, she’s working with me. Hmm, let me try some hustle turns. Damn, I’m rolling siete with my dancing. Our hips are close now. I release her, and watch her go. Seeing her cha-cha-cha while I clap has my crew going crazy.

“Do that shit, Coop!” Martha screams.

“He’s got it,” Debbie says.

“Coooooooop!” Hector, B.K. and Anthony shout.

Suddenly, I feel the eyes of the population on us as “Siembra,” a scintillating Ruben Blades song, cooks in the background of our heaven.

“Gracias, Alicia,” I say, turning away to walk off the floor.

“You can’t stop now, Guillermo.”

The insistence of her tone tells me she’s in the sinfully hot zone that blends the lines of dancing and sex. Her hazel eyes, now glassy with euphoria, are on the precipice of combustion. What I can’t decipher is if it’s the music or my masculinity that is the key to her ignition.

“Come finish what you started,” she orders.

The pace is even quicker. Watching her twist and turn has the temperature in mi corazón, cuerpo y pobrecillo rising. After a twirl, I pull her close once more, and our lips touch slightly.