It's the wee hours on a clear, crisp night, about 17 degrees. The sky is black enough - even in Uptown - to see Orion and his neighbors tonight. I just got back from dancing at a club I hadn't been to before, the Paraiso Lounge. The band was the one that plays at Famous Dave's on Tuesdays, and I recognized a few regulars in the crowd.
I've been dancing a lot since I moved out, sometimes several times a week but about once a week on average. Busted some major moves on Monday night, New Year's Eve, to some great 70s soul - Earth Wind and Fire, Stevie Wonder, Boz Scaggs, Michael Jackson, Tower of Power - you get the drift. So fun because I was with a couple friends who could keep up. The sleeper was Larry, dirty dancer extraordinaire. Who knew?
Tonight's Friday, and although I was tired from a long week of partying, I hate to waste a weekend night. I stopped at Flo and Bonnie's, who were not ready to retire the holidays and hosting a few folks for
after-sunset cocktails, then came home for a quick nap before freshening up, pulling on a a black velvet jacket and black and pink lace leggings and boots and heading down Lake to the club. Latin dancing requires a little machismo to deflect the rejections. I don't think it's polite to turn down an offer to dance, even if you suspect the person asking isn't a good dancer. But Hispanic men have no qualms about begging off when you ask them to dance. They no wanna salsa with no gringa who probably can't move her hips to the ritmo. It takes a second to shake it off - I'm not made of steel - and try another option.
Tonight I stood and watched while I sipped my drink through the first several songs, noting all the voluptuous big booties already writhing on the floor. Lots of the girls dress is tight, short dresses, exposing as much skin as is legal. They are mostly Latina, gorgeous, curvaceous, mounds of cleavage shimmying beneath the leering eyes of their partners. It's a little intimidating. I dressed like that when I was their age, but I don't believe in reducing myself to a mere object of desire anymore. I do sexy, I just can't do naked, not for any man, unless he's that naked, too.
A man with a thick mustache asked me to dance. He looked like Edward Almos, wearing a dark fedora, red guayabera, white pants and shoes. His salsa was slow and not very creative, but it was a good warm-up, built up my confidence to take a turn around the room and pick out other partners.
I took some great turns with several decent dancers through a couple sets, then asked Senor Almos to dance again. - a slight miscalculation. I had forgotten he was a slow dancer, and this time he just pressed me against himself and swayed back and forth. It's not unusual to dance close, do a little grinding. But this time, there it was, a big limp dick hanging down the left side of his leg, rubbing against my right leg. I backed off as much as I could while remaining in his embrace. When the dance was done he didn't even look at me as I walked off in disgust.
That need to remain polite in the face of such crudeness is a vestige of my girlhood. I am usually my bravest protector, but sometimes I choose not to fight the battle. It's what I did for much of my early sexual years, just go with the flow, love the one you're with and all that. It probably got me into a little hot water at times, but through so many experiences, things never got really dangerous. Even during the years I was hitchhiking, I'd get picked up mostly by men and, although there was always a special request (which was never granted), things never got scary, I was always able to charm my way out of it. I've also never it let it offend me when someone makes unwanted or relentless sexual advances. I usually consider it a compliment.
But these days I'm much more direct with my intentions, letting the guy know in no uncertain terms my level of interest. I'm no angel, as Greg Allman once sang, I'm no stranger to the dark. But I'm trying to be honest, even though I don't always attain perfection.
I've been dancing a lot since I moved out, sometimes several times a week but about once a week on average. Busted some major moves on Monday night, New Year's Eve, to some great 70s soul - Earth Wind and Fire, Stevie Wonder, Boz Scaggs, Michael Jackson, Tower of Power - you get the drift. So fun because I was with a couple friends who could keep up. The sleeper was Larry, dirty dancer extraordinaire. Who knew?
Tonight's Friday, and although I was tired from a long week of partying, I hate to waste a weekend night. I stopped at Flo and Bonnie's, who were not ready to retire the holidays and hosting a few folks for
after-sunset cocktails, then came home for a quick nap before freshening up, pulling on a a black velvet jacket and black and pink lace leggings and boots and heading down Lake to the club. Latin dancing requires a little machismo to deflect the rejections. I don't think it's polite to turn down an offer to dance, even if you suspect the person asking isn't a good dancer. But Hispanic men have no qualms about begging off when you ask them to dance. They no wanna salsa with no gringa who probably can't move her hips to the ritmo. It takes a second to shake it off - I'm not made of steel - and try another option.
Tonight I stood and watched while I sipped my drink through the first several songs, noting all the voluptuous big booties already writhing on the floor. Lots of the girls dress is tight, short dresses, exposing as much skin as is legal. They are mostly Latina, gorgeous, curvaceous, mounds of cleavage shimmying beneath the leering eyes of their partners. It's a little intimidating. I dressed like that when I was their age, but I don't believe in reducing myself to a mere object of desire anymore. I do sexy, I just can't do naked, not for any man, unless he's that naked, too.
A man with a thick mustache asked me to dance. He looked like Edward Almos, wearing a dark fedora, red guayabera, white pants and shoes. His salsa was slow and not very creative, but it was a good warm-up, built up my confidence to take a turn around the room and pick out other partners.
I took some great turns with several decent dancers through a couple sets, then asked Senor Almos to dance again. - a slight miscalculation. I had forgotten he was a slow dancer, and this time he just pressed me against himself and swayed back and forth. It's not unusual to dance close, do a little grinding. But this time, there it was, a big limp dick hanging down the left side of his leg, rubbing against my right leg. I backed off as much as I could while remaining in his embrace. When the dance was done he didn't even look at me as I walked off in disgust.
That need to remain polite in the face of such crudeness is a vestige of my girlhood. I am usually my bravest protector, but sometimes I choose not to fight the battle. It's what I did for much of my early sexual years, just go with the flow, love the one you're with and all that. It probably got me into a little hot water at times, but through so many experiences, things never got really dangerous. Even during the years I was hitchhiking, I'd get picked up mostly by men and, although there was always a special request (which was never granted), things never got scary, I was always able to charm my way out of it. I've also never it let it offend me when someone makes unwanted or relentless sexual advances. I usually consider it a compliment.
But these days I'm much more direct with my intentions, letting the guy know in no uncertain terms my level of interest. I'm no angel, as Greg Allman once sang, I'm no stranger to the dark. But I'm trying to be honest, even though I don't always attain perfection.
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