At Play

He wrapped his right arm around my waist and slid his left hand down to my wrist, which he held tightly now, stretching my arm away from my hips.  His grip around my wrist caused our forearms to press together, showing the contrast of his skin on mine, five times darker.  He pulled me in close, my right leg sliding between his legs; our hips pressed together.  I breathed deeply and bowed my head.  He leaned towards me and lightly touched the side of his face to mine.

I had poured myself into Rachel’s green bandage dress for the evening.  “You don’t dress sexy enough for salsa,” she commented to me, then offered to loan me the shortest dress I’d ever worn.  I was willing to step up my game in the name of our cause, and according to the Hispanic women in the ladies’ restroom and the black men at the promoter’s table, the dress was working for me.  I took their word for it and overcame my initial discomfort with a few swigs of whipped vodka, letting the dress go where it would as I swaggered from the salsa ballroom to the bachata room at the Hilton Orlando. 

The dress hugged my backside tightly now as my knees bent to sway my body from side to side.  I clasped his right leg between my legs, as he led me back and forth with the momentum of his strong body.  I pressed my cheek against his, and he sighed deeply in my ear, “Mmmm.”  The room was hot, and sweat began to drip down my chest where our bodies were held together in a snug embrace. 

Latin rhythms have African elements, the drumbeats representing various African gods, who seem to be invoked each time we step onto the dance floor.  Joy rises from the ground up, through the connection of our feet with the floor, into our bent knees, sweaty thighs and swaying hips.  He spun me out for a turn and caught me off guard with a sly grin.  I giggled to myself and danced my way back into his arms.  Whatever gods we were invoking that night wanted to play.  

I’d been playing all weekend at the Orlando Salsa Congress.  I skipped all the workshops and lay around all day next to the pool with my girl friends, skipped the performances (except for ours), and bummed around in the hotel room dolling up for the parties.  We’d make our way down to the ballroom around 1am and dance until 4.  Sleep.  And repeat.

My girl friends went home a night earlier, and I was left alone that night to find my groove.  It was going to be a good night:  I was working the dress, the whipped vodka was working me, and the bachata room was hot.  I leaned into the man who was in my arms and was surprised by a shot of pain to my heart.  It was as if being this close to him released a buried ache that I didn’t know was there …or maybe it was the bachata getting to me.  Originating in the Dominican Republic, the romantically-themed bachata music often features tales of heartbreak and sadness, so much so that the genre was originally called “amargue” or “bitter music.”

My heart broke a little, and sadness mixed with desire crept up my spine as I leaned my head against his.  Always intuitive and generous, he pulled me in even closer, wrapping both of his arms around me as our bodies moved together to the rhythm.  We stayed there for a moment until the song ended, the closest we’d been in the three years we’d known each other.  He kissed my neck.  He kissed my cheek.  He disappeared into the crowd, and I stepped into the open arms of another man.  It was going to be a good night.