Sex and the 60 - The Emperor of Lancers Ballroom

He was tall, very tall for a Cuban - about 6'2" and his complexion was as unusual as his height - cool, Andy Warhol white, with plentiful but fine white hair and icy blue eyes.  Most striking for sure!  His build was large, but not sloppy, perhaps 200 lbs.  His waist was trim and he had a classic v-shaped physique - a build made for Versace suits.  I never saw him in anything other than a suit.  Unlike most of the men in this Latin dance hall in the outskirts of Newark, New Jersey, he never wore jeans and was never without his jacket.  Yes, he was quite an attraction in the club and he knew it...planned it...thrived on it and worked it.  He was indeed - The Emperor of Lancers Ballroom.

Ok, it is not all that difficult to be an Emperor here in the Ironbound section of Newark where most of the men were longshoremen, factory workers or laborers.  Many came to the club with their girfriends or wives for a night out.  Where else were the entrance fees $5.00 for men, zero for women, with a free hot food buffet and tequila shots or Coronas for a buck.

The single men were, all but the fewest, short, muscle bound or plump and dressed in the ubiquitous jeans, advertising t-shirts and white sneakers.  They were all great dancers moving easily from Merenque to Cumbia to Bachata to various other regional dances that were popular in these Latin clubs.  They looked like they had been dancing all of their lives and likely had.  It was rare to find one of these men that spoke more than a couple of words of English, but they didn't need to as all but the rarest woman spoke no English at all.

During this night I had danced with the little pudgy guy with the black tee shirt who kept moving his hands down onto my rear end, despite my removing them each time.  He told me, in broken English that he wanted to "take me...(unintelligible)".  I told him I was flattered (I know what you're thinking - Flattered! - did I really think he knew that word?) but that I had a boyfriend.  He said "no care - I like to water flowers!"  I'm still trying to figure out if he was trying to tell me he was a gardener, suggesting a Golden Shower or saying something else very disturbing to me.

I also danced with another guy who never took his eyes off of my cleavage.  He seemed intent on following the crevice's every move.  Eventually I found a way to flex my pecs in an attempt to hypnotise him right there on the dance floor and have him do my bidding...I'll try again next week after some practice here at home.

"Baila muy bien", the tall Cuban whispered, his breath warm against my ear.  The music was very loud and hearing on the dance floor was generally hit or miss, so instead of asking him what he said, I just ignored him, making believe I didn't hear him at all.

"Baila muy bien.  Cómo se llama usted?" He was not giving up.  But then again I was new meat to him.  Yes, I know he had noticed me for weeks, but he had been busy working the scantily clad, spiked heel redhead - determined to add her to the notches on his bedpost before moving on to me.  Apparently, with that accomplished he now had set his sites on this new "Bachatera".  Yes, he was on the prowl.

"Baila muy bien.  Cómo se llama usted? he repeated a bit louder now and pulled back to look into my eyes.  "English", I said.  A smile spilled across his face.  He seemed delighted, like a man about to taste a new cuisine.  I could just see his mind moving to his "black book" which undoubtedly listed his conquests by name, nationality and cup size.  Imagine a nice Jewish girl from New York City considered exotic!  Only in Newark my friends, only in Newark.

"English,," his smile broadened further.  "Where are you from?"  "New York City - born and bred," I proclaimed.  He laughed and said "Wow, what are you doing here?  His English was excellent, perfect in fact.  Not a hint of an accent.  Besides his singular looks, his ability to bridge worlds was one in a million in Newark, New Jersey and surely it elevated him even further as a great catch.

"I love to dance, that's why I'm here.  Just having a night out".  He said nothing, just readjusted our bodies so that his head lightly rested on the top of mine, placed my right hand on his chest and with his right arm pulled me closer to him so that we had full body contact.  I let it happen.  We were dancing the Bachata.  In its most sensual form it is more of a grind than a dance and the tall Cuban obviously used it to gauge the pliability of his prey.  Those that let him "get to second base" were generally dismissed as too easy, unless he wanted to make it an early night.  Those that violently pulled away were not worth the effort.  But really, it was the women that gave him some latitude but did not respond in kind that truly excited him.  And that's exactly what I did.

With the song over he asked if he could buy me a drink and with my nod he took me over to the bar and found a quiet table for two.  He ordered me vodka on the rocks and tequila for himself.  He talked congenially in Spanish to the bartender and I sat looking around from this new vantage point.  The redhead I'd seen him courting the last few weeks looked over with a sneer as she and several of her friends gathered in a cluster talking and gesticulating.

His name was Jorge, never married (why was I not surprised?) and a drug salesman for Bristol Myers.  He told me that he had come to this country at the age of 6 from Cuba and now lived in a high rise on the river in Jersey City.  He was very good at this, a chameleon - a true salesman.  No wonder these women, out to find a husband, fell all over themselves to "service" him.  He was truly the king of the heap here - yes - The Emperor of Lancers Ballroom.  What possessed a man with such good looks, skill and intelligence to exploit naive women?  Boy, it is true, by the time we grow up we are certainly damaged - some of us worse than others.

I sipped my Vodka and he used his index finger to trace my hand.  We were quiet.  I was thinking about this man.  What should I do and if I did it, how would it end?  He was definitely not the "marrying kind", but then again - was I any more - was I ever?  How long could I hold his interest before another redhead with a deep v-neck tee shirt and Wonderbra turned his head again?  What on earth was I thinking?  Well, I was thinking - could I beat him at his own game?  That's what I was thinking -- well could I?

I felt his breath before I felt his lips graze my neck.  He used his right hand to turn my head toward him and slide his lips over mine.  I slowly pulled away.  I didn't want him to think I was repulsed (I was not) just wanted to slow him down.  After all, I wasn't the redhead - at least not tonight.

"You're just too fast for me", I said rising from the table.  I leaned over, locked my eyes on his and brushed his cheek with my hand.  "You certainly are a very bad boy - aren't you?  Thanks for the drink, but thank you is all you're getting tonight."

I turned without waiting to see his reaction, just walked back toward the dance floor and my friends that I had left at a ringside table.  I was happy to dance with the cleavage zombie and the chubby gardener for another hour or so.  The last I saw of the Cuban that night, the redhead was sitting on his lap, finishing my vodka as he nuzzled her neck and beyond.

Hmmm -- another night perhaps, just not tonight.

See you next time.

To read the newest entry on 2-1 my grief blog.  Click on the 2-1 link above and to the right.

Sex and the 60 - The Perfect Stranger

He leaned in close, his lips millimeters from my ear, his breath hot against me disturbing my hair. His hand rested lightly on my back very near where my bra strap sat under my tight spandex t-shirt. His fingers twitched. “I have to tell you that you are GORGEOUS” he whispered. I turned toward him, the perfect stranger – medium height, beautiful yet masculine, short brown curly hair, a great body, rock hard under the loose stone-washed t-shirt and body skimming jeans. He was young. Well, younger than I might be comfortable with. But vodka could be the great relaxer – now couldn’t it? And after all, I was GORGEOUS, in New Orleans, a bit tipsy and well….

My fantasy life took over for a brief moment and I reacted as I would have on film. I turned my head allowing his lips to brush against my ear and faced him. Letting my perfectly made-up hazel eyes meet his excited cool blue ones I tilted my head toward the right, moving closer to his sexy lips. I could feel my heart beating slightly faster, moving in closer, indicating that we were about to have one of those long, wet, seductive kisses that move you in all those ways you wanted to be moved. Closer and closer his lips came as I moved myself toward the edge of the bar stool preparing to stand and press my body against him.

WHOA! I caught myself. This was not a dream. NO, this was really happening? After the year I had with men…how could this really be happening? A young, attractive, total stranger so captivated by me that he was compelled to tell me and couldn’t keep his hands off of me in a bar filled with young women. What was going on?

This had been happening now for a few weeks. As I think back, I realize men have been looking at me differently, noticing me in places and at times when I knew I had been invisible before. There was the guy at the supermarket who seemed to be following me aisle to aisle trying to make eye contact. Then there were the men at the auction, several of them smiling at me as I brushed past to find a seat, their gaze following me. Every time I glanced up – there was one of them looking over at me and smiling and now, the most overt example - sitting at a bar on our first night in New Orleans. Miranda and I sated with oysters and smoked sausage and ready to fill our heads with the blues. And unlike the many times we sat at bars when no one seemed to notice me, this time, the barflies were all around us.

Franco, the filmmaker, had started the parade. A Kevin lookalike – in “the business”, chatting us up while ordering bottle after bottle of local beer and getting quite drunk. Then the guy who was the champion whistler whose name I cannot remember, then a few others made approaches and finally there was Travis…the perfect stranger. The fantasy maker.

So, it was happening again, just like it had in the old days. Men, so attracted to me that they had lurid and lascivious thoughts that they were compelled to tell me about…. But now, as an older woman I guess I commanded a bit more respect and the “dirty thoughts” were translated into words like GORGEOUS. The words were different but I could tell the sentiment was the same. Yes, apparently I was the pile of steaming manure and flies were EVERYWHERE.

Isn’t it strange? What had happened that changed me from invisible to irresistible? What could have changed? I had continued to be strict about my diet (well, most of the time), exercised, made sure my hair was well “serviced”, put on makeup everyday or at the very least, my sunglasses, dressed to highlight my highlights. But these were things I had done for a couple of years now as I reentered the dating game. On the surface there is nothing new…well, perhaps there is something significantly new that I haven’t mentioned to you…yes, and I have a theory.

OK, I’ll tell you. I am seeing someone I think is special. Now, I’m not prepared to provide details (too new, too private, hell, none of your business!) But perhaps, just perhaps, I am carrying myself differently, more confidently. Maybe there is something in my eyes or a slight smile on my face or something, something that is subtle but different that has shifted gravity towards me. It’s possible that the connection has set off a powerful spray of pheromones, making me a man-magnet. Whatever it is, it is quite obvious, and shamelessly I will say – quite welcome for its self-perpetuating consequences – more confidence, more attraction, more confidence.... It is so nice to be seen as a woman again. I don’t know how I lived without it but grief makes you lose your “taste” for just about everything. I am definitely full-flavored again and loving it!

So back to Travis…the perfect stranger. Hmmm, what should I do? It turned out that he was one of the bartenders, not working that night. He was persistent, first showing me the liquor closet in the back of the bar, trying to close the door behind us before I slipped out and telling me about his apartment right behind the bar, up the creaky wooden steps. Taking pictures of us together with my camera so I’d never forget. Laid out before me was the fantasy we all dream about. Boy, it was tempting…A lost night in New Orleans with a sexy, younger, unknown stranger. What would you do? What did I do? Guess! -- but I’ll never tell.

See you next time.