Azucar!

Eddie Palmieri was amazing. Sadly the venue was the same place that I administer final exams and decidedly not conducive to mass uprising in fluid motion. I played the "congas" on I.'s thighs and chest as she curled in my arms, secretly unzipping the front of my little black dress and taking great pleasure in my dismay. When the salseros went over the top, I. was a dancing fool, shaking her hips in her little flapper dress (part of mom's care package and the only suitable occasion that I could think of to let her wear it out in public) with Laura and Líber. I limited myself to chair dancing and air drumming, I just always feel so self-conscious getting up and dancing. M. wanted to go to the stage, but we two are totally incompatible in all ways dancing, and I prefer to only minimally make a fool of myself when at all possible. Instead I lurked in the back of the auditorium and finally let the drums overtake me, rolling in waves of rhythm, as I. showed us her dancing chops. (I swear I have no idea where she gets it from, I mean the music, we can take credit for, but the moves on this child - I think she was on fire today, she and Pepe kept flashing eachother at the pool, whispering, giggling, love was in the air).

But speaking of letting go, the other night, we had very good Morrocan food, and just before we could sneak out, unscathed, the belly-dancer made me get up, quite tipsy on red wine, and dance with her in the middle of the restaurant. I would have been totally mortified (save for the red wine, which as we all know by now, loosens my grip on reality) but for the fact that the waitress was a dance major and I knew her from last year's Portuguese class, and she came to dance too. In fact it was a strange situation, where do you put your eyes when someone comes shaking her firm, yet aging body at you. She was clearly enjoying herself, enjoying the confrontation, the slight discomfort in my demeanor, this is me, ME! uncomfortable, (you are all surprised? I am!) Her eyes locked on mine and there was nowhere to hide, as she danced towards us. "She's a lesbian," I affirm, knowingly, "I think she likes me," I joke. "No way, did you see her checking me out." We laugh, of course that is her job, to flirt with the clientele, but then she makes me come with her, refusing to take no for an answer (my first three responses) as I trip over my feet, she holds court, and several giddy college girls come and dance too, but she keeps dancing closer to me, whispering that I am a natural, that I have done this before, encouraging me to shake my curves with abandon, running her hands along my arms. Undressing me with her eyes. I dance for three songs before finally bowing out (feeling very ill from eating, drinking and then dancing so vigorously) and as she thanks the room, I look for a few dollars to tip her. M. is watching, laughing. She whispers in my ear again that I have beautiful hair, that I must be lying about not dancing, she tells M. that I am great. I offer her a few dollars and she holds her breasts out to me. "You have to put them somewhere," I am forced to slip a bill in each side of her shimmery, gilded bra. "Ah perfect, nice and even!" (I laugh because I have a manic need to feel balance always.) M. laughs, "You were right, you totally win that bet. She couldn't take her eyes or her hands off you." I smile. I know. That's why I don't like to dance, I hate letting go of my control.