Do you realise this will be the ninth hour we have spent together, dancing, our bodies pressed together, foreheads touching, as we explore the dance floor?
There are distinct advantages to private classes. It’s always just us. Do the classes affect you like they affect me? Does your heart beat faster, do you grin from ear to ear, can you think about anything else? My friends tell me I have a post-orgasmic glow after every class. Do you? Do you want me like I want you? When your hand slips down my back, inch by inch as the class progresses, is that on purpose? Is it part of the dance? If you spoke more English or I spoke more Spanish I could ask. But right now I like to hope. And your accent when you speak makes my insides melt and quiver with desire. I am glad our heads are together and you can’t see my blush. Can you feel its heat?
When you reach out and touch my sternum, telling me that our cores must be connected, my chest against yours, I wish that you would reach a little higher, that rather than pointing a finger at the base of my bra, in the well between my breasts, you reached out and cupped them, stroked them. Do you feel my nipples’ pertness against your chest? Through our light clothing I know you must. Does it make your heart race? Does it inspire parts of your anatomy to erectness?
Last week, I think I felt you grow hard as we danced. I can’t be sure. We were doing the twisty thing where you step and turn me and I twist as I step, sliding my body against yours from side to side, always keeping contact between your chest and mine, and lower down too. Somehow, sliding against your body is even more thrilling for me than just being continually pressed against you. My whole body becomes sensitive, craving contact with yours. I wish I knew for certain if it was the same for you. I am new to tango and its intimacy. You’re older than me, and have danced tango for years. Are you used to the eroticism? Is the spark I feel between us just a side effect of my over-active imagination in new territory or is there something here? Is our easy familiarity and teasing a natural result of our intimate acquaintance?
I must stop musing. I’m late for class. I hastily pull on my dancing shoes in the changing room and stuff my handbag in the locker. I check myself in the mirror, pulling my hair tighter in its bun, messing it up a little to put you in mind of bed hair. My makeup is fresh and I have chosen a top which is seemingly innocent but actually quite see-through in the right light. It is white so I can pretend I didn’t realise. You can’t see much anyway, just the idea of my lace bra, which is also pale enough that you can just make out the darker circles of my nipples. But only if you are looking. So then it’s on you.
You’re standing at the desk and look up as I approach. You greet me and lean in to kiss my cheek before waving your hand, inviting me to follow you to the studio. You hold the door open and usher me in ahead of you. You go to the computer, switch on the music and hold out your hand, inviting me to join you. I smile, tentatively, and place my right hand in your left, my left hand below your right shoulder blade. You bring your right hand around me, resting it just lower on my back, pulling us together. Our foreheads and cheeks touch, our faces side-by-side. I can feel your eyelashes fluttering against my cheek.
I close my eyes, focusing entirely upon you. Over the last weeks I have learned to read you, to understand how you move. Tango is about connection, being entirely aware of your partner. I know how you will move. I relish this thought. I could dance with my eyes open, sometimes I do. But today I will dance with my eyes closed. I want to be entirely in the moment, no extraneous thoughts. A new song begins to play and you take the first step. I move with you. We take our time. I savour the delicious sensation of moving with you, against you, entirely in sync. Your hand is already starting to slide down my back. By the end of the song it is on my lower back.
We pause, waiting for the next song to start, bound together under the spell of the dance. This one is dark, low, sensual and slow. I turn against you, sliding against your torso at your direction. As I twist your hand slides around, catching the side of my waist. You release it slowly, seemingly reluctantly, but pull me back against you. Can you feel how fast my heart is beating? Do you notice the shallowness of my breath? I can feel the thud of your heart when my chest is pressed against yours. Is it just exertion, or something more? As we again wait for the music to start, locked in a tight embrace, slowly rocking, shifting weight from one foot to the other, your breathing becomes shorter too. Your fingers flex against my spine.
As the music begins your hold tightens and you are once again in control. But this piece is fast, dramatic, passionate, like a quarrel and the resolution together, full of tension. In the studio I imagine I can feel it crackling. I wish I could see your eyes. I open mine, hoping to catch a glimpse of yours, knowing that it won’t happen. I watch us in the wall mirrors instead, the way our bodies fuse together, moving so closely you can barely tell where one ends and the other begins. The power of your step makes me feel weak, weak with desire, the desire that you should exert that control and energy in another situation, a horizontal depiction of this dance. You keep up a desperate pace, my body tightly held against yours. My arm mirrors your arm, as yours winds tighter, further around my back, so mine does in return, until we are clasped one against the other, barely able to breathe for the closeness. My hardened nipples rub against your chest, refusing to be crushed. As you direct me into the turns once again I can finally pull my head away and sneak a look at your face.
Your step falters for a second but then continues, more determined than ever. Your eyes don’t leave mine. Instead my body leaves yours, creating space between us, an open hold, so that we can dance without looking away. You stop turning me and stride purposefully, and I step back at your direction. All I can think of is the fire in your eyes and how it makes me feel. My stomach is in knots. Knots that jump with excitement. Between my legs I can already feel the dampness developing. Will I be able to last the class without entirely soaking my underwear?