I'm taking salsa lessons with a good friend, heretofore known as Samba. She likes to call me ChaCha. We are an endearing pair: Salt and Pepper, Shoes and Socks, Hoops and Yoyo, Tits and Ass.
Since my accident in July '08, I'm careful about doing things that involve neck or shoulder movement (trigger points in my scapular are still temperamental); but I figured optimistically that most of the salsa movements are waist down, right? Or is it waist up?
Anyway, I have always loved to dance and said to hell with it. If it hurts, I’ll stop. So I found myself in a little east Austin dance studio with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, just-slippery-enough wood floors, and exotic snag-a-man dancing shoes along the walls that beckoned to the twenty-year-old long dormant inside me. One particular pair said, 
"Forget your sissy arch issues; forget those pesky foot cramps that make you cry. Step into my world. Come dance in me."
Oh, it was hard to resist those sleek lines, 2.5-inch heels, and ankle straps that make your calves look so nice and toned. But I chickened out and remained in my sultry workday loafers. Well, I didn’t want to be pulling on my toes, flailing and screaming in pain on my first night!
Like I said, I love to dance. One of my husbands liked it but the others wouldn't do it if I promised them a month of BJs. Or maybe it was just that I never promised them a month of BJs. But for too many years, I have watched dancing couples from afar (unless I had a few buttery nipple shots, in which case, I danced by myself) and wished I had a kick-ass partner to twirl and swing and slide me around the dance floor. Occasionally, I’d uncover one (read: steal him off the dance floor); but more often than not, guys are content to stand around with a beer in their hands and gawk at the eye candy in tight jeans. Now I’ve decided to just learn how to salsa like a pro and show up at the clubs ready to cumbaya my way into the pick-her-she-knows-how-to-dance circle. Oh yes, I can!
I used to have a Latino buddy who took me Tejano dancing. Because Chris was such a good partner and leader, I had to fight for my time on the floor with him. His friend and my boyfriend at the time, Darrow, was a dancer too; but he liked to rush the steps and couldn’t stay with the beat of the music. Sorry, dude, but it’s true. Unfortunately, when Darrow and I split up, I lost my fave dancing partner and -- next up! -- gained a hottie musician. Ay, caramba! I ask you, how can a guy be a drummer, control the beat of the music, and yet have no rhythm? (Should have promised him those BJs.) And I married him! (eye roll) I know!
Anyway, back to my lessons. Salsa is a kick! Though I’m quite stiff in the neck, I love it. And I must say, Samba showed me up the second week when she hit the dance floor in a pricey pair of sleek, black fuck-me-all-over-the-place heels. Why, I oughtta . . . Now I have to buy new shoes. Oh, that is awful, isn’t it?
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Fire nipples
1 week ago
