Two left feet. No, that would be kind. I was clearly just a man who, in spite of a few years of playing guitar, had no sense of timing or rhythm. What was so damned difficult about learning to two step? It certainly looked simple enough.
My impromptu "tutor", a 50ish man who had no doubt taken pity on the petite woman struggling with my hulking 6 foot 2 form, shrugged his shoulders and went back to dancing gracefully with his partner. I thanked him for his help, and marveled at the way they glided away. They had a certain elegant communication between them, undoubtedly the result of many years spent dancing together.
I had determination and persistence. That must be worth something. Two or three songs of pure chaos later, we were given a reprieve in the form of a slow song. Slow songs were made for rubbing bodies together, not fancy footwork. I quickly settled into a position that gave me the most contact with my date's body. A few delightful minutes later she was leading me off of the dance floor and back to our table.
I wanted to learn to dance for two reasons. The first was that it looked like genuine fun for everyone involved. The second reason was firmly based in some hormonal abstract logic. Dancing always seemed to kindle a romantic fire in women. Most of the ladies that I had seen dancing in the clubs were always smiling and flirting with their partners. It seemed logical that this sort of romantic play would most certainly lead to more romantic play at the end of a date. Selfish, I know, but it's the truth.
Some dates drag mercilessly on through the night. You can just feel that somehow you're not connecting. This was one of those dates. My date was gorgeous and had a body that gave me a fever. I knew that tonight wasn't going to end between her sheets, which made the cleavage showing beneath her black sweater even more tantalizing. We sat quietly nursing our drinks for a while, watching other people move across the floor, complete with fancy turns. I watched feet mostly. There must have been something obvious in the steps that I was missing. My date was polite, and didn't look at her watch even once as the night crawled on. We made small talk, pointing out which couples looked like they had been together for ages.
After a few drinks I was feeling pretty mellow, and started stealing glances at the way my date's legs disappeared into her skirt. The barstool was too high for her. Her dangling legs had pushed her skirt up enough to tease me with a captivating view of her thighs. The beige of her panty hose contrasted nicely with the denim of her skirt. The V where her legs came together in the shadow of her skirt was dark and enticing.
A hand blurred across my vision. Her gesture broke a gaze that had been lost in the mysterious shadow between her legs, and she knew it. I was embarrassed and made a lame apology. She smiled and asked me if I would like to dance again before taking her home. A slow song was playing. I knew before we stood up that there was no way she could miss the lump in my pants if we danced the way we had earlier. A thought brushed the edge of my alcohol induced groove that this might be a problem, but it was quickly pushed aside by the thought of how her body had felt during our previous slow dance.
I was a little buzzed, but far from too drunk to notice the unsteady way that she moved into my arms. She giggled as she pressed against me. She played with the buttons on my shirt as she swayed against my erection. The way that her tits drew the rough material of her sweater across my shirt was electric. The song ended much too soon. She giggled and winked as she told me that it was time to 'take her to bed'. She finished the last swallow of her drink before we left for her place.
A few drinks ago I was certain that I would be sleeping alone tonight, and now she had warmed up considerably. The slur in her voice and the alcohol on her breath as I kissed her at her door told me that she might regret this in the morning. Don't get me wrong; Deep down I'm just as much of an asshole as the next guy. One or two drinks more would have silenced my conscience. As it was, I liked this woman. It took a serious effort on my part to end the evening with the ubiquitous "I had a good time" and a nice kiss, but nothing more.
My reward was a lovely phone call the next day thanking me for not taking advantage of her, along with a polite declining at the suggestion of another date.
A few days later I was invited to a birthday party at a country and western bar. I knew most of the people who would be there, and figured someone would teach me how to dance. It was a week night and the club was almost empty. Most of the people there were either married or otherwise attached, but my luck held and a friend's wife was happy to teach me how to dance. I had some success, and at one point mentioned that it would be great if there was some way to get practice without subjecting a date to bruised feet.
"The bar gives free two step lessons on Tuesday nights. You don't need a partner. There's usually some older ladies there who need a partner", my good Samaritan said as we walked back to the table.
What a great idea! I didn't care how old my dancing partner was, as long as she put up with my klutzyness. The very next Tuesday, I was at the bar with great expectations. The instructor called all of the couples onto the floor, and then asked for the single people in the group. I was paired up with Sandy, an older woman who seemed a little timid at first. Older is, of course, a relative term. She was a mere 37 to my 25, but that was older than any woman I had previously had the pleasure of being intimate with.
"I hope you don't mind, but I don't know how to dance", Sandy said in a mousy voice.
"That's why this is beginners night". I had hoped that I would find someone who was a little less of a beginner than I was, but Sandy was nicely shaped and very pretty. I could think of worse ways to spend a Tuesday night.
"The first thing that you ladies need to know," the instructor announced, "is that it's nearly impossible to do this if your arms are like wet dishrags. Keep them stiff, and you'll automatically go where your partner goes." This drew a chuckle from the crowd. Well, maybe my last date was a little to blame for my ineptitude after all. As it turned out, the instructor gave great directions and went through very exaggerated steps with his partner. Suddenly the two step didn't seem nearly so difficult.
Sandy must have been in space for this "first instruction" because her arms were like noodles as we began to move around the floor in our first practice song. "Ow!" Her eyes lit up in startled amazement as I turned her arm behind her back and pulled it gently up in the 'uncle' position.
"If your arms weren't like wet dishrags, your whole body would've turned and I wouldn't have you where I want you," I teased, and after a brief pause corrected myself, "Umm you'd move where I want you to."
Sandy giggled uncontrollably for a minute. We had broken the ice.
At the end of the evening we agreed that we danced pretty well together, and decided to meet again next week.
3.
The next Tuesday when I arrived at the bar, Sandy and her group of her friends were already there. I went to say hi.
