Leila was a belly dancer, not of the first water, but a woman who had taken up this particular form of exercise because of boredom. She had grown tired of aerobics, jazz dance, yoga, so why not? It was just another exercise trend to try and ultimately discard when it became too hard.
Belly Dance was supposed to fill up those mornings when there was no more housework to do and she was tired of reading. Married for years to a man who could be the poster boy for "Work-Alcoholics Monthly", she decided this time would be different.
The belly dance clothes helped. Shiny fabrics, spangled bras and performance makeup allowed a different persona to emerge. Leila looked a little exotic with green eyes and dark hair but the extreme makeup and the glitter stick pushed the limits. Her lunch friends thought Leila would quickly discard this kick and were surprised to see how long it lasted. Three years and it looked like Leila was a serious convert.
She danced in different restaurants and sometimes when she applied herself, with a new troupe. A couple of routines like 'Mizmar', 'the veil dance' and 'Jasmine' were breezed through and she found her place within the troupe. With Turkish drops, petal layovers, shimmies, hip drops and lifts, breast rotations and stomach flutters, Leila had found her metier. She also developed a new attitude and it was not kind. She became proud and vain, contemptuous of the men whose eyes followed her hips and her breasts as she undulated to the strange and compelling music.
When men held out money and attempted to tuck it into her girdle, she laughed to herself. It was only a passing interest. She made sure they had a hard time by quickly shimmying backward, her hip just out of touch of their fingers and if they could reach, could barely tuck the cash with all her vibration. That was what pleased Leila the most, having these men fumble and having to work hard to give her their money. She laughed at these men. They proved inadequate at such a simple task. Of course Leila would proffer a seductive smile and clasp her hands together in the age-old thank-you gesture, but behind the smile grew contempt. It became a frequent sentiment with Leila.
Men she thought were gullible fools, squandering their money on something they could not touch, molest, kiss or screw. They seemed all the same and after a few years, she didn't expect anything to change.
She found her satisfaction in dancing for herself, eyes closed, her release deep in the music, the wail of the ney flute, the pounding of the drums and the complex, strange rhythms. Leila's dancing was good enough for these audiences. She did a graceful layback, shaking her large breasts in controlled undulations, shoulders rotating in sweet reply to those breasts, arms snake-like and fluid, head falling backwards, exposing her delicate throat, the trills of her zils creating a lovely counter rhythm. She presented an enticing invitation for seduction.
One night something happened, a change in the routine that shook Leila to her core. There were two Arabic-looking men sitting at a table by themselves, no women in sight. That was strange, for they were both handsome men. They sat with laptops and cell phones going all night. She was curious about them and glanced frequently at their table.
After a couple of years Leila thought she was able to tell the difference between cultures: Moroccans were smaller men, the Algerians not much different, the Arabs quiet and didn't dance, the Lebanese were big and boisterous men. Just by their size, they might be Lebanese, thought Leila.
She had danced her half set, shared with Sela, a Somalian dancer. Now the fun began, for Nicola, the owner of the restaurant, got everyone up from their seats and people danced whether they wanted to or not. Nicola would put a wine bottle or glass on the top of his head and do a Lebanese folk dance. He never spilled a drop and his act always pleased the crowd.
Leila was to dance just to encourage others to rise and join in. Not many did, for the hour was getting late, and who could dance after Nicola's falafel balls? They stuck like concrete in the middle of the gut and no amount of wine would displace them. The dancers had learned early not to eat them.
She was thinking about sitting down when one of the big Lebanese men appeared before her. He was dancing this strange, stomping dance, almost like a bull would if bulls could, seemingly with his eyes closed. Startled, she thought he looked like the legendary Minotaur she had seen in a painting: shaggy, curly dark hair on a big head, a large shouldered beast with dark and gleaming eyes. This man looked like the beast in the painting, his hands clenching and unclenching in time to the fierce rhythm. She didn't know the music, it wasn't the usual Egyptian and Turkish pop songs she heard without much thought. This music was brutal, primal, rough and disconcerting in its complex rhythms. It was like the pulse of blood booming through arteries and the screeching of violin banshees. There was no following in polite proportions, but a rhythm that grabbed her by swaying hips, her head thrown back like an invisible hand yanking her long hair backwards.
The man approached within five feet and danced in front of her. She shimmied a bit in invitation, feet unable to imitate the complex steps of the man before her. A rough flamenco with a coy pick up of her skirt in one hand was suddenly all she could manage. Leila closed her eyes and let the strange rhythm infuse her. When she opened them, he was right before her. Suddenly he put his hand out and she placed her own in his huge paw.
This was strange behavior in this culture. Leila had never witnessed an unknown man offer his hand to an unknown woman on the dance floor. The division between sexes was so complete that women did not sit at the same tables with men unless they were related in a blood way. His hand closed over hers and a current of something ran up her arm and down into her torso. Leila gasped with the sensation and looked up into dark eyes. The Minotaur alive before her!
