This follows It Was Just A Fantasy and But Whose Fantasy Was It? I think it can be read on its own, but is better after having read those two.
Thanks to those who read for me and made suggestions, some of which I incorporated. Thanks especially to Denise whose comments helped me improve it considerably.
I put the finishing touches on my makeup and went into the bedroom.
My dress was hung on the closet door waiting for me. It was the final bit of attire to complete my look. I took the wispy, black, spaghetti-strapped dress and slid it down my body, over the black silk bra and black bikini panties. It ended about 6 inches above my knees. The ensemble was completed by my black, three-inch heeled dancing shoes.
It had been almost two years since the anniversary on which I nearly lost my marriage. Six months of therapy had gotten us to a point where it was even better than before the event. The event. Sounds clinical and benign, doesn't it? It wasn't. I had cheated on him on our anniversary and flaunted it. The reasons I thought I had were false and stupid.
I learned in therapy that it was practically preordained by the constant messages I had gotten in childhood of my inadequacy as a person. My parents had not meant to scar me. It was their way of saying, "I think you're so great you can do anything." But it came out, "Why won't you do better? You never live up to your potential. You're a failure." I guess my subconscious started to believe it after the 10,000
th
or 20,000
th
time I heard that I was, somehow, not worthy. So I was set on a course to prove them correct.
That was then. Once I understood
why
I did self-destructive things, the affirmation of my worthlessness lost its power over me. Even if I had done unworthy things in the past, nothing prevented me from avoiding them in the future. At least that was what I hoped. One day at a time.
I looked in the full-length mirror. I was hot! Guys would be drooling tonight. Their dates would be jealous.
I was going dancing at a nearby club that featured Latin music. This was not a bar with music but a dance club with liquor. Maybe the distinction isn't obvious. People go there to dance and happen to drink between dances.
They had a live band, which would play the whole panorama of Latin music. But the highest percentage of the music would be Salsa, high-energy, hip-swiveling, infectious music. The time and money spent on dance lessons would be put to good use.
I arrived just after eight and, while not fully crowded, the place was in full swing. The dance floor abounded with people who had looks on their faces that said, "It doesn't get any better than this."
There was never a guarantee you could find somebody to dance with unless you brought them. People come here primarily to dance, not to pick up members of the opposite gender. But there were usually a few unattached dancers of each persuasion.
As I watched people dancing, I saw him approaching. His blue suit looked like the pattern had been cut for his body, which was solid and well muscled. He walked with a confidence that said, "I can have anything I want." And, he was gorgeous. A shiver ran through me just looking at him. I could suddenly understand why guys have so much fun girl watching.
He held out a hand to me. "Would you like to dance?"
I was so taken with him that I wasn't able to answer immediately. "Yes," I finally got out.
He took my hand and held it all the way to the dance floor.
The band was playing a Salsa. He took my right hand in his left, put his left hand around my back and started moving to the music. He swiveled his hips and moved his body as if this form of dance had been invented just to display his sexuality.
Not only did he look fantastic, he was a superb leader. He would assertively raise my arm to lead me in a turn in either direction. When he wanted me to turn sideways, he would slide his hand from my back to my hip and exert a little rotational pressure backward to let me know. He was completely in charge.
The whole time he was looking at me with those deep brown eyes like nothing else existed or mattered except the two of us and the dance we were doing.
It was more than dancing. There was clearly a sexual component to it. It made me feel uncomfortable, but I liked it.
When the dance ended, he brought my right hand to his lips and kissed it. "Thank you. You are a wonderful dancer."
"So are you..." I didn't know his name.
"Rodolfo." He bowed ever so slightly as if to apologize.
"I'm," I almost said Beth, "Margot."
We walked back to the table area. He still had my hand.
"I see you are married, Margot. Why don't you introduce me to your husband? I would like to tell him what a lucky man he is."
Oh, my. Oh, that requires a response, doesn't it? "He's out of town on business. He left this afternoon." Did I have to supply so much detail?
"If I were married to such a beautiful woman, I don't know if I would want her out dancing with strange men looking the way you do."
Oh, my. It wasn't just the way he said it. It was the intensity of his look. "Well, he, I, he wanted me to have fun. I love to dance."
"I think him on behalf of all the men here. I would worry about letting you go alone."
"Well, he has nothing to worry about. I'm very happily married."
"Of course."
We were up to dance and down to rest for the next couple of hours. We danced more Salsa, Cha Cha and Rumba. He started with basic stuff because he had not had a chance to watch me dance to assess my level. But he was so good: he led so well, and it was so sensual.
If you haven't been Latin dancing, you probably can't understand. The sexual energy in the room was palpable. I was not unaffected. Rodolfo was not doing anything inappropriate or even suggestive. There was just an aura of sexuality about him. He couldn't help it.
"Please, Margot, can I get you a drink?"
"Are you trying to get me a little drunk?"
