My Slut Weekend

Just so you know, the following doesn’t really have any “pithy” or even “pissy” words of wisdom, but I wanted to share it anyway. Also other pertinent facts: I’m staring down the barrel of 50 AND I’ve been living with a very lovely man for the past seven-ish years.

So! Last Thursday I went out dancing. My belly dance teacher (who also teaches Zumba) organized a “salsa night” at this club – featuring a live band. She invited all the Zumba ladies and I had asked her before I went if there would be any men there. She said “probably not” and she was right.

Nonetheless, I attended the evening in full “salsa drag” – little clingy black dress with asymmetrical hemline and plunging neckline (cleavage (such as it is) courtesy of Victoria’s Secret), sparkly jewelry and even my official satin ballroom shoes. Overdressed? Perhaps.

It was like having a private girls’ night out.  There were about 25 of us and we danced continuously. There was a maximum of exactly two men at any other point on the dance floor. I really wish my sweetie could have been there, because he would have been in heaven. But he wasn’t.

The only other men on display were in the band, so of course we shook our booties for them. Between sets, the band members circulated among the crowd. Naturally, the band member who chatted me up was the cowbell guy:  not too tall, shaved head, Puerto Rican. I say naturally, because my boyfriend also happens to be: not too tall, shaved head, Puerto Rican.

Of course the first question many Latin men ask is, “Where are you from?” In other words, from which Latin country do you hail? In my case, the answer is uh, California. Anyway, we chatted about this and that. He asked if I was single – you know getting the lay of the land (as it were) and about that time we girls were all making our preparations to leave. But he said, “Wait! I wanted to dance with you.” So I said ok, and the last sight my friends had of me was in some stranger’s arms, swaying to some slow bolero with a skinny bald guy.

I am pleased to say I left immediately after that dance, and hobbled back to my car, until I removed the official satin ballroom shoes and walked gingerly barefoot for the remaining two blocks.

But as I drove home I reflected. Dang. I was workin’ it tonight. That was fun. And the weekend was just beginning!

The next night, I met some other gals for dinner and then we went on to another place to meet up with one of the gal’s husband and daughter for more dancing. Let me tell you, the daughter is gorgeous. She’s 19, with flowing dark hair and  that amazing blush of nubile young beauty.
But I could match her step for step and shimmy for shimmy! So we danced like crazy, and I randomly danced with men hanging around the dance “floor.” Anyway (hope you’re not getting bored, because this is the good part), then I kinda grabbed this guy to dance. He was cute, tall (ok, maybe 5’10” but I’m only 4’ 10” so everyone is tall), hunky and he was happy to dance. But he kept looking over at the 19-year-old who was dancing with his friend.

Of course, his first question to me was “Where are you from?” He was from El Salvador. Then we danced some more. Then he asked me who the 19-year-old was (because he had seen us dancing together). I told him she was “my friend.” (Yeah, like I’m going to tell him he’s my friend’s DAUGHTER). Then we danced some more.  Then he asked me how old I was. So I said, “What different does THAT make?”  And I asked him how old he was. He told me to guess, so I said (hopefully), “Uh, thirty?”  “THIRTY!” he said. And I thought to myself, oh sh*t. Then we danced some more. Maybe a little closer. So then he said again, “So how old are you? 20? 30? 40?” and I said, “errmm, uh…49?”

And then it seemed not to matter any more. I think a switch clicked in his brain and a sign lit up blinking “Older woman fantasy!” or something like that, because we just kept dancing. And every time I made a turn I had to brush my hair out of my face, and one of the times HE brushed the hair away. How cute is that??

But then it was time to go. I said I had to go and gave him a little kiss. He said “NO! Give me your phone number!” So I gave him another little kiss (it was a Latin crowd) and said no. He said “Kiss me again! Where will I see you again!” And I said, “I don’t know. Maybe here.”

Then I gathered up my stuff, and sashayed outside where I tipped the valet guy ten bucks (I was feeling hot) and drove home.

What a night. Great fun. Great for my middle-aged, slowly-sagging-down- the-back-of –my- legs ego. But I also had another epiphany.  When we were talking about age I had a horrific moment when I realized OMG this boy is too young and NO WAY would I ever take my clothes off in front of someone that young.

At least not with the lights on.