Dance

I loved to dance for him. It was when I went from Plain Jane girlfriend to tantalizing seductress. All it took was the careful shedding of my typical jeans and T-shirts fare. Hair slightly tossed. Red-painted toes exposed in a pair of heels he eagerly purchased after asking for an impromptu strut in the shoe store. And lace. Black or red. Found at Target, but rocked with a confidence that made it look like La Perla against my skin.

He’d watch my show with a twinkle in his eyes, eyes that turned light brown under the right light. His full lips curled in appreciation. Anxiety in his hands, hands that impatiently rubbed his thighs, hands that begged to touch me. But no, not yet.

And then his lids got heavy, the spark in his eyes giving way to a hypnotic gaze, following the motion of my hips. Hips, with a width that was our little secret, slid from right to left with a slow, torturous wind. Fluid. Graceful. With implications of how I’d would move over him later.

His eyes would drop to the meeting of my thighs, admiring how they bowed out just a little. The place on my body he lovingly referred to as “the gap,” capturing his attention. When he tucked his bottom lip and eased forward in the chair, the opening act was over. My solo became a tango. And afterward when we lay, sweat-drenched and spent, he’d chuckle and ask “So you’re sure you’re not a stripper?”