Unexpected Encounters. Where do I begin? Well I found one, not with quite the qualifications I had created.  This one is from closer to the border than to Cuba. Still, it was, for me at least, divine. I want to hold the details to myself this time because I’m still using them to keep me hot and dripping wet. I’m not exactly sure how it was for him. And I am still on the fence as to whether or not I care. This was my second trip to Chicago. I was there October the 10-15th, dancing even more the second time every chance I got. I had a car this time so moved around pretty easily–was on the southside quite a bit–just like Harlem, I fell in love with it. But back to the bass. One night when he was buzzed he said, “I’m gonna…so good, I’ll make you fall in love with me.” I was thinking, funny mutherfucker don’t even know. Perhaps it’s because he plays a very large instrument that he is an expert at physical response. I can’t seem to seperate myself from his touch. These were the most decisive hands I have ever encountered. I don’t know how decisive his person is, but the hands were surer than any I could ever imagine. I knew that he knew that the most miniscule brush was intentional and I knew too how he wanted me to respond to it. Quietly I responded (and subtly as always) but burning inside, burning inside. A week later, burning inside still. I had, for the first time in my life, to hold in my enthusiasm because I thought I would burst with excitement at any moment. Nothing makes a salsera happier than a salsero.

Taking a piss when no one is in the house and not flushing. Putting my cell on vibrate and calling myself repeatedly from my home phone. Stealing pencils from the side pockets of my unknowing peers on campus. Farting in a crowded elevator where I’m the only woman. Giving my mock-speech of when I win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. Crouching behind my couch with my hairdryer in hand like I’m in the jungles of Panama leading a village of campesinos in a revolutionary war. Wiping my slimy boogers on my jeans. Putting boogers around the house in unsuspected places. Screaming out the names of former presidents when I’m masturbating. Screaming names of past lovers when having sex with people that suck. Cheap thrills get us through life.

This year I will dedicate myself to becoming a wonderful follower. Follower as in dancer: salsa, mambo, merengue, bachata (although this dance might not happen), and son (if I can find somewhere that plays son music in this city). Having control of your body gets in the way of being a good follower. Maria Torres, the beautiful and ridiculously amazing salsa teacher/dance professional (and wife of legendary dancer/teacher Eddie Torres) said to me “you  want to be like mantequilla” (butter) “always melting, melting all the time.” I don’t melt. I’m a cold sonofabitch. I like leading the dance, because I love the way a man’s body moves to salsa/mambo and I feel most natural imitating my father’s dance style. But I can’t lead. I have found, though, that I am mantequilla when I blush. Things that make me blush are always subtle but the people that make me blush (always people) know that they are making me blush. That’s when I’m mantequilla. If they take me at that moment, I’m mantequilla. Sometimes during a dance, if I blush, I become mantequilla. But save for a few dancers who always make me blush this is rare. So I’m working on being like mantequilla all the time. I’ve made progress–this is good. Mantequilla is important. You have to be like you are always about to have an orgasm–but surprised that you are having it. I don’t want to be great. I don’t want to be the best. I only want for a lead after or during a dance to feel like they were dancing alone, like there was no effort and like I did everything they wanted me to do with my form and never left their space. I want them to feel like mantequilla. I’d like to leave puddles of mantequilla  all over the hardwood dance floors.