Ignore the gibberish, this story’s tantalizing.
Last night, live band rockin’ the swing,
mostly older tunes: St James Infirmary,
Blue Skies, Take the ‘A’ Train; live with
the Kevin Buster Quartet.
On the slower tunes, I made like a blues bandit;
stole away into the arms of beautiful women and
sssssswwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeddddddddd.
Leg against leg, movement in the shoulders and hips,
pushed close by gravity and rhythm;
not grinding, but closing your eyes and trying
to translate the music into movement,
into the connection you have with your partner,
into electricity and light and heat and breath.
Slow songs, as played by a band, last a good ten minutes,
if not more. After, you peel away with a sense of loss,
but also a new connection with whoever you danced with.
It’s not romantic, really; just intimate,
like sharing a secret. Afterwards, we hugged a moment,
and smiled, and tried to remember how to breathe.
Later, she told me I was officially the best lead
she’s danced with since her grandfather. This from
someone who’s basically started to come dancing because
of her fond memories of dancing with her grandfather.
I was flabbergasted by the compliment, and my gast
doesn’t often get flabbered. Quite the pick-me-up.
I feel like I might, finally, be getting the hang
of this connection thing, and especially
these slow, sultry stylings. It’s a matter of being
comfortable in your own skin, of letting go of the
attachment involved in being intimate with someone,
of relaxing and connecting and listening.
In short, it’s neat and it’s liberating.
I’ve no doubt I’ll still approach it with some
jittering of nerves and anxiety, but trudge on
I will, into that brave new world.