I have a problem. I’m in lust. Yes, lust. And I was very doubtful up ’til now about feeling that way again, as I haven’t met anyone to lust after in quite some time, since LAST summer, in fact, when my lustiness was all swirled up after the man of my present desire.
He’s got that roguish, tousled hair thing. Tall, incredibly strong, agile and English. He’s like Russell Crowe in “Proof of Life” meets Robert De Niro in “Scent of a Woman.” And for a while I get to be the starlet, the tangonista. And babe, it rocks my world.
My well worn, worked and rocked tango shoes
Last summer I was just hitting my tango stride when I got injured and was forced to hobble away from dancing. I mourned and healed through the winter and got over my desire for him and tango. But tango and lustful men, are very intoxicating like chocolate, Brad Pitt, shoe shopping or heroin.
And that’s what it is really, the tango. The incredibly slow embrace, your arm about his neck, your hand taken in his, your bodies embrace, entwine. It’s all there, right down to the curve of your neck pressed into his.
I don’t know about you, but my toes don’t just curl up like that for the foxtrot. But tango with this man is the best foreplay, the best tantric sex I’ve ever had, legally, in public, with my clothes on, or possibly without. Lust, folks. Lust with a capitol L.
The cliched trouble with such lusty stuff is 1) he has a girlfriend–miles away, but still there, and 2) given time to linger over wine and act all dreamy we don’t click. How can that be? How can a man who literally makes my breath catch, be so flat, so out of sync with me otherwise?
The other trouble–there are so many, how do I pick just one?–is how do I find a healthy replacement–one who is good for me, available, sane, grounded, healthy, well-employed, etc, etc, AND who can dance that way? I’m in great doubt. What am I to do? Drop my life (as unthrilling as it may be) and comb Argentine night clubs looking for American rogues on holiday. It’s endorphin madness, I tell you!
So for today–just one day at a time, isn’t it? I’m going to try and focus on whatever other thing I am doing that is not tango, and not lustful and too terribly thrilling, but life non-the-less. . . . yea, I’m not buying it either. He’s all I can think about. Him dancing with me.
And now if you will excuse me I have an intense case of ennui to deal with, plus a little yoga. Tango class is Thurs. night and I have been personally invited back. Oh dear god.
pray for me, d.