Best Laid Plans

Stolen kisses are the hottest.

Maybe that’s why I have no resistance to the offers I get on the dance floor. Or at the bar. Or even at the office, though that’s a lot more risky.

Maybe because of the daylight. There’s something about broad daylight both heightens the risk and flattens the high I crave from those sweet, racy moments.

Better to be safe than sorry, I tell myself. And Brad I tell to go fuck himself. In the nicest way, of course. And no, he’s not my boss. Thank God. He’s just the mail room guy, and he’s not really my type. Too blond. Too crude. And too taken with himself.

So one after-hours fling on the staff room couch with me staring at those crazy holes in the no-doubt-asbestos-laden ceiling tiles while he rounded third base for the home plate without me, was enough. I’m not that big into baseball anyway, and besides, his bat did nothing for me.

Brad avoids my eyes when he drops off a package.

But I have no trouble looking right at him, making him blush, as I sign the receipt nice and slow, with all the flourishes a name like Ruth Quigly can muster. I like to play with the Q, G, and Y.

So I make up for the workday droughts on the weekends.

That’s when I get to dance my ass off at one of my three favorite clubs. The Elegante. The Caribee. Or Eli’s. Depending on what I’m in the mood for. Music-wise and men-wise. The Elegante featuring musica Latina. Reggae, Ska, and Calypso beats at the Caribee, and good ol’ down-home blues at Eli’s.

If I’m not too tired, I do a triple header. By that I mean, hit up The Elegante on Friday, sleep in and rest up so I can rebound for a lively but more mellow Saturday soiree at the Caribee. And if I drag my ass to church in the morning, Jesus will not only forgive my sinful behavior, but bless me with the energy for a little bump and grind at Eli’s.

I don’t always pick up men, mind you.

Sometimes, they pick up me.

Like the last time I was at Eli’s.

If I remember right, they’d just announce the last call. Actually, they don’t announce it. They play the song, Demon Alcohol. One of the few they play en Anglais.

When the first scratchy strains blast throughout the place, everyone who’s not too drunk to stand up moves to the dance floor. And believe me, I’ve seen some guys who can’t walk without stumbling, hop up on that dance floor and execute elaborate salsa turns and dips. Must be muscle memory or some such.

And not only do we all dance. We all sing along. At the top of our lungs.

That’s when my eyes rove over the eligibles, during that song.

What am I looking for?

Experience? Someone who knows their way around a woman’s body without having to be told. Or handed an instruction manual. Well yes.

Availability? Of course. I may be slut but I’m no homewrecker.

And someone who can meet and sustain my gaze with an inviting smile. Or better yet, someone who lowers their eyes and makes me guess. Playing a little ninety-second game of hard-to-get.

Cause time is of the essence.

Now this particular night, I’ve narrowed it down to three. Armando, with his gorgeous eyelashes. Oscar, who is the best dancer in the house, and doesn’t break a smooth line to attempt a smooch. I really respect that in a guy. And, I hate to say this but, that’s rare in these parts, especially this time of night.

Or George–pronoucned whore-hay–who speaks a fair amount English, so I can actually talk to him about something more than music, food, and baseball.

I’m dancing with Oscar. Lucky me. All the single women and girls had their eyes on him for the last dance. Gilding, rather than bumping around the floor, is a great nightcap. And if there’s icing on that cake, all the better.

I’ve never tasted that icing, and am curious if his moves in bed are as exciting as the way he leads me or us around the crowded floor, maneuvering breathtaking turns and adding a few Lindy Hop kick-ball-changes while I spin at the end of his arm.

But I need it to be his idea, not mine.

And I'm thinking he was thinking the same thing, meaning he’s looking for a subtle sign from me.

I held off and held off, 'cause I, too can play hard-to-get.

But the song winds down and if something doesn’t happen in thirty seconds, I’m going home alone.

Not that that’s a horrible thing, just that, well, I’d really love to crack Oscar’s nut so to speak. Satiate my curiosity and more. Much more.

So throwing caution to the wind, I wink at him the next time he flings me out in a hot, fast turn. And when he catches and then dips me so quickly my eyebrows shoot up and my mouth opens in wide surprise, he winks back.

Pact made.

Or so I assume.

Funny thing about assuming. It makes an ass out of you and me.

But Oscar’s nothing if not a gentleman. So when the song ends, he hangs onto my hand, kisses it, walks me back to my table, and holds my coat while I put it on.

He also walks me to my car when he realizes I’m unescorted.

He holds my door open while I get in.

I roll down the window and offer him a ride. Subtle is as subtle does.

“No thanks,” he says. His car’s right over there. And what a nice one it is. Caddy Escalade. Recent make and model though I suck at car stats.

“Wow, Oscar!” I tease. “You should offer me a ride!”

“I’d love to,” he says. “But I’ve got to get home and let the dogs out.”

So much for the best-laid plans…but I say, “A man after my heart. Got any pictures?”

When he nods, I reach over and unlock the passenger door.

To my surprise, he gets in. I start the engine to warm things up while he pulls out his wallet.

I turn the overhead light on.

He pulls out a passel of pics and some tumble onto his lap. He hands me a one of an ugly mutt with fur half covering her eyes. “This is Bella.”

“Sweet,” I say. “A rescue?”

“Of course.” He hands me another. This one, a proud standard poodle. “We call him Ivan.”

“I see. Royal blood.” I say, filing the we for future reference. “What a fox!”

He nods and hands me one more. It’s a setter of some kind lying with his face on the floor, long floppy ears stretched out to the sides like flaps on one of those WWI-era helmets Snoopy wears to fight the Red Baron.

Heart-wrenching. “Oh,” I coo. “Who’s this?”

“We call him Doo-Doo.”

“Doo-Doo?” How endearing.

Oscar takes the photo back. “His real name is Prince, but lately he’s been…what’s the term in English?

“It’s the same,” I say, guessing. “Incontenance.”

He nods and bursts into tears.

Crap. Something must be wrong with Prince. My eyes tear up. I put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Go be with him. Enjoy whatever time is left.”

He sniffs a few times and nods.

I open the glove box and hand him a tissue, hoping no condoms fall out. “Can I ask you a question?”

He nods again.

“Why come out dancing when Prince is so sick?”

“I know, right? He replies. “Same reason people go to church. In fact, the dance floor is my church. So I come here not just for relief, but to pray.”

“By dancing?”

He nods and I remember a line I read somewhere. Every footfall is a prayer.

“Cada paso es una oración,” we both say at the same time. I laugh; he smiles. Then he leans over and kisses my cheek.

“Gott run.” He opens the door, letting in a freezing gust of air. “Bernard’s waiting up for me.

“Bernard?”

“My partner who works in the a.m. and needs to sleep.”

Oh, so Oscar’s gay. I should have known. So often the best dancers are. I wanted to ask if Bernardo dances and why they don’t go to the gay salsa club but now’s not the time. So instead, I say, “You need to sleep, too.”

“I am tired,” he says, yawning. “But it’s my watch now. So I gotta boogie.”

I grab his arm. “What a loving soul you are. Thanks for the dance.”

He leans in and kisses my hand again. “It’s just that nadie debería tener que morir solo".

I sit in my car watching him get in his and drive away. “Nadie debería tener que morir solo,” I repeat, making a mental note to brush up on my conditional tense. No one should have to die alone.

Nadie debería tener que morir solo.