I like my men, tall, dark and handsome. Seriously, that’s Darwinism at its finest. I’m open to all ethnicities, but Latin men just DO it for me. I’ve tried opening up my horizons to others, but they have to be so extraordinarily beautiful, that they’re way out of my league. I know what I have and I know how to work with it. My curves are not for everyone and I’m ok with that.
So, enter Mr. Salsa and his charming smile. He loves curvy women. He is 40-years-old, 5’10” with a few pounds to shed, but nothing that doesn’t make him unattractive. Flattery will get you everywhere my mother once told me and he had charisma to spare. Working in sales tends to make men more that way and I don’t judge a man for enjoying what he does for a living, even if not my cup of tea.
But as soon as the sun sets, he’s a dancing machine. I can see what he enjoys salsa dancing and does it REALLY well. It’s about sex. It’s foreplay. Salsa dancing crumbles the walls of inhibition.
It’s too bad I can’t salsa dance anymore. Over 10 years ago, I was amazing at twirls, dips, and shimmies. Now, I’m just glad I don’t trip over my own feet or fall on my ass.
Our first date was dinner. After two email exchanges and two phone calls, we agreed to get drinks and dinner and we talked the night away. I was thoroughly enjoying myself until the very end where he not only began to make subtle sex-related comments, but then proceeded to ask me what kind of woman I was.
“I don’t understand the question?” I say.
“You strike me as a VERY passionate woman? Where are you on that scale?” He replies with a smile.
“I still don’t understand. Do you mean sexually?”
“Yes”. Still with a damn smile.
“I don’t think it matters on our first date. We’re not really there yet.”
He persists. I repeat, “It doesn’t matter, and who doesn’t enjoy sex often? I’m high on the scale of frequency.” There, I conceded and I was pissed I felt forced to answer it. I give him the stink eye. He shifts in his chair uncomfortably.
He laughs uncomfortably.
“You know Mr. Salsa, I asked you to stop with the questions because they make me uncomfortable. I don’t usually feel the need to discuss that part of my life on a first date. I asked you repeatedly to stop asking and I don’t appreciate it. You.Were.Doing.So.Well. and I was enjoying myself until that very moment. I am very disappointed.”
“Oh, come on. I thought our conversation was a bit tongue-and-cheek. I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I told you sometimes my sense of humor gets me in trouble.”
“I can see that if no one calls you out on it. But I specifically said I didn’t like it and you made the choice to continue. You are a grown ass man. Pick and choose your battles. I speak my mind always. Whether I like something or not, you’ll know.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. But our lovely first date is over and not so lovely anymore. He’s a gentleman and walks to my car.
“I’d like to see you again,” I say.
“Really, after that, I thought never again.”
“I’m not a kid. It’s not all or nothing. No one’s perfect. For the most part, I enjoyed myself and I really want you salsa with you.”
Come next Saturday, he would have known the answer to the lousy question without even having to ask it in the first place. We would have had a blast twirling, dipping and shimming the night away. I like foreplay.
He calls the next day. We make plans for the upcoming Saturday. He cancels Saturday afternoon. Oh well. On to the next…
Photo: Borrowed from Mr.Salsa’s Profile