Join in the Dance

The room is hot. Steamy. The heat of all those bodies thrusting and grinding to the thunder beat of the music rises and condenses, forming a fog of sweat and pheromones. The cloud settles over the club, making the air thick and nearly cloying, coating the windows with fat droplets of moisture which run down the glass in tiny streams, the distilled essence of the evening. I have been standing here for half an hour by now, on the outskirts of the crowd, watching the dancers, envying the grace of all those sleek, perfumed creatures whose bodies tremble and shiver like reflected sunlight. They seem like hallucinations to me, like projections of a fevered imagination.

I came here with no one, wearing as little clothing as decency allows and heels so tall that by the end of the night it'll feel like I've been wearing iron hobbles. Men look at me every now and again, their eyes sliding from gleaming red shoes to the froth of blonde curls surrounding my face, lingering on the landmarks in between. I try to smile at them, my lips slick with gloss, red, pouting, practically begging to be put to a better use. They walk over to me, smiling in that secret satisfied way men have when they think they're about to discover a shortcut to the land of intercourse and I try not to shudder away from them. They buy me a drink; we talk for ten, maybe twenty minutes. After awhile they leave. They don't come back. I drink my drink. I like them rough; I want to taste the sharp, mind-numbing tang of the alcohol, feel the burn as it slides down my throat and into my belly. I prefer the dark liquors, the oak and smoke of whiskey, the exotic, desert wind taste of tequila. I've got three or four drinks in me by now and my buzz is starting to edge over into drunkenness. I feel looser now, less anxious about my surroundings.

The feeling of being hemmed in by hundreds of warm bodies sometimes frightens me, makes me feel short of breath, but after coming here every weekend for months on end, the fear has for the most part left me. The first time I came here I had to leave only a few minutes later, shocked by the onslaught of masculine interest I had received. That first time was only a whim, coming to the club, but I realized afterwards, driving home with my heart still hammering in my chest, that this was something I had to force myself to get used to. Normal people went to clubs. Normal people enjoyed going to clubs. Normal people did not spend every day of the week secluded in their apartment reading or just staring out the window, wondering what was going on outside. I would force myself to be normal. So Every Friday night I dress up in my skimpiest outfits (not that I have very many of them) and, feeling as if I have already been stripped half-naked, I go to the club and force myself to talk to men. This has been going on for months by now, and I think I've become pretty good at scaring them away within twenty minutes or so.

Someone touches my arm lightly and I jump, almost tripping over my own feet. Fingers dust over my skin, tracing the point of my elbow briefly before settling lightly on my forearm. My skin tingles where the fingers touched me, as if I had just been brushed with a bundle of live wires, and I wonder whether the sensation is physical or just in my head. He cups my elbow in his palm. "Are you thirsty?" he asks, and now I look into his face. He's cute. Probably too cute for his own good judging by the way he carries himself. A man like this is not used to rejection, especially from women who look like I do tonight. The way he touches me is not too invasive, but just familiar enough to indicate a knowledge of exactly what it is that girls like me are supposed to want to do with boys like him. My first instinct is to jerk my arm away, but I restrain myself. I let him touch me.

"Yes," I say. My throat is dry and the words come out almost as a croak. He smiles at me and I look into his eyes. They are dark hazel, a light brown shot through with green. I realize that this one is dangerous, but not in a predatory sort of way. I could easily lose myself in eyes like that.

"I've seen you here before," he says. His voice is pitched low but even so, I can hear it over the pulsing of the music. It's a deep voice, slightly rough as if he had either just been smoking or screaming. I smell no smoke on him. Only clean skin, the faint musk of cologne, and the barest hint of whiskey on his breath.

"I come here a lot." I say. I keep snatching little darting glances at him. He never seems to be looking anywhere but at my face, so our eyes are always meeting. Every time it happens, I feel a jolt in my belly. It makes it hard for me to concentrate.

"Could I buy you a drink?" It's barely a question.

He's already leading me to the bar when I say,

"Yes."

He makes his way easily through the crowd, who seem unconsciously to move aside for him. His hand lingers on my elbow, pulling me along in his wake. I'm surprised that I feel no desire to shake loose of him. He approaches the bar and the red-haired woman working behind it gives him her immediate attention. "Yes sir?" she asks.

"Two of the Chivas Regal, on the rocks," he says,

"The good kind please." I watch as the bartender reaches not behind the bar but beneath it, pulling out a gleaming wooden chest and setting it down in front of us. Out of it comes a squat brown bottle, its label so gilded and ornate that I can't even tell what the letters on it are. She pours a generous measure of the whiskey into each glass before handing them both to the man beside me. He begins to walk towards a bunch of high tables towards the left of the bar, a sort of annex divided from the rest of the club by a dozen potted palm trees. I follow him. He sits down at one of the high tables and I sit across from him. He hands me my drink and I raise it to my lips, taking a long, slow sip. It is the best whiskey I have ever tasted, smooth as velvet but burning with astonishing violence on its way down to the stomach. I feel drunker almost immediately. My body feels elastic, and everything is bathed in a warm whiskey-colored glow. The music pulses in my ears like a heartbeat. I wait for him to say something, but he just sips his drink and stares at me over the rim of his glass.

I say, "Do you come here often?" It's an inanity I know, but it's all I can think of to say.

"Yes, you could say that." He takes a few sips of his drink. Then he says, "You've been coming here every weekend night for the past month, but I've never seen you dance. Why is that?"

I have no idea how to respond. I wonder who he is, what he does for a living, but I won't ask him either of those things. They don't really matter do they? At least, not tonight. I wonder how to answer his question. "I guess I've never really felt like anyone wanted to dance with me," I say. It's not the truth. Plenty of men have asked me to dance. I've just never had the courage to say yes.

"You could dance with any man here," he says, gesturing with his glass at the crush of people just beyond the potted tree line. He continues to look at me and his gaze is hot, making my clothes, what little there is of them, feel suddenly too tight, stifling. I take a drink and the sensation of the ice-chilled whiskey first cooling my mouth and then burning its way down my dry throat makes me shiver. He notices.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"It's very hot in here, isn't it?"

"Yes." I stare at the tabletop.

"Would you like to come with me to some place a little bit cooler?"

I hesitate, images of the nasty things that can happen to a girl at the hands of a stranger flickering through my head. I force back the paranoia. "Where did you have in mind?" I ask, and I'm proud that my voice doesn't shake at all.

"A VIP room. The club usually keeps it for me and my guests. Would you like to see it?"

I hesitate again, unable to help myself. I should say no. He could be a crazed sadist wanting to whisk me away to a broom closet for a quick raping. I take another long sip of whiskey to quench my throat and then I say, "Yes." He finishes his drink in one smooth swallow and gets up from the table. I take the hint and follow his example, knocking back what's left of my drink and barely even wincing as it sizzles its way down to my belly. I stand up.

He takes my hand, folding it inside of his own, and leads me back through the club, past the DJ booth to an unremarkable door set into the far wall. He opens it with a key he carries on a gold ring in his pocket. Behind it is a staircase, dimly lit, paneled in dark wood. We climb it, him still keeping a tight hold on my hand, as if he is afraid that at any moment I might try to run away from him. The thought does occur to me, but I've come this far already. I might as well let myself go a little further.

The stairs lead directly up into a single spacious room. One wall in entirely taken up with a Plexiglas window which overlooks the club. The view is god-like. All those people, all their secret dances, the ways in which they flow through and over one another are visible to us in this eyrie. The rest of the room is just as impressive as its window. In its center, two black leather sofas stand on either side of a glass-topped wrought iron coffee table. A stereo system the size of a man stands against one wall and a well-stocked bar is sunk into another. The light is dim and golden, filtering down from the room's only real extravagant affectation, an ornate wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The door clicks shut softly behind me and I turn, realizing that now we are completely isolated from the crowd. He could do anything he wants to me up here and nobody would know. He's watching me take in his room.

"What do you think?" he asks. Now that we're insulated from the throb of the music, I can detect the barest trace of an accent in his voice. It could be Spanish or maybe Italian, something that lifts the edges of his sentences and makes some of his words sound as if he is about to sing them rather than speak.

"It's beautiful. The window," I gesture to it, unable to find words to describe the effect that the window has upon the room.

"Thank you," he says, "It cost roughly as much as the stereo downstairs, but I like to think that it was worth the money. I would have paid a fortune to be able to have this view." He crosses the room to stand beside me at the window. My first instinct is to draw away, but I restrain myself.

Instead, I ask him something which I had begun to suspect ever since I saw him order the Chivas Regal. "Is this your club?"

He pauses for a moment. "Yes. One of them. Probably my favorite. My name is Andre." He offers me his hand and I take it. The handshake is more intimate than such a cursory gesture should be. He presses his palm to mine for several long seconds, and I can feel his pulse. It's steady. He is perfectly at ease. If he can feel mine, he'll know that my heart is pounding in my chest. He releases my hand and says, "Do you have a name?"

My cheeks sting. "I'm Sophie," I say, without stopping to think. I don't usually tell men my real name. I give them a fantasy name like Desiree, or Veronika, or Justine, something that sounds like the handle of a high-priced call girl.

"Sophie," he says. From his mouth, my name sounds exotic, even sexy. I've always thought it sounded like the name of a pre-pubescent girl, but hearing him say it makes me feel like a woman. "Not quite what I expected, but it suits you." There is a pause and then he asks, "So, do you often abscond to private rooms with strange men?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

He laughs. "I'm sorry, I was just kidding."

"I don't usually do things like this," I say, and despite all my drinking my throat is dry. "You're the only one who's ever asked me."

"I find that very hard to believe."

"It's true."

"What a shame." He raises his drink to his lips and half of the liquid inside slips smoothly down his throat. "Now, there is one thing that has been puzzling me. Why do you come to a dance club if you don't dance?"

"I guess I come here to watch."

"Just to watch?"

"I don't know. Maybe if someone really persuaded me I would join in." He smiles very slightly and raises an eyebrow. I look down, my face flooded with a hot blush.

"Would I be right in assuming that that was a hint?" He asks, finishing off the liquor in his glass and putting it down on the coffee table. I do the same.

"Yes." I smile at him, trying to act composed, but inside I'm trembling. This is as close as I've allowed myself to come to another human being in two years, and I'm pretty sure that he's going to want to come closer. I'm pretty sure that I want him to come closer.

I watch as he picks up a tiny black remote control from the coffee table and presses a button. The stereo in the corner comes to life, purring out the strains of some exotic music, mambo or samba. He holds out his hand to me. "Will you dance with me Sophie?"

I hold my breath, and then let it out. I look into his eyes, dangerous eyes the color of dying sunlit leaves and I say "Yes." I put my hand in his and he pulls me up from the couch. I feel the strength in his arm as he takes me and leads me into the middle of the room and little shivers tip-toe over my skin. I realize that although I've always wanted to be in this position, I really have no idea what I'm doing. I stand stiffly, his hand still holding mine. Do I put my hand on his waist or is he supposed to do that? I feel myself beginning to blush again as I stand there, stupidly doing nothing.

"Here," he says, and pulls me so that I'm standing very close to him. I smell his cologne, very faint, a spicy musk. He rests one hand on my hip, keeping a firm hold on my right hand and raising it into the air. He begins to sway, his feet performing an uncomplicated series of steps. I try to imitate him but my feet are clumsy and I stumble into him, inadvertently pressing myself against his chest. The hand on my hip flexes and instead of pushing me away again, he holds me in position, with my breasts pressed firmly against his chest. "That's better," he says, and begins to sway, his feet no longer sketching the steps. We're too close for that. He just moves his body with the music, moving me along with him until I do it of my own accord.

I realize that I'm drunk. Only a little, but it's enough to make the light from the chandelier hazy and to make the music feel like it's inside of me as well as all around me. It takes over my body, relaxing the muscles and whispering to me to move just a little bit closer to him, to close the half-inch gap that still stands between us. I move my body forward. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done. The gap between us closes and I realize immediately that he has an erection. I can feel it through the taut cloth of his jeans. A part of me wants to draw away again, to blush and apologize and then beat a hasty retreat, but I'm tired of being afraid, afraid of men and afraid of myself. Fear's been ruling my life for way too long. Instead of drawing away, I angle my hips so that I brush against the front of his jeans when we move. I'm wearing only the most minimal panties, so I wonder if he can feel the wet heat of me underneath my skirt. The thought excites me and I realize that this really is it. I'm going to do it.

Not letting myself think anymore, I stand on tiptoe and press my lips to his. He tastes like the liquor we've been drinking, and some other exotic flavor all of his own. I suck at his lips, loving the plump firmness of them. We're still swaying to the music, but now he wraps both of his arms around me. One hand slides up to cradle the back of my head and he presses my face more firmly against his. His lips part beneath mine, and for the first time his tongue darts into my mouth. I meet it with my own, flicking at it tentatively, and then he's devouring me, taking possession of my mouth as if he were trying to suck the breath out of my body. My knees weaken and I slump into him, but he isn't fazed. What he does is reach down and scoop me into his arms as if I weigh no more than a doll, his mouth still fastened over mine, his tongue still working diligently. I wonder where we're going, but I realize that I don't really care. I focus on kissing him back with as much ferocity as he is kissing me.

He carries me to the sofa and lays me down on it, perching himself on the edge of one of the cushions so that he's looking down at me. He reaches out and begins to run his hands over my body. His fingers run lightly down my face, tracing the groves of my flushed cheekbones, my eyelids, my kiss-swollen lips. He cups my chin in his palm, feeds hungrily on my lips for another moment and then his hands are running down my shoulders, my bare arms, tracing the outlines of my collarbones. He works his way down until he's cupping my breasts with both hands through the thin satin of my shirt. I wear no bra, so my nipples stiffen immediately beneath his touch. He pinches them, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my pussy. His hands begin to massage me, kneading my breasts with a tender ferocity that continues to send shockwaves down between my legs, which have fallen apart on the couch cushions of their own volition.

But now memories of the last time someone touched me like this start to crowd my consciousness. I remember how I felt the last time that I lay with legs spread and a warm male body over top of me. My stomach clenches and a cold chill extinguishes the pleasure which has been igniting my nerve endings. I freeze beneath Andre. I can't help it. I think of hands tearing at my clothes, ripping them away to get a hold of the tender flesh beneath. I remember the dull pain of a knife-point pricking at my belly as clumsy hairy-knuckled hands fumble at a recalcitrant belt buckle. Never mind that the here and now is all warmth, all pleasure and alcohol glow. I begin to shiver. My legs try to snap together, but Andre shifts position, no longer sitting on the edge of a cushion but moving so that he's kneeling over me with his knees planted between my thighs.

"What's the matter?" He murmurs, hands still caressing my breasts. He kisses me again, but my lips won't open for him. His hands stop moving. He looks at me more closely. "Are you ok?"

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm being stupid. I'm not ready for this. I shouldn't be here." I try to get up, but he pushes me back down, gently, but I can't refuse.

"But I thought we were--" He pauses, "Connecting. Have I done something to scare you?"

"No, it's my fault. I'm sorry. I'll go." Again, I try to get up, but he's still above me, still

looking down at me with questions in his dangerous eyes.

"I won't stop you," he says and moves to get up.

"I'm sorry if I did something to offend you."

I watch him begin to draw away. This is the closest I've come and I'm ready to throw it away because of memories. I can't let this happen. I breathe. "Wait," I say, settling back into the cushions. "I'm sorry. I want to stay. It's just—I have—there's probably something I should tell you."

Andre perches once more on the edge of a cushion, looking down at me. "You don't have a dick tucked into those panties do you?" he asks, trying to joke, but his eyes are serious, watchful. This is the last thing I want to be doing, talking about this, but he should know. He should know why I'm so goddamned afraid of something that should be so simple.

"I've never done this before,"

A very long pause, and then he says, "You're kidding me, aren't you?"

"Two years ago, when I was eighteen, someone tried to rape me. He came out of nowhere. I was walking home one night and he pushed me into an alley. Held a knife on me. Someone must have heard me scream before he put his hand over my mouth and called the cops. They pulled him off of me before he could...you know, do it to me, but he did...other things. I haven't been able to get close to anyone since then." My voice wobbles a little on the last word and I snap my mouth shut. He looks at me without expression and I feel myself shriveling up inside. He's going to tell me that he's changed his mind. No one wants damaged goods. I should have just left.