Sensual Bachata NYC

She made him turn around and massaged his buttocks with her sharp nails. She really firmly dug in to feel up his flesh. "That's some soft shit there, my friend. I can give you the number for a great personal trainer. He'll firm you up in no time. Tell him that Angelina sent you!" she handed him a business card. She reached under the band of his underwear and glid her fingers around, stretching them out a bit. Her nails almost grazed the top of his penis. "Dang, you need some fresh lingerie. How old is that thing? World War II?" she shook her head. "I'm gonna hook you up!"

"No, only the pants. I don't have that much money!" Lionel said scared!

"Suit yourself," Angelina said, while she climbed up on top of a cardboard box of clothing. There was a tower of boxes that reached near the ceiling. The bottom boxes were a little offset, just enough for her to get a foothold and to step up on the second box. "Give me a hand, while ya!" she called out to Lionel, the whole stack was moving in the direction of her body. Lionel quickly pushed against her back to keep the boxes on top of each other. She climbed onto the third box. Lionel's hands glid down her back. He was desperately trying to avoid touching her ass but once she jumped up to get her hand over the highest box, he had no choice or everything would have fallen over. He hadn't felt up an ass in his life. He felt confused while he felt her ass humping up and down in his palms as she tried to reach deeply enough into the box. Before she came down, she threw a pair of blue pants into his face.

She watched him as he struggled into the pants because they were so tight, but the fabric was very stretchy. They looked like pants but acted more like leggings. Black strips ran down the side. There was a seventies fashion feel to them. He could feel the fabric grabbing his ass and smooshing his balls. He felt very uncomfortable, but he had to admit the straight lines of them made them look very dashing. It was like Lionel 2.0, lord of the burning dancefloor!

"$200," said Angelina.

"God, thought Lionel! That's almost half a month's pay back home! Think of the hotties in bachata class!" he encouraged himself.

He handed over the money and walked half a block to Little Paradise. The security guy pointed at Lionel and asked "bachata?" Lionel nodded, feeling like an old-timer already. "7th floor," said the security guard.

"Which room?" asked Lionel!

"Fuck do I know. They don't tell me. You guys usually know," replied the security guard.

So Lionel got into the small elevator. A guy in all black clothing like he was a stagehand, pushed three knight armors on a rolling stand into the elevator and left Lionel alone with them to ride up. On the sixth floor, the elevator door opened and someone took them out. On the seventh floor, Lionel got out.

Peering down the hallway, there were seven doors. He tried the first one. Five dudes sat on chairs with tubas that had the big opening taken off so that they sounded pretty quiet. Behind the second door, he found a dozen women in lingerie on their knees on the floor stretching their butts up. Behind the third door were almost all black people on their knees doing a hip-hop choreo. The fourth door looked like the bachata people, but it was only guys. He slipped in the door and asked the nearest guy.

"Is this bachata? Where are the girls?" he asked.

The nearest guy was a dude already balding in his thirties with an ill-fitting white shirt. His face made him look like an accountant or something equally dispassionate about life.

"Yes, this bachata. A lot of girls drop out because they got handled rough or groped in the wrong places. If you want in on bachata as a beginner, you have to pay your dues by dancing with guys," the guy said. "It's a privilege to earn a dance with a woman."

Lionel recalled the dance in the morning. If he could only experience such a dance a second time in his life, it would make all the sweat, blood, and tears in the world worth it. So he stayed.

The instructor explained that the guys could practice with the air by imagining a partner or partner up with a guy. Aurora came late again. A woman that was a little chubby and had a bit of a plain face came late as well. Normally, Lionel would have dismissed her, but here she felt like gold. He was eagerly waiting his turn to dance with her. He wanted to treat her really well.

At first, he danced with the air as a partner, imaging Luna in his arms. He'd pirouette his hand through the air to make her spin. He'd drop his arms forward to make her do a deep backbend. Then, he'd smoothly catch her hand again. Tracing the teacher told him. Always trace your hand along her arm to find her hand.

Then a guy stepped in front of him and offered to be a follower. Lionel swallowed his machismo because this was going to get him closer to girls. He took the guy's hand and put his arm around his back. He felt awkward being so close to a man, such a large, lumbering, stiff, and serious body compared to the soft, fluid, charming, joyful bodies of women. "You gotta embrace it. You are really wooden right now," the guy warned him. When Lionel tried to spin the guy, the guy roughly stepped around, didn't make it all the way, and almost fell. Lionel had to hold up the guy with both arms. It always seemed so easy when women did it.

They switched lead and follow. Lionel felt completely unsure about what to do. The guy was jerking his shoulder around hard and harder. Then Lionel realized that he was supposed to do an inside spin. His shoes wouldn't glide. So he stepped his way to a 360. "Listen to the beat," the instructor warned Lionel.

"This is damn hard," Lionel sighed. He looked at Aurora longing as she moved effortlessly in the arms of the instructor, let her body ripple, caressed the instructor's face for a brief moment before spinning out in a sharp double spin, and then let herself drop to a squat to look up to the instructor submissively, snapping her knees open suggestively for a split second.

Aurora saw Lionel's puppy face gaping at her in admiration. Her eyes looked quizzical. She looked at him and walked over. "You are the guy from the bus, aren't you?" she asked him. He nodded. "Let's see what you got," she ordered him and put her arms out for him to take her.

He took her into a semi-closed embrace with one hand connected and one arm on her back. He let her half a basic, then an inside turn into cuddle position. From there, he was supposed to lead a sensual with her arm held straight out, she was supposed to do a body wave. He tugged on her arm and hinted with his chin that she should do the move.

"You gotta have body contact for me to feel the lead! Don't be shy," Aurora ordered him. She hinted that his hips should go straight to her hips and his chest should be right at her shoulder. The whole side of her body was connected to his front. He was sweating from discomfort to have so much body contact with such a hot woman. Now, he could feel that any of his body movements made her body move as well. And he figured out how to move his body to make her body move. And then she moved so graceful, so fluid. He knew that he gave her very rough indications with her body, but she turned into such smooth elegance with so much flexibility that he was in utter awe. He had never imagined so beauty and sensuality in his arms. He was stunned.

After she walked back to the dance instructor, he doubled down dancing with the guys. He tried to let himself go like Aurora did in their arms. He allowed himself to get physically close to guys so that he could smell their skin and feel the spirit in their movements. He wanted to perfect every move so that if for only a minute another woman ended up in his arms, he'd wow her so much that she wouldn't want to leave.

When the hour was up, Lionel didn't want to leave. He was hungry for bachata. He was hungry to feel that feminine energy that had been denied to him except for one dance with Aurora and one with the single female student. He saw Aurora speaking to the instructor and looking at Lionel. The instructor walked right away over to Lionel and held his hand out. When Lionel received the hand, the instructor shook it vigorously.

"You protected Aurora. Because her life matters to me as much as my own. I owe you my life!" The instructor bowed deeply in front of Lionel to express his gratitude. Lionel felt like a coward because all he had done was to be pushed into the chair and nurse a boner for hours by ogling Aurora. But telling that to the strong Latin man was probably hazardous to his health. So he politely pulled the instructor up and waved like it was not worth the mention.

"Let me help you with bachata. The next class isn't here yet," said the instructor. "I'm Isandro."

Isandro took Lionel in his arms. Lionel could instantly feel the quality of touch that was gentle and firm at the same time. The pressure and intention felt so comforting and nourishing that Lionel wanted to let himself go in Isandro's arms even though he was sure that he wasn't gay, but that touch was so delicious. The timing and momentum of the touch to make Lionel pivot were so perfect and instinctive that Lionel's body started spinning before his mind realized that he should and even was spinning. When Lionel was supposed to do the body wave, he felt such fluid movement in Isandro's body that it created a possibility of moving Lionel's own body much more fluid and with ease than he had imagined. The single touch re-ordered Lionel's entire self-concept of how solid, clumsy to how elegant, effortless his body could move.

From a single rundown of the choreo, Lionel's concept of dance and movement had so thoroughly changed. A light bulb went on about how luxurious and heavenly a lead could feel and what enjoyable feelings it could stir up in a follower. Lionel was breathless - literally. He felt like he was initiated into a brotherhood. Back in Buenos Aires, he had played video games and adored scantily clad women in the video games - knowing that they were unreachable for him. Here he had experienced an entirely different world - a possibility that he could give the women something valuable and live in their world. There are points in one's life where one knows that one cannot go back. He had to acquire this magical ability to create such powerful and enchanting feelings in women.

Isandro laughed loud and friendly watching Lionel's face process what had just happened. "We gotta clear out," said Isandro as six women in mermaid costumes waddled into the room with their feet close together because of the costume.

The subway ride was quiet during the post-evening commute hours. Lionel developed a familiarity with the garbage on the subway tracks, the rats running around, the filthy puddles between the tracks, the dark stains running across the platform when a homeless had peed against the wall while holding a cell phone pretending to be on a call and the urine rolling from the wall down the cliff at the platform to the tracks. He had also learned that an empty subway car is not a good sign. When he stepped in, he found a homeless smearing his feces from one chair to the next. There are reasons why subway cars are empty. He quickly jumped out and waited for the next train, making sure to take the most crowded train car that he could reach.

When he walked into his new home, he felt quietly upbeat. He noticed the lack of bachata music. Gaston was furiously hammering on his keyboard, not like the smooth rushed tick-tick-tick that usually came when Gaston was coding. When Gaston saw Lionel, Gaston looked up with a red face: "I fucked up. I forgot to press the start button. We have no data at all!"

"What do we do?" asked Lionel.

"Nothing. There is nothing to do but fess up," stated Gaston stoically. "I also spent the money. So we can't give them back the money."

"We'll simply repeat today and deliver a day late," suggested Lionel.

"It's not going to work. The last bug the guy pointed out isn't a simple mistake. The fundamental design of my code is wrong. He must have known. He caught it so quickly. He knew we'd fail. He wanted us to owe him. I was such a fool believing that I could code such a sophisticated algorithm. Love makes you do stupid things," Gaston knew that he had hit a dead-end but was still trying to see if he could find a way to fix his app.

"Go to sleep. You need to be fresh for the meeting tomorrow. There is nothing you can do right now," suggested Gaston.

Lionel felt like a fool. There he had a glimmer of control over his destiny to have it completely disappear into the void. He didn't know how to code. He knew nothing about cutting deals with marketing agencies. When he thought about brushing his teeth, he asked where the bachata couples were. Gaston told him that they were at a social in the city. (City was the term people in Brooklyn used for Manhattan.) At least, he'd get to sleep on the mattress tonight.

"Gaston, when I was at the restaurant recording, I overheard a group of women talking about getting paid thousands of dollars by their boyfriends. Is that normal?" asked Lionel.

"Yeah, that's NYC. Any girl that's only a little bit attractive generally has at least one sugar daddy. They start with a few hundred dollars a month. The special ones require luxury cars, condos, and all kinds of extravaganzas. For guys like us, the only hope is to get really good at bachata. There are too many rich finance and tech bros," explained Gaston.

"How am I supposed to make it here when I understand nothing of these things?" asked Lionel.

"You and me, bro," replied Gaston. "I'm broke and my share of rent is due in five days. The line between the street and staying in this place is so thin. C'mon, let's face tomorrow together."

They both walked into the bedroom and laid down on the mattress, curling away from each other. Lionel felt it strange to lie so closely to another man and couldn't help but listen to Gaston's breathing and the humming of the neighbor's air conditioning outside. The intimacy of another man was a strange thing, something that Lionel had always avoided. But here, he could feel what it was like to lie next to a man, the masculine, steady, rough, unchangeable, stubborn energy that emanated from Gaston.

"I'm a virgin," slipped over Lionel's lips.

"That explains a lot," stated Gaston. "We are going to get you laid." With that Gaston curled himself tighter to fall asleep.

Lionel reflected on the moment. Opening up to another man was strange, but he also felt like he had become a more whole person by letting something out. It felt like becoming. It had felt like he had held a seed inside of himself that was small, but by speaking out the words, it somehow had become a thing of weight and reality. Along with speaking it out, had also come realizations and admissions. He was shy. He needed to do something. He couldn't simply keep it a secret. A sudden impetus of accountability and his responsibility for the result was there. He pictured his life, the girls in the street/class/everywhere, and how he would need to take action.

The next morning, Lionel heard the alarm on Gaston's phone. It was early, 7am. Lionel still had sleep buggers in his eyes and a haze obscured his vision. "Chop, chop," rushed Gaston, already jumping into his pant legs. Lionel quickly pulled his shirt on but didn't get to button it. "Grab 'em MREs," yelled Gaston, the sound of hot piss shooting into the toilet.

Getting from the mattress to the front door had taken them about five minutes. Gaston was industrious with fast, strong steps to the subway. But on the orange L-train seats, he slouched down in sullen silence. His face looked exhausted. Lionel studied Gaston. Gaston had a belly that one didn't pay attention to when he was full of activity, but over time, a gut had collected. Also, his face had expanded to reveal aging. When talking quickly, Lionel still recognized the facial features of the boy that he had played with, but now in the silence and deep observation, he noticed the expanded face, the more defined features on the forehead, the creases, and the serious expression that had become the underlying current. Fear rose in Lionel's gut. Lionel didn't want Gaston to become a boring grown-up, who only worked and lost all play and fun.

"The apartment is about $3,000. Internet, electricity, heat, water, and garbage collections adds another $300. We got to split it between the two couples, two guys in the living room, and us two," explained Gaston.

"Three thousand," exclaimed Lionel! "A thousand gets you a beautiful house for a whole family in my Buenos Aires suburb."

"Life in the city is putting all your money into a place to sleep and the clothes on your body. The clothes on your body is the only thing people see of you and your only representation. There is no money left for anything else. That's the life here," explained Gaston.

Lionel took in with a pale expression what his life looked like. He had given up the path of becoming an elementary teacher back home with a simple life for the dream of making it big in the city. Now, he faced what the reality of living with the head in a dream looked like. In the text messages to Lionel in Buenos Aires, Gaston had always talked about how he was starting a business and going to parties every weekend. Gaston had described what the interview looked like to one day get his first child with Sara into a good kindergarten.

"Sara said last night that she's considering breaking up with me. I'm holding her back she said. She wants me to have more ambition and drive. The thing is that she has a bit of a fetish for what she calls 'ghetto slumming.' Seeing the mess in our apartment and how cramped everyone lives gets her excited. She's a Columbia marketing graduate with wealthy parents. Her childhood was being taken by caretakers to the playgrounds of Central Park and Riverside Park. She speaks of her love for the "rawness" of my life, but I'm like a vacation to her. She only wants to visit the ghetto. She doesn't want to live there. She loves how we have to sneak into a corner in the apartment to have sex and still be heard by everyone. Yet she absolutely needs her peace and quiet in her Nomad studio to get into the right state of mind for her work. She wouldn't be able to function in our noisy, messy environment." Gaston babbled about his life.

"I don't want to be her toy. I want to have a life with her," sighed Gaston.

Lionel would have given his left hand to be the toy for a woman like Sara. Lionel realized that Gaston was a rung above him in the world to frown upon what Lionel dreamt without the expectation of reaching. Lionel gazed at the twenty-year-old Chinese woman across from them. Her bone structure was sylph-like as only certain types of Asian women were. The clothes on her body had a feel of being extra long. The colors were softer than the typical garb that New Yorkers were wearing. Her facial expression was less expressive. She seemed like a recent immigrant who only spoke Mandarin in the street with all her sensibilities still geared to the taste of mainland China. Lionel started learning to read the signs of the highly stratified NYC world. See her caste so easily, reminded Lionel that he appeared to everyone on the subway as another Latin American immigrant who likely worked as a runner in a restaurant, lowest rung cook in a kitchen, or hustled deliveries on an e-bike. They wouldn't expect him to read a book, let alone have aspired to become an elementary teacher.

A gal down the subway car caught his eye. Lionel would have described her as the Bronx type as he had seen many such girls in movies about failing schools and heroic teachers in the Bronx. She was dressed sporty with white Alo yoga pants and a black bralette. Both the pants and pra had many gaps slashed into it like it was torn, but it was evidently the design. She was wearing clean, white sneakers. Her body was a bit chubby, but her stance and movement were full of energy and bounce. It reminded her that a lot of real athletes have unlikely bodies, not at all like the fitness models in the ads that may not actually be very athletic. Her complexion was dark. She looked a bit like a black person, but her hair was straight and thin like a white person. Dominicans often had a mix of black and white features like that. Her eyes were big, which made her appear dreamy and loving in attitude. Her hand was holding onto the railing at the ceiling. A bracelet hand-braided from white, red, and deep-blue yarn was on her wrist. Rather than a knot to tie it, some half molten metal clump fastened the ends together. The bracelet was tighter than her wrist bone. She probably couldn't slip it off. It was probably a relationship bracelet.