Sensual Bachata NYC

Feeling his throbbing eyebrow released, Lionel started breathing really hard on the edge of fainting more from the hyperventilation than the pain. She thrust her lips on his and tongued him deeply and intensely. He realized the delicious feeling of her mouth and responded in kind. The sensation of her tongue against his pulled his mind away from the pain above his eye. He sucked her harder to suck away the pain. And it worked. He sucked and kissed her harder with intense passion as the pain was driving him to seek release. She smiled and enjoyed the wild, animal Lionel.

After a solid five minutes, she pulled back, "Isn't mixing pleasure and pain the best?" She sounded like a generous giver of a very special treat. He didn't want to tell her that it was the first time that he had tongue kissed a woman. He could tell that she wasn't aroused by it and had purely done it out of generosity, some kind of reciprocity of someone doing that to her in the past. She cleaned up the supplies and told him to bathe it twice a day in saline solution for three weeks. Lionel had a piercing now. He was a badass.

Lionel got into the routine of delivering for Dom by day and taking bachata classes every evening. Like ebb and flow, the class vacillated between all guys and lots of gals. He stuck with it because those dances with Sara and Doris were the highlights of his life, and he wanted to experience them again. Luna took a liking to Lionel and called herself his bachata momma. She'd let him practice the patterns of the class in the evening. Luna was a lifeguard at a fancy gym by day, which gave her access to train in the gym for free. That's why her body was in such good shape. Sitting as a lifeguard gave her lots of time to think because she wasn't allowed to do anything that could distract her, but there was never any rescuing to be done, only occasional cleaning, and endless bitchy complaints from prissy members.

Luna was warm and accessible. She easily chatted about her life, which Lionel eagerly listened to. So it was natural that when he had her in private, he asked her a question that had been burning on his mind. "I totally get why guys dance bachata. I love handling all the women's bodies in my hands and having so much access to them. It makes exasperatingly happy. But why would a woman hand her body over to be handled in any which way? What do you women get out of it?"

Not having to think long, she explained, "Surrender."

Realizing that it made little sense to Lionel, she elaborated, "Letting go feels really good. You know how you feel tense at the beginning of the weekend. You are a quiet boy. But by Sunday, you are relaxed and you make your jokes. You let your walls come down. We feel the same thing dancing. At first, we feel stiff, cold, and unfun. But the music, the touches, and the motion is so intoxicating like a wine, it seduces us to let go. In the context of bachata all our sensuality and sexuality is approved of. If we acted like that outside of the dance, we would be slut shamed. We always have to keep ourselves in control. That's why surrendering is like a tense muscle letting go."

"Some of us get turned on by being manhandled and being grabbed outside of our control all over, but only some and we usually don't talk about it, added Luna. "You should go and experience your first social so that you can see with your own eyes and feel with your body."

Lionel protested that he didn't feel ready, but Luna insisted that he'd never be read and the only way to get ready was to practice at socials. So Gaston took him to a swanky rooftop bar. The bouncers looked like they were busy blocking people. There was a velvet rope prepared to create a long queue. Lionel had seen decadent photos on Instagram of the rooftop bar of women jumping into the pool closed and having the clothes stick to their bodies to reveal their bare bodies underneath. Lionel was a bit surprised how easily the bouncer let them in when Gaston simply said, "bachata social," because there were already ten people in line, and those ten people were dressed very sharp in elegant designer nightclub clothes, all of them way above the sophistication level of the two guys.

The surprise increased when Gaston pushed the basement button instead of the rooftop button in the elevator, but then Gaston explained that the social was in the wedding salon, not the actual bar. The short hallway was paneled with wood to look elegant. The bachata music already sounded through the walls, heavily muffled. That meant that it must have been really loud inside. Gaston pulled the double-door open. The loud music burst out. The room inside was dark with blue and red spotlights lighting up sweaty faces. A cameraman was shining a camera torch onto a dancing couple that was so bright that they appeared in daylight. The lead moved his hands and body with precision where every move and angle was completely on purpose. The woman patiently waited for one lead signal after the next. She moved her body with utter dedication and flexibility. She was wearing a sports bra that had both straps on the same side. The lead made her duck down her head to move under his hand. Pliable like playdoh, she moved under his direction. The rest of the room was hard to see.

Lionel thought that he was in heaven, seeing dancing couples that were all at least as good as Isandro and Aurora. As far as the eye went, he saw scantily clad women in elegant skirts, yoga pants, tube tops, bras, and everything else that delighted his eyes. Then he got doubts about his ability to measure up enough that one of those women would dance with him. Gaston seemed to be giving up and went straight to get a drink. He gave it a shot and asked a woman standing. She was a tall black woman with blue jeans shorts, sandals, and an elaborate hair arrangement. She declined because she was taking a rest. When the next guy asked her twenty seconds later, she took his hand and walked to the dancefloor.

Observing the etiquette a bit seemed like a good idea. A wall of men was all around the dancefloor, most of whom never asked a woman to dance. They stood as silent sentries. The dancing men stayed on the dancefloor. As soon as the song switched, they would turn around and offer a hand to the nearest woman. The women seemed unabashed. One slapped a guy on the ass to let him know that she was going to dance with him next. Lionel felt outclassed. In class, they usually did basic in between every turn or special move to allow their minds to reset. The couples here continuously went from one gyration to a spin to a parade walk. Lionel's growing anxiety also dulled his mind to the point of only remembering basic spins but no intricate patterns. The guys that got dances were absolutely savage, hovering next to a dancing couple until the couple only barely separated to grab her hand. That fights didn't break out was a wonder.

Doris walked in the door. Sensing comfort, Lionel rushed to greet her. She seemed tense. When he asked her to dance, he could feel a hesitation that was surprising given their comfort hanging out at the vintage store. When the next song started, he only swayed with her, waiting for the intro to give way to the main beat. She yelled into his ear over the music. "Make me look good! Please, make me look good!" Anxiety seemed to be gripping her. Her eyes seemed to dart around to see who was near her. Lionel faced great difficulty moving her. Her body was unresponsive and stiff. She wasn't feeling the music. It was like she was deaf to the music from anxiety. When the song ended, he had though that he had tried his best, but he had only gotten some awkward basic steps and turns in from both direction. When he saw her standing with nobody asking her to dance, he realized why she had been so anxious about making a good impression. And Lionel registered that the bad dancers and overweight women were standing just like the wall of guys, but there were only a few of the women.

The harshness of the pecking order became apparent to Lionel. The good male dancers were constantly showered with attention from women. They received hugs, kisses, and caresses. If a girl was hot even if her dancing was bad, she'd get guys willing to dance with her. They'd pass her off quickly at the end of the dance, but the next guy was eager to swoop in. Suddenly, the revealing dresses, deep slits, and occasional panty flashes under the skimpy clothes made sense. The women were competing for the good male dancers. Being deemed unattractive meant standing in purgatory with the dozens and dozens of guys who only stared. Lionel couldn't figure out if the guys were simply too afraid to ask for dances or if they had only come to catch glimpses and masturbate later.

A freeze overcame Lionel after standing for half-dozen dances of wanting to ask a woman for a dance but not daring. When a woman stood right in front of him, so close that he had to stand more upright to not touch her, he couldn't ask her to dance anymore. He couldn't lift a muscle. He was completely paralyzed. The social had become an absolutely traumatic experience of seeing the most alluring dances happen in front of him and being impossibly separated from it. Lionel could see Gaston going through the same thing, only Gaston downed one drink after the next until Gaston could barely stand.

Lionel wanted nothing more than to leave, but with resolve, he told himself to stay and ask at least one woman to dance. Thus his mind was utterly deadlocked between the impulse to follow his desire and scurry away with his tail between his legs. Near midnight, he realized that he literally hadn't moved for an hour and physically couldn't move his knees anymore. So he decided to at least walk a few paces into the dancefloor to have a chance to be close enough to a couple to randomly end up in front of a woman turning away from her dance partner. Out of nowhere, a Japanese gal appeared in front of him and offered her hand for a dance. He grabbed her hand as fast as he could and looped his right arm around her to hold onto her shoulder blade.

The moment he felt her body movement as she did some waves to the song's intro, he realized something severely off. Unlike anyone else he had moved with, there was no resistance with her, not an ounce. Her body also didn't stop moving when his hand stopped. He'd give her an impulse for the side of her body to contract and move the other way, and her body kept moving and moving. She also let her arms flow with it. Her head drifted after it like they were underwater. Amazed, he looked at her and tried another move. Her right arm had been far out and drifted back, wrapped around his head, and she pulled himself into a snuck hug with him. She absolutely relished his body like a cat rubs its whole body into a caress. She wasn't dancing to the music. She wasn't dancing at all. She was getting some intense tactile pleasure out of feeling his body and embracing him. It only happened that she was so much in flow that it all happened to the music.

Lionel gave up trying the basic step in open position. She wanted to cuddle with him. So he started right away in the fully closed position. There was no proprietary to their body contact because it was a full-body snuggle. He had never been so daring before. As he held her whole body in his arms, she let weight completely come onto him so that he could move her like a rag doll. He felt the humidity of her clothing, the soaking sweat on her skin, and the heat emanating from her body. She had been dancing intensely for hours. Her mental state was in some kind of metaphysical trance state. Freely, she let him do anything he pleased with her body, and he tried out all the advanced moves that he had never tried. He tried out doing sensual moves of making her body move in isolations as he had advanced dancers seen dancing. None of the mistakes bothered her. She was on some kind of trip to enjoy the touching of her body. That's all she cared about that he kept touching and hugging her. Her eyes never opened the whole time. He wondered if she had ever noticed whom she was dancing with.

The song was over much too fast. This had been the best dance in his life, utterly unbelievable. Gaston cozied up to Lionel to yell in his ear, "There is a sub-group of dancers who do Molly. They take the drug and then let the dancefloor take over their bodies. That woman was completely gone. I've done it once. Every mundane touch of yours got amplified by the molly to feel like the most delicious honey." That explanation matched Lionel's perception.

"There is another subgroup of dancers who is into BDSM," Gaston pointed at two women talking into each other's ears. One was a tall blond that looked like a Teuton knight. The other was a small, sweet Italian-looking girl with a hundred curls. The Teutonic one was holding both their purses and talked intensely to the cute girl, who had the sweetest and most adorable face. The Teutonic one was wearing pants and a long-sleeve blouse. She seemed covered up and strong. The Italian one was wearing a skirt that wrapped barely around her butt but tightly. She kept tugging the skirt down regularly because it kept riding up. She was wearing a taught tube top and had a necklace with a closed lock on it.

"Watch this," encouraged Gaston with an urgency like something was about to happen. "The tall one is her sex manager and will order the short one to do stuff. They love humiliation." Gaston pulled Lionel to move closer. Sure enough, the tall one pointed at a guy who had been one of the guys, who was part of the wall. The Italian one was taken a step back and tried to hug the tall Teutonic one, but the Teutonic one pushed her forward.

When Lionel looked at the destination of the finger, he saw a guy, who had made even Lionel feel uncomfortable. The guy had a nastiness about his facial expression, both dirty arousal at the women and meanness to it as well. His neck was so short that it seemed to stick right on his shoulders, making him look repugnant. He was wearing slacks and a sateen shirt, both of which were cheap and held in poor arrangement. All night, he had stared at women with a disgusting intensity and no shame of being caught staring at their butts or boobs. Lionel had always pretended to be more interested in the figures even though he kept relishing all the sexy angles he got.

The Italian beauty reached out her hand to dance with him. He smiled and walked her into the dancefloor. He right away pulled her into a body-on-body close embrace. Rather than keeping his hands on her upper back, he let them glide right away to her butt and felt up her butt cheeks. She pulled his hands away from her butt cheeks. She turned around to look at her friend, but her friend pointed a finger to indicate that the Italian was ordered to finish the dance.

The short-neck guy spun her around and looked up and down her body to take her in. Then he moved her in shadow position so that he was behind her. That allowed him to let his hands roam over her body. The disgust and helplessness of the woman was captured in her facial expressions, but her Teutonic friend only relished the embarrassment that her Italian friend went through. With another spin, the guy allowed his hands to caress over her boobs.

When the song switched again, the Italian woman literally ran back to her Teutonic handler. The Teutonic woman welcomed her in a consoling embrace. The Italian woman cuddled into the embrace, and then her face turned burning red. It was as if she had liked being put through those feelings and was shy to admit to it.

"That couple over there, they were world champion hopefuls five years ago," pointed Gaston. "You get a wide variety of people here. You can't make one judgment that applies to all of them. Only one thing is clear. I don't have the skills to be interesting to any one of those women to dance with."

Watching the elite couple, Lionel noticed that they weren't doing any advanced tricks at all, but simple basic steps and turns, yet it looked absolutely amazing. So he looked closer and realized that every muscle on their body moved with purpose. Even if there was only a simple side step, every part of their body was engaged in the movement and at the exact right amount. They knew how to suspend a moment in during a step and then to accelerate sharply. They knew hot to hold their whole body quiet except for a tiny bootie roll that got massively magnified because it was the only thing that was moving. No part of their body was passive and simply came along for the ride. Every part of their body had purpose. That's when Lionel realized he had been chasing false idols by trying to learn every fancy trick that he came across. The true mastery was in technique. If even the most simple moves, less than he had been dancing, could be executed so godlike, then that was what he needed to learn. He had heard rumblings among the students that their teacher only taught fancy patterns to appease the students wanting quick results, but the true learning came from painstakingly learning technique.

Remembering the amazing feeling of the molly dancer in his arms, he vowed to search out a teacher who would teach him technique so that he could come back here, if only to get a second dance like the one, and he would happily die thereafter.

The very same Saturday, Lionel looked at his forearm. Luna's handwriting had scrawled there, with beautifully large, feminine loops in the letters: "Inquisition, 88-20 Astoria Blvd, Elmhurst." After his pleading, she had told him where the two bachata couples from the bathroom took their technique training. She had warned him that the four-hour class was callous and taught by a master instructor from the Dominican Republic, who spoke very little English. Yet, she assured him that many of the best dancers passed through his training based on the Académie Royale de Danse, a ballet program in Paris initiated by Louis XIV, the Sun King, in 1661. Even though puritanically sadistic in his training, the instructor Higuel had the soul of a sweetheart. "If you want to get good in dance, you have to love pain," Luna had explained. "If you come, you are going to find out if you are a pain slut like," she had added with a light laugh.

With optimism in his step and the happy summer sun on his face, Lionel stepped out of their pad in Bushwick towards the L train stop. The street had the feeling of summer in full swing. The trees had grown large, mature, and dark leaves that made the canopy look heavy and the space underneath it cave-like dark. A group of black teenagers had colorful towels slung over their shoulders, long swim trunks to cover their round bellies, and loose, rebellious flip-flops trying to get away from their feet. They yelled at each other in loud tones of superlative lifts in their pitch for the whole street to hear. They were probably on the way to the pool on Humboldt Street, a favorite to cool down on hot summer days.

As Lionel neared the end of the block he lived on, his eyes were drawn to the man sitting in his ground-floor window. A ten by five inset yard from the street was in front of the window. The man's legs were out on the street. The tall Japanese man had a skinny, long face with deep carvings from an intense life. Despite the rough shape of his face, his actual expression was soft, happy, and meditative, as if he were in another world above the aggressive rushing of New Yorkers. He seemed fifty years old. A black cat with white spots rested on his left thigh. The cat was sleeping with its chin on its paws, letting its body drape over his with languid abandon. He ate a burrito with torn open aluminum foil with deep enjoyment like the burrito was a treasured special from his favorite - and well-kept secret - place. He relished the outside and the tranquil summer draft refreshing the indoor air. Lionel had always felt drawn to the man, who seemed in touch with an inner beauty that Lionel was yearning for, whenever he glimpsed the man, who seemed to always be around his home.