3. Vivian #4
I look around again, trying to find the source.
Who is staring me down? But the crowd is heavy, and I’m not tall in these heels.
All I see are smiles and laughter, faces lit up with joie de vivre, and it makes me smile too.
These folks are so joyful. It’s a celebration of life on the dance floor, and my feet itch to join them and put the lessons from earlier into practice.
Taking a last look to try to pinpoint the source of this tantalizing pull, I reluctantly tune back into what the sweet, pedantic boy next to me is saying. As long as I keep my wits about me, I’ll be fine , I remind myself. You’ve done this a million times before.
But I’ve never felt like the object of attention for someone I can’t see.
Matt and I chat for a bit—or rather, he does most of the talking—and he tells me he works for an IT tech firm in Atlanta.
I’m only partly paying attention as he rambles on and on, his voice blending into the background.
My lack of focus isn’t intentional really.
Who can be bothered with small talk with all these gorgeous people effortlessly gliding along the dance floor?
Bouncing on the bar stool in time to the exhilarating music, I’m eager to join them, even unsure that I won’t trip over my own two feet.
Feeling intimidated is a foreign concept for me, and my confidence is beginning to win out over my anxiety.
I have rhythm, but I don’t know the songs or where the transitions are.
Maybe give it a few more minutes. So I sit back and bring my attention back to what Matt’s saying.
My interest is piqued when he says he plays street hockey. Sounds cool, so I ask him to tell me more. It’s easy to steer the conversation since he clearly likes to talk about himself. But he has a thing or two to learn about women since he doesn’t seem to realize conversation is a two-way street.
After what seems like an eternity or only five minutes—who can really tell?—Matt stops to take a breath. He must be feeling pretty good after his shot, because now he’s trying to shoot his, snaking an arm out around my waist. Kudos for making a move, but he’s not reading the signs.
As I gently untangle his hand from my side—because who needs to be a total douche?
—I’m saved by the loud thumping beat intro to “Get Ur Freak On.” Thank you, Missy .
A genuine smile takes over my face because this is my territory.
Not only can I sing every word to this song, it also gives me an out without being a total jerk.
Matt doesn’t seem aware of the brushoff as he inclines his head toward the dance floor.
“Care to?” A quick nod and he’s grabbing my hand to lead me out, his palm clammy against mine.
I grimace but allow it as we struggle to push through the crowd, knowing that I can easily let go once we’ve found a spot.
Bodies twirl and more than once I have to pull my head back to avoid getting hit with flying hair.
But I don’t even mind because the elegance of the dancers is just astounding.
The men guide and turn the women around with practiced grace, showcasing their partners’ bodies.
It’s a hip hop song, not salsa whatsoever, but every step, every spin is precise.
Smiles, laughter, and sweat show exactly how much the dancers are enjoying themselves.
What’s remarkable to me is that most couples aren’t even that close to each other. It’s like Patrick Swayze’s here saying, “This is your dance space; this is my dance space. No spaghetti arms.” To be fair, some bumping and grinding is still going on, and that’s where Matt leads us to.
The crowd swallows us up as we find a party on the dance floor that’s heaving with other twenty-somethings dropping it low and gyrating.
Not requiring Matt’s hand anymore, I release it in exchange for raising both of mine in the air as I join in, bobbing my head and pumping my fists along with everyone else.
This . This is exactly what I love about dancing.
Nothing else makes me feel so free. Nothing else takes me out of my head as much as connecting with other bodies, moving and shaking and just feeling alive.
Only my body exists, feeling the music. Everything is hot, heavy, pulsating, and it’s exhilarating.
To be part of something bigger than myself.
For just a little bit, I can lose myself, be surrounded by people without anyone demanding anything of me.
Just be part of a group expressing themselves and having a good time.
When I’m on the dance floor, I’m not a disappointment or wasted potential.
There’s no pressure.
No expectations.
Even my body forgets that fibromyalgia is a thing. It takes a backseat, and I almost feel normal again.
But this club, this place takes everything I love about dancing and raises the bar entirely.
It’s more than just dancing. It’s the joy of purely existing . Of seeing another day and being grateful for it.
It’s a community that feels like family.
It’s not just the young and pretty shaking their asses over here—although there is that.
But there’s also middle-aged couples dancing, who’ve probably got kids and PTAs and lawns that need mowing.
Tonight is their time to cut loose, the women gorgeous and carefree, smiling and laughing as they move so fluidly. Like they were born doing it.
And there’s older folks doing their own slower version of a two-step, moving with a grace that comes from being in sync for decades. The love you see in their eyes as they move along the dance floor is beautiful to witness.
The atmosphere is euphoric, and I allow myself to be consumed by it. I want to soak up every moment of acceptance that I can.
I’m in my element now as the song shifts to Janet Jackson, letting the softer beats dictate my movements, but my heart squeezes a little bit watching them. I want someone to dance like that with me. Someone who will lead and let me follow for once, instead of expecting me to be in charge.
I want to be held close like I’m the most precious thing in the world.
Like he can’t get enough.
Like I’m worthy.
My chest tightens. Being told you're damaged goods enough times has a way of sinking into your psyche.
Being told without words that you’re a disappointment and a failure is worse.
Finding everlasting love with someone who’s truly honorable? I probably have a better chance at winning the lottery.
Maybe I should just stick with this single gig.
Well, that definitely won’t be a problem tonight as I glance over at my dance partner. Matt is wiggling around, jutting his hips. The effect is like a worm who’s being electrocuted. I sigh.
At least I won’t be tempted as long as I have that in my vicinity.
Matt is trying to inch his way closer, but he’s still respecting my space, and I allow myself to get lost in the upbeat tempo of “All For You”. Oh, how I wish for something like that… Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply, losing myself in the moment.
And then it hits me. The tingles escalate until a shock runs through me and my eyes fly open.
I see him .
Right across the room from me. Dark curly hair and even darker eyes pull my gaze right toward his. Eyes that seem to bore right into my very soul with such intensity that my breath catches.
The effect is electrifying. My chest tightens, and my throat goes dry. I’m being branded with eyes of fire from across the room.
A full-out bonfire starts to consume my body just from looking at him.
Breaking free from his intense stare, I follow his sharp jawline down to full lips that are curled in a half-smile.
And shiver.
I want those lips on mine.
He’s the one that’s been watching me all this time?
Hot damn.
His whole demeanor is strong, commanding, almost arrogant… and he has me pinned to the spot, his eyes commanding my focus. Refusing to let me look away.
The guy—no, man —is leaning against the wall, one hand in his jeans pocket and the other lazily holding a brown bottle that doesn’t look like your average Budweiser.
White oxford button-down sleeves are loosely rolled up over what I can see even from a distance are strong forearms. Dark-wash jeans cradle his hips, denim straining over strong legs, and if those jeans look that great on him from the front…
I go a little weak wondering what it looks like from the back.
This is a guy who knows how to put himself together. I doubt his mama has to dress him.
I doubt anyone could tell him what to do.
As my eyes climb back up the length of him, I notice the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, fabric barely restraining hard muscles peeking underneath.
I watch his eyes heatedly perusing my body the same unashamed way I did to him.
Feeling like I’ve been stripped bare of my clothing and my soul.
I hope he doesn’t find me wanting.
Why does that even matter to me?
I should be offended, should feel like I’m being examined like a piece of meat. But the way his tongue slips out to glide across his lower lip as he watches me intensifies the heat pooling between my thighs.
His stare engulfs me. Consumes me. Caresses me with his eyes, conveying what he could do with his tongue.
I bet he knows exactly what to do with it.
How he could dominate me. I tremble, wondering what it would be like to touch him, to see if his skin sears me the way his eyes do.
To experience everything he has promised in that look alone.
I’ve never shied away from approaching any stranger, but this?
This is almost too intimidating. I want to go to him.
I need to get closer, but my legs won’t move.
Everything about him screams masculinity and power, but it’s his eyes that draw my focus, unblinking.
A taut rope tethering us together that I can’t escape. I don’t want to escape.