Late last week, I moved.

I leaned against the bar, waiting on my whisky. It’s hot in here. Too many people pushed together, weaving around, keeping the beat of the music in their steps.

I scan the room as I wait. Back to the bar, elbows resting behind me, deciding on who I want to make myself available to. I get a tap on my shoulder from something hard, turn my head and the bartender swirls the glass at me. I thank him, and stay put.

It might have been better if I had returned her call. I knew she wouldn’t come alone, she isn’t that kind of girl. Instead the voicemail told me the place, told me what to expect, told me the time. I wasn’t feeling well. I was down too deep within myself to be good company. So I listened to the recording and entertained the idea. It fell out of my head as quickly as I turned the phone off.

My evening progressed in a manner that I wasn’t comfortable with. I didn’t need to be inside here, I didn’t want to be here. I went to my room and stood in front of the closet. I grabbed a flared black knee length silk skirt and a form fitting top that has a deep scoop that shows off my neck and collar bones, also black. From the floor of the closet I picked up my favorite black heels that wrap around my ankle.

I dress in silence, wondering if I’m going to tell anyone I’m leaving, if I’ll tell them where.

I leave my hair down, which has now grown to reach my shoulders. The length allows for waves and slight curls. I pull mascara over my eyelashes and turn my lips a deep shade of red. I never wear lipstick, and I’ve no idea why I choose to now.

He’s in his room and I know he won’t hear me leave. I know he won’t notice for a few hours. And once again, I’m thankful that I don’t carry a cell phone around.

I turn the stereo off the moment I get into the car. I’m trying to control my senses… Deprive them until I’m there. Until I can force an overload of stimulation onto myself.

I knew the destination, though I’d never stepped inside. It’s the kind of place that changes atmospheres and ambiances nightly. A kind of place that requires perfect timing and only exists for one reason. And us, together, we’ve never had good timing. Maybe it was a good thing to come alone.

I parked. I got out. I straightened my skirt. I walked in.

Once inside, I momentarily paused. My eyes closed, I listened. There was a smashing of noises. Clatter from glasses, from slick shoes on buffed floors, from tongues moving too fast, or not fast enough.

I opened my eyes and walked to the bar, handed over a debit card, opened a tab, checked in my purse.

The moment I finished my whisky a man’s front side was pressed against my backside. In a thick accent he, politely, asked for my hand to dance. The bartender that I once used to know gave me the approving nod and I turned around, slipped my noticeably smaller hand into his.

Some men use this time to talk to a girl, to find out if she’ll be coming back to his place. He was not one of those men. He was here for the same reason I was.

You could tell the way he moved was a product from his homelands, his family. It suited him, but his cologne did not. I breathed under the wafts of it, and kept my focus on his thick shoulders, how his huge hands took up the small of my back.

He was really quite beautiful, scent aside. Thick black brows with arches in the right places. Strong jaw line, cleft in his chin. No tacky jewlry, no gold. He was pure, simple. I opened my mouth at one point, and then thought better of ruining the tempo.

His hip bones were on either side of mine, but a few inches higher. I could feel every muscle in his back and I anticipated every move. I was eager. I was hungry. I’ve been wanting this for quite some time.

We didn’t break for several sets until I pulled away to get another drink. He kissed my neck below my right ear so softly that I didn’t notice at first. He thanked me, squeezed my hand, and back to the bar I went to order my whisky.

As I scanned the room, deciding on who I wanted to be my next partner, someone whispered in my ear, “Perhaps you are looking in the wrong direction.” I didn’t turn around, in part playing up the mystery, in part trying to find the next one. And mostly, because I didn’t want to be disappointed when I turned around… After all, what kind of man whispers such things into a strange ear?

So I said, “I’m always looking in the right direction. A girl like me knows where to look.”

I didn’t hear anything after that. Instead I spot someone across the room, and a gaze is held longer than what is deemed appropriate. As he walks towards me, without breaking the stare, I find myself smiling. He’s six inches in front of me, holding my hand. He says, “Por favor, viene baile conmigo. ” And he leads the way.

The rest of the night we danced. He requested songs with awkward beats to show off his movements, and I delighted myself in the gyrations, the force.

I felt his arousal betwixt us, and I wished that I didn’t pick a silk skirt tonight.

No words were exchanged. They were unnecessary in a time like this. The bodies told the stories. The turns apart, hips wide open, brought back in close to show what was missing. An hour of tall tales, the chase, the mystery, the capture.

Finally I had to stop. The sensuality proving too much to contain, when I just wanted the anonymity to be kept with the clothes.

And as I walk away he says, “Perhaps I was the right direction after all.”

Sometimes things are better than sex.

Sometimes they are not.