Don't Judge A Book By Its Cover

               The woman I spied across the room was not a covergirl for Cosmo. She had a pretty face and was a little on the heavy side. What attracted to me to her was the confidence in her stare as she caught me looking at her. I nodded towards the floor and she accepted with a slight tilt of her head, unperturbed.

               She wore a bright red dress and smelled…clean, like she’d just gotten out of the shower. There was a feint whiff of perfume but not so much to distract me from her natural body odor. Her soft, tight curls bounced slightly as she rose and proceeded to follow me to the dance floor.

               When we embraced, her pleasingly plump body filled my arm and she felt comfortably familiar in my grasp. Her breasts were very large and mashed into my frame like a pair of incredibly soft pillows. She sensed my satisfaction and I could feel her taking pleasure from that.

               She was dignified, warm and absolutely at ease in her own frame.

               When we dance tango, a partner’s lack of self esteem sometimes burns through the embrace like a foiled roux. The harder we try to ignore it, the more it blackens and ruins the soup.

               As I moved and invited her to join me, I was aware of her intense desire for more time. There was a dominatrix inside her and it told me that I needed to wait until she was finished with her movement before I began the next step.

               I obeyed. An immense sigh of relief welled up inside her and rushed into me like a warm wind before a thunderstorm. All she wanted was just a little respect and I was the one who gave it to her. In return, I was granted the prize: an ocean of gratitude and a virtual Fourth of July fireworks display of passion and musicality.

               The uncertainty had been there all along but she refused to let it show until she was convinced that I was worthy.

               Her delicate feet traced delightful circles on the floor in such a way that the vibrations ran up her full-figured frame and into my very soul. As we danced, I could see her for what she truly was: a skilled dancer and a very sensual tanguera.

               She gave herself to me and together we headed to the upper atmosphere. Nothing was hidden as we embraced each other. In her movements, she ran with the wind and sang at the top of her lungs! She had been holding so much inside that it all came out like a dam whose walls had been breached.

               Three songs passed in an instant. I let our connection linger for a few seconds after the last note had played. It was an eternity. In that brief span of time, I could tell she was savoring the memory of our encounter, drawing it all in like a big breath; it made me feel wonderful and appreciated.

               It was time for us to part company.

               She looked at me for a brief moment and our eyes met. I could tell that she was almost afraid to look at me, fearful that she might see something that would ruin the moment. She couldn’t resist and, when our eyes met, her brows raised in short-lived glee before she turned away.

               I escorted her back to her chair, thanked her profusely and found my way back to my seat. I did not dance the next few tandas, savoring the memory of our encounter for as long as I could.

               It is still with me now, four months later, as I sit in this drab hotel room, looking at the frost forming on the window. It is cold outside and yet, I am burning on the inside from the warmth of a flame in my memory of that sensuous woman.